BETRAYED

Chapter 8: With a Stranger Alone

I have no idea where I am, but this place has seen far more than I ever have—was the first thought that crossed my mind as soon as I opened my eyes. I was almost certain that everything that happened to me in the past 24 hours was nothing but a dream. But everything around me insisted otherwise.

Dim sunlight filtered through the gaps in the walls of my shelter. A musty smell lingered in the air, like that of old leaves lying too long on damp ground.

Last night, I had no chance to get a proper look around due to the lack of lighting, but maybe that was for the best. The thought of parasites lurking in the old wooden surfaces that were everywhere here would have made it impossible to relax and fall asleep.

The rough wooden walls were hung with hunting trophies, including trap snares with jagged teeth menacingly jutting out in all directions. All of this was covered in thick cobwebs. In some places, patches of dark green moss added a sickly green tint to the walls. Air rushed through the cracks in the wooden beams, producing a muted whistle.

The floor, made of warped and cracked boards, was rough and uneven. Worn patches on the planks testified to the many people who had passed through here over the years.

From the corner, a massive armchair stared at me, once probably cozy but now shabby with stuffing poking through in clumps. The fabric was so tattered it barely clung to the wooden frame. It seemed to have long lost its original function and had become merely part of this decaying space.

Next to the chair was a dining table. Its top was clearly made from a repurposed door, placed on four makeshift legs. From where I sat, I could clearly see the thick layer of dust settled on its surface. Along with the dust, there were various rusty tin cans scattered across the table.

I leaned on my forearm, propping myself up on the makeshift bedding, and only now noticed that it had been constructed from hay covered with a piece of cloth. During the night, this improvised bed had seemed soft and comfortable, but the longer I lay on it now, the more discomfort I felt. The hay, by the way, stood out from the rest of the surroundings; someone had clearly placed it here recently, otherwise, it would have been soaked from the dampness.

I made a small effort to stand up, and at that moment, a sharp pain shot through my leg. It wasn't as intense as it had been yesterday—at least now I could move without help—but it still reminded me of its presence.

My whole body ached after sleeping in such an unfamiliar place. I massaged my neck lightly, and that's when I noticed the state of my hands: dirty, scratched, and covered in dried blood. They seemed to insist that I replay the events of the previous day in my mind.

My head was spinning, and my stomach wouldn't stop complaining. When was the last time I ate? It felt like I had completely forgotten the importance of food.

I stepped outside. A fresh breeze immediately brushed against my face. The air was filled with the scent of pine and freshness. Around me stood only tall trees, and silence reigned.

Right next to the cabin stood a lone tree stump. I walked closer and noticed a handful of fresh berries scattered across it. Someone had taken care of my breakfast, I concluded, and it couldn't have come at a better time. I scooped up a handful of berries and tossed them into my mouth. Of course, it wasn't enough to satisfy my hunger, but it was far better than nothing.

But where was this "someone" now? I wondered as I looked around, but saw no one. Hugo had disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. Surprisingly, I was glad for his company. He had been there at the party, trying to help, and he was there yesterday when I got lost, offering a hand. I wanted him to be here now, too, because besides him, there was no one else around. And when I'm left alone with myself, I tend to create more problems than I solve.