Bound

Chapter 1 - The Dream

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Skylar

I'm running. It's dark. I'm in the woods. The brush is thick on either side, but I can sense something lurking in the dense shrubbery. Its eyes follow me as I stumble along, tripping and falling over stones and branches.

My hands and knees have been scraped raw from falling so many times, and blood from a cut on my leg leaves a trail behind me. My energy level is depleted from the exertion of keeping this pace. I can't run anymore, falling flat on all fours, my lungs on fire. I throw up...from effort and fear.

I crawl forward, not bothering to dodge the pool of vomit in my path. I just need to get away. I can feel something behind me, watching, waiting. My hands find the edge of my journey, with a steep cliff dropping off into even more darkness. I'm not sure how far it goes. There is no escape.

As I stand up, a small breeze passes over my body, carrying with it a slate grey and midnight blue swirl that strokes my skin. Sandalwood and pine. Apt that I should see my favorite scents as I'm about to perish.

Turning away from the ledge, I hear a branch snap nearby. Before the creature lunges, I pivot backward, my heart dropping to the base of my stomach. I start falling, and as I do, I feel little sparks beginning at my hands before moving along the rest of my body.

Waking with a start, I clutch my pillow to my chest. I'm covered in sweat. Remnants of tears are on my face and pillow. It's cliché, and I hated cliché, but it was happening to me. This nightmare I couldn't seem to escape from.

It has been five weeks since the last time—nearly a record.

They started around my eighteenth birthday, ten years of this nonsensical recurring nightmare. Small details change, but overall, the theme has remained untouched. I've come to accept it as part of my life, like a mole that you just never get removed.

Rolling out of bed, I head for the shower. Peering into the mirror, I will the anxiety I am feeling to settle, shrugging off the feeling of eyes still on me. Must be the after-effects of the dream.

Once the shower is steaming hot, I hop in, letting the water ease the tension in my body. A sharp sting draws my attention to my leg, the water running down the drain red as blood from a shallow cut on my leg drains away. That's odd. I don't recall scratching myself. It must have been last night when I was cycling home. My mind briefly returns to my dream, to the cut on my leg. Coincidence, I tell myself, almost laughing out loud that for a second, I considered it a possibility. That's absurd.

Once out of the shower, thoughts of my scratch disappear as I get ready. All unease melts away as I check on my plants, the surrounding forest adding to the tranquility as I meander outside, taking in the beauty. I was lucky to find this cottage out in the middle of nowhere when I came wandering into Town just over a year ago. Neighbors were scarce, and with this cottage off a dirt road, I barely heard or saw any vehicles around here.

The trip to town is about ten minutes by bicycle, my preferred mode of transport. My beat-up jeep in the small wooden garage on the other side of the house only sees the light of day when it's really cold. Mostly, I just start it every now and then to make sure the battery still works.

Town is a place called Willow Falls and is home to around nine hundred residents. It's a small, close-knit community, with most families having lived here for generation after generation. I wanted to settle in a place where no one knew me and where I can be closer to nature, away from the noise and bustle cities are renowned for. So when Ben, my best friend, told me about a buddy of his having a place out here, I looked it up. The number of residents, coupled with the Google pictures of forests and quaint little houses, sold me.

That being said, residents in this town don't take easily to newcomers, and I was still struggling to fit in. I wasn't bothered by the fact that I didn't. I was used to living in the peripherals of society. But I needed the local population to support my business, and thus I had to try and foster relationships somehow.

I rented a small shop in town called Sky's Naturals, selling handmade creams, balms, shampoos, conditioners, herbal teas, and tinctures. Along with a wide variety of indoor and outdoor plants, herbs, succulents, and a small section of esoteric items such as crystals and candles.

My affinity for plants meant I could grow almost anything with little effort. That love, my love of nature, and my desire to move towards organic products led me on the path I am on now. Making natural products and using plants' medicinal properties to make my items more effective. I grow most of the plants used in these creations myself.

I'm broken out of my thoughts by the sound of a twig breaking. My hand flies up, clutching my chest as my heart beats out of control. The breath I am holding breaks free when a small squirrel bounds up a tree nearby.

"Geezus, Sky. You're being paranoid for nothing," I say out loud, willing myself to calm down. It's that damn dream. I'm always so freaked out for hours afterwards like someone is really watching me.

Looking around, I decide to head back inside, the cottage a safe haven for when I feel overwhelmed. With it being open plan, it feels bigger than it actually is, and the large windows overlooking the forest mean I can see it all around. My favorite place is the lounge area with two large sliding doors leading into a small sunroom perfect for growing plants all year round—a necessity for my business.

The kitchen has a large window looking out onto the wooded area where I can sometimes see deer walking past. It has cute multi-colored tiles covering the walls, giving it a boho chic vibe which totally called to me when I viewed the property.

With most people wanting to stay in town, I managed to get this place for a steal. The real estate agent suggested a place on the edge of town would suit me better. I assume it is due to the lack of warmth newcomers receive, and this place was available, so it worked out well.

My aunt and uncle adopted me shortly after my eighth birthday after my parents passed in a car accident. They gave me a large sum of money on my eighteenth and twenty-fifth birthdays, funds set aside for me by my parents in the event of their death.

That afforded me the freedom to purchase this cottage outright, as well as start a small business doing what I love. While I often thought that to others, I might sound blasé about the whole situation, the fact that I was unable to even remember how my parents looked without the help of photographs made me feel detached from the situation—all memories of them before their death gone. Dissociative amnesia, they call it. I was diagnosed when I was younger.

I tried hypnotherapy several times to see if I could remember, but the therapist could not hypnotize me. After the fifth unsuccessful session, I realized that I was wasting my time and money. I have come to accept that maybe with time, the memories will return, and if they don't, it could very well be for the best.

Grabbing my sling bag and some slip-on shoes from the shoe stand, I lock up before hopping on my bicycle to make my way into town. As I leave, I get a distinct feeling that I am being watched, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up in warning. While I could blame it on the residual effects of my dream, this feeling has been recurring since I moved here. After investigating the area on numerous occasions to look for footsteps or any sign of some looming figure in the shadows, I have written these feelings off as paranoia. That doesn't stop me from pedaling a little faster, my mind telling my body not to look back, a small part of me sure that if I did, I would see someone standing there.

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