Lost trust

Making Heather Mad is a Bad Idea

When I come to I'm faced with an angry Heather, her face scrunched up in fury and a wet cloth clenched in her fist.

"The disobedient princess awakes from her slumber," Heather says dryly.

Sitting up groggily, I hold my head in my hands; it's pounding to an extent that is almost unbearable. I realise I'm still on the floor and panic settles in me. I can't have been out for long, therefore I have no idea if I managed to get rid of the guard dogs. They could be right outside the door for all I know.

Pushing myself to my feet, I brace my hand on the wall to stop the world from swaying beneath me. I wish nothing more than to fall asleep right now, however, I push on regardless. Stumbling over to the windows, I hurriedly slam them closed and draw the curtains together, running into the next room to do the same.

I am dimly aware of Heather following behind me, talking about something. I'm not paying attention, but a few words filter through; reckless. . . told you. . . crazy. . . listen to me— the last one catches my attention. I halt in my tracks and whirl around to face Heather, who nearly stumbles into me.

"I was followed here. We could be in a lot of trouble right now, so whatever it is you're wittering on about is the least of my problems right now," I say rather harshly. I regret my choice of tone the second the words come out of my mouth. Heather's face falls, but I don't stop to apologise.

I continue rushing around the house, grabbing any weapons we might need. When I turn around, I notice Heather is still standing where I left her, and a wave of guilt washes over me.

Gently laying the swords on the floor, I approach Heather. Her gaze is fixated on the floor. I move in front of her, forcing her to look at me.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so rude to you." I brush a lock of strawberry blonde hair off her shoulder.

She doesn't respond.

Is she so mad she won't even speak to me?

After a moment she looks up at me with fearful eyes: "Are we going to die?", she whispers.

"I mean, everybody dies at some point," I think out loud.

Her face turns white as a sheet of paper.

"I won't let anyone hurt you, Heather," I add hastily.

She nods, although I'm not sure if she truly believes me. I'd promised her I would be careful and I didn't hold to that. I rub her arm in an attempt to comfort her and tell her I'm going outside to check it's safe. Grabbing a sword from the pile I'd left on the floor, I tentatively open the door and step outside, blade at the ready.

Birds twitter in the trees and rain falls steady still. The smell of pine and wet grass is heavy in the air and fog covers the tips of the trees. The air is muggy and thick, as if a damp towel is wrapped around me. The only footsteps I can hear are the squelching of my boots, but I keep my ears and eyes strained for any sign of movement. Heather stands in the doorway behind me clutching her arms, whether from the cold or to comfort herself I'm not sure.

I stand there for a good five minutes before deeming it safe. Trudging back inside, I swing the door closed behind me and kick my muddy boots off. I let out a deep breath, feeling a dull ache seep into my bones.

Just as I reach the sofa, a sudden tapping on the window at the end of the hallway sends goosebumps down my spine. Heather and I exchange looks. I immediately drop down, keeping my stomach close to the floor, and crawl over to where Heather is crouching, my arms burning with the weight.

I whisper in Heather's ear: "Pack a bag with only what you need; move quickly but quietly."

She nods slightly and unfolds herself from the ball she's tucked herself into. I rush around the house on tiptoe, filling the still-packed bag from this morning with everything we might need. I get the feeling we won't be coming back here anytime soon. A shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. The silence is eery, an ominousness hanging in the air. I resist the urge to call out to Heather, just to check that she's okay. Pressing my back against the wall, the cold pierces through my jacket and onto my back. I shuffle along the wall, brushing my fingers along the grooves of the wood.