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CHAPTER TWO: ❝ you'd be better off dead❞
𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁
In spite of her stature, the girl's swipe was powerful. Swifter than he could anticipate, she caught him in the leg with the shard of glass, slicing through his pant leg and piercing the skin beneath. Sam recoiled, crying out in pain as he clamped a hand over the wound. Blood quickly seeped from between his fingers and stained the fabric of his jeans red, the same color as her dress. The girl reared back as if to strike again, but Sam quickly retreated. He stumbled back a few feet, flashlight clutched in his hand. With some distance between them now, she attempted to flee, but collapsed to her knees the moment she tried. Sam realized, upon closer inspection, that her ankle was red and swollen, possibly sprained or broken. She couldn't run. With no way to escape, the girl huddled once more against the tree. She squinted against the light pointed in her face, fixing Sam with a furious expression and looking much like an animal caught in a snare. Hostile, fearful, confused. Her lips pulled into a snarl and with all the ferocity of a wolf, she growled at him. A warning, he thought.
She was young, no older than thirteen or fourteen at the latest. She had long, matted hair that fell in wet strands in front of her face and down her back. It was impossible to decipher a color since it was soaked and tangled with leaves and twigs. The back looked as if it had been tied up at some point, but had been left unmanaged. It was akin to a rat's nest now. Her eyes were just as dark and shone like two black beetles in the beam of the flashlight. They darted back and forth nervously despite the resolve she was trying to exude, catching Sam in a scornful glare each time she looked back at him. The nightgown she was wearing raised the most concern. It was dirty and torn, suggesting that she had been wandering the woods a while, and although her other injuries were consistent with something far harsher, Sam couldn't help but feel as though the blood that decorated the hem didn't belong to her. There was too much of it and the faded red handprint on her sleeve told a different story. He decided the situation required a far calmer response. He slowly put his hands up as if in surrender.
