Hunted

Naomi

Chapter 10

I feel sick in the head. A day. It has been a whole day.

My eyes flicker open, and a sharp pain pulses through my skull. I wince, clutching my head, the world around me a blur of shadows. Slowly, my vision sharpens, and I take in my surroundings.
Winston Grove.

The realization hits me the moment I spot the twisted branches of the old Willow tree, its gnarled limbs looming over the clearing. The only one in the town. The only one in this forest.

Everything is dark. The air bites at my skin. It's cold. I shiver, trying to sit up when I notice the weight of a jacket draped over me. A black jacket.

My stomach twists. I want to retch. Beneath the jacket, I'm bare, exposed. I collapse back onto the damp earth, staring up at the endless stretch of the night sky, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Footsteps.

My body stiffens, instinctively paralyzed, my mind racing but blank all at once. I whip my head toward the sound, my pulse thrumming in my ears as a figure emerges from the shadows.

A scream claws its way out of my throat as he gets closer, my voice ragged and raw. I scramble backward, dirt digging into my palms, but then I see his face.

Marcus.

My heart slams in my chest as my fingers clench around the jacket, pulling it tighter against my skin. He stands over me, hood pulled low, hands buried in his pockets. His gaze brushes over me like I'm nothing, less than nothing.

He walks past, as if I don't exist.

"Marcus!" I choke out, my voice trembling, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't even turn.

Hatred burns through me, hotter than anything I've felt in years, worse than how I felt four years ago.

A groan rips from my throat as I force myself upright, my head pounding with a brutal rhythm. Tears blur my vision, burning my eyes, but it's the memory that stings more—what Jayden did, the way his hands took what wasn't his. The video... that damn video.

I grip the jacket tighter around my body, my fingers digging into the fabric as I stumble forward. It still smells like him. Like Marcus. I hate it. I hate all of it.

I run, desperate, past the trees that seem to close in on me, past the Wilson Cemetery where the dead are better off than I am. The cold air cuts at me, but it doesn't reach the core of the numbness spreading inside.

By the time I reach the edge of town, my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand. I stop, gasping, clutching my sides as the tears keep coming, wetting my cheeks. My breath hitches in my chest, and I wipe my face with trembling hands, trying to pull myself together.

But I can't. Not with this skin still covered in their hands. Not after what they've taken from me.

The road ahead is nothing but darkness. Empty. Who's going to stop for someone like me? Barely clothed, broken, a wreck. No one would even look twice.

The nearest police station is back in town, so far from here. And what would I tell them? What could I say that wouldn't make it worse?

Marcus.

I swallow hard, the bile rising in my throat. Even thinking his name feels like acid in my veins, burning through whatever's left of my composure. He let this happen. He watched. He didn't care.

I can't go back. Not yet.

I glance around, the darkness closing in. There's only one thing I can do. Run back to my wrecked car, hide there until morning. Hide and figure out what's left of me. What to do next.

I quicken my pace, my breath sharp in the cold air, darting behind trees or dipping into ditches every time headlights sweep the road. The night presses in, thick and suffocating, but I keep moving. By the time I reach the wreckage of my car, the moon is high, casting a pale, sickly glow over the scene.

It feels like hours have passed, like I've been dragging my shame and fear through this darkness for a lifetime.

I glance left, then right, scanning the empty road before slipping into the car. The familiar smell of worn leather and gasoline hits me, but it offers no comfort. I take a shaky breath, leaning over to search the back seat. My fingers fumble as I dig through the chaos of my belongings.

I keep underwear stashed here—just in case. The thought makes me cringe, but I pull them on, my movements mechanical as I toss aside the filthy jacket. Everything feels wrong. My skin, my clothes, the air I'm breathing. But I can't stop.

I tie my hair back with a trembling hand, eyes darting toward the shadows outside. It's too quiet. Too still.

I yank my bag onto my lap, digging through it in a frantic search. A camera. Useless. Sunglasses. Worthless. My fingers brush over the worn edges of my diary, and a bitter laugh bubbles up. As if words on paper could protect me from anything.

Frustration wells up in my throat until I freeze, my mind snapping to the glove box. My heart pounds faster. The spare phone. I'd stashed it there—along with something else. My hand trembles as I reach for the latch, and my fingers collide with old receipts and crumpled papers. My driver's license.

And then, cold plastic against my skin. The phone. I snatch it, breath rushing out in relief. My heart races, hammering against my ribs as I fumble with the screen, dialing the only number I can think of.
911.

———

My eyes snap open, staring blankly at the ceiling above me. The dull light filters through the cracks in the blinds, but it does nothing to chase away the weight pressing down on me. Memories flood back, the twisted scenes from last night tangling with the horrors of the night before. My stomach churns, a sickening knot tightening inside me, but there's no way to unravel it.

My fingers twitch, the small blade caught between them, its cold metal pressing into my skin. I turn it over slowly, feeling the weight of it.

I roll it between my fingers, the weight grounding me, the edge teasing. For a moment, it soothes, but it's not enough.

I press the blade to my thumb, and pain flares instantly. A sharp burn, skin parting under metal, but I need more. I drag the blade down, deeper this time, splitting skin toward my palm. The pain surges, raw and electric, forcing a cry from my throat. It's hot, searing through me like fire, and for a second, it feels like too much, like my body is tearing itself apart under the agony.

I blink, staring down at the red welling up along the edge, watching it drip. My breath comes out in shudders, but it's not enough to calm the storm raging inside me.

I bring the blade to my wrist, my chest heaving. The skin is tight there, the blade digging in before I even pull. The moment it slices, the pain rips through me, deeper than before, a white-hot flash that sends me gasping. My vision blurs, my whole body tensing, every nerve screaming in protest.

It hurts. God, it hurts, but it drowns out everything else. The chaos, the shame, the endless replay of what I can't forget. I can't think. I can only feel the searing pain, the rush of heat pooling at my wrist as the blade digs deeper. I breathe in, shallow and broken, trying to hold on.

My body doesn't feel mine anymore.

Then again, my body was never mine since that night.