Forest

Chapter Three

Above a insight of the apartment she is in.

I try to open my eyes, but everything is sluggish, slow, as if I'm moving through water. The light that floods in is blinding, searing white. I slam my eyes shut again, heart racing. Am I dead?

A few minutes pass. I try again, this time more aware of the sharp light. The light still pierces through, but I manage to keep my eyes open a little longer. Slowly, I turn my head from side to side, taking in my surroundings. Where the hell am I, is this what they call heaven? 

I'm lying in a large bed, probably a king size, covered by a thick, cozy blanket. The sheets are black, matching the pillows and the mattress cover beneath me. The room smells musty, like dust and old wood. But the bed is so comfy.

I sink back into the pillow, but the movement sends a sharp pain pulsing through my head, a migraine that feels like it might crack my head open. My neck aches too, and for a moment, I feel like I can't breathe. My vision starts to blur at the edges. I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe slowly. Calm down. Calm down.

I can't afford to stay here, though. I don't know where I am. I don't know who brought me here. Panic rises in my chest as I push myself up, determined to make sense out of this. I force my vision to clear, struggling to focus on the room around me. Please don't faint, find out where you are. 

To the right of the bed stands a large wooden bookcase, filled with books and strange trinkets. On the left, three black doors line the wall, and across from me, a large dresser holds a television—too large for the room's modest decor.

I swing my legs over the left side of the bed. My body protests the movement, sending waves of pain through me. I stifle a gasp, holding my breath to suppress the agony pain that runs through my body. I notice the bandages wrapped around one of my arms and one of my legs. 

Everything in my head screams that I need to get out, that staying here is dangerous. My body trembles with the effort of standing. I feel so weak, so exposed, barely dressed in nothing but a thin black T-shirt and panties. I shiver as the cold air wraps around me.  

I grab the duvet and drape it around my shoulders, clutching it tightly like a shield. The fabric is warm, but it offers little comfort as I walk slowly towards the door on the left. Please let there be a way out in one of these doors.

I push it open and step into the bathroom—a sleek, black-tiled space with a walk-in shower and a large bathtub. My eyes are drawn to the mirror above the sink. What I see makes my stomach twist. Am I the girl in the mirror?

I look like a ghost. My skin is pale, almost sickly, and my strawberry-blond hair is a tangled mess. My green eyes are dull, void of any spark, not that the spark was their before, but for some reason I notice it now more then ever. The reflection barely seems like me. I want to scream, to tear it all away, but I can't. I don't even know what happened to me. Fuck!

Fighting the rising of my panic at my chest, I  open the second door. Beyond it stretches a dimly lit hallway, its walls narrowing like a predator's jaws. My breath catches, but there's no time to hesitate. I force myself forward, my steps echoing in the silence.

At the end of the corridor, I come to a crossroads—a decision to make. Straight or left. My pulse pounds in my ears as I started walking left, drawn by the desperate hope of escape. The air feels heavier. I pass a series of closed doors, each one whispering silent threats, before my eyes land on it: a front door.

My heart leaps. Could this be it? Please don't be locked. 

I fumble for the handle, trembling fingers curling around the cold metal. Slowly, I press it down.

Click.

The sound cuts through the tension like a lifeline, and the door creaks open. Relief floods me, unbidden and overwhelming, as a ragged sigh escapes my lips. Freedom is just beyond the threshold—or so I hope.

A long corridor stretches out before me, dark and quiet. It goes both ways. I clutch the duvet tighter, heart pounding. My bare feet make no sound as I step cautiously into the hall. A way out?

I glance left. Nothing. I turn right. Just more darkness.

I take a deep breath and begin to walk down the right side of the hallway, unsure where it leads or what I'll find. Every step feels like a risk, and yet I have no choice. I need to know where I am. I need to know if I am safe or not.

Minutes slip by as I move deeper into the building. The hallway is endless, no doors, no windows, no escape. My feet drag. My mind races. Their is no way out.

Suddenly, a noise—a faint scuffling sound—snaps me to attention. I freeze, heart hammering. But then it's gone, swallowed by the silence. I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. So wrong.

-

I mutter a curse, my boots pounding against the floor as my steps reverberate down the hallway. She's gone. Vanished. The door to my appartment was wide open when I got here, and now there's blood staining the floor, leading from the bedroom into the blackness of the hall.

I don't know where she is. But it doesn't matter. There are too many places to hide, but none of them will stop me from finding her. I have to get to her first. Before anyone else does.

Time's a luxury I don't have. Every second wasted is a second closer to losing control. And that's not something I'm willing to let happen. I will find her no matter what I have to do.

The corridor stretches endlessly before me, its shadows twisting under the flickering lights. I stick to the right side, hoping—praying—that she did too. My steps echo off the walls, a relentless reminder of the time slipping away. I've been searching for over an hour, and there's still no sign of her.

No idea who she is. No idea why I care so much. But here I am, sick with worry over some woman who, for all I know, could be nothing but trouble.

She's hurt, that much I know. I already wrapped the wounds on her body because when i took her out of the ocean she was coverd in  a few wounds but only two needed to be wrapped. If those wounds have started bleeding again—and judging by the faint trail of blood I was following, they have—she might be in serious danger. Infection. Worse. My chest tightens, anger bubbling beneath my worry. How the hell did I let a stranger have this much of a hold on me?

Frustrated, I rake my fingers through my hair and keep moving, the weight of failure pressing on me harder with each passing second.

And then I see her.

She's crumpled on the cold floor, she is wrapped in bloodstained bandages and the duvet that was on my bed. My breath spikes, the air turning sharp and heavy in my lungs.

I drop to my knees beside her, my hands trembling as I check her pulse. Faint, but there. Her chest rises in shallow, uneven breaths. She's alive. Relief crashes over me, and I close my eyes, just for a second.

Sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, I lift her easily into my arms. Her body is limp, her face cold against my chest even through the thin fabric of my shirt. She feels so fragile, like she might break apart at any moment. I quicken my pace, each step toward my room measured and urgent.

When I reach the door,I take a quick walk towards the bedroom and step inside, I freeze.

The bed.

It's filthy, the sheets stained and crumpled, unusable. A growl rumbles low in my throat, frustration searing through me. Why can't anything just go right? Why does every damn thing have to spiral into chaos?

Gritting my teeth, I pull the duvet tighter around her, laying her carefully on the floor—though not directly. I wrapped her a bit better in the duvet she is already coverd in, ensuring she doesn't have to touch the cold, unforgiving surface. She deserves better than that.

I move quickly, stripping the bed of its ruined sheets and replacing them with fresh, clean ones. Black. The color feels fitting somehow—simple, stark, untainted. Always black. Once the bed is ready, I head to the bathroom, grabbing a bucket of warm water, a soft sponge, and a towel. From my closet, I pull out a new shirt and underwear for her. It's a necessary invasion, I tell myself. I can't put her in a clean bed while she is all dirty.

Every motion is deliberate as I clean her. Her skin is pale and marred with angry red wounds, but they look better than before—less raw, less infected. I rewrap the bandages on her wrist and leg with precision, ensuring they're snug but not too tight. She doesn't stir, doesn't make a sound. 

Finally, I ease her onto the fresh sheets, tucking the duvet securely around her fragile frame. Her knees are drawn up slightly, her body cocooned in warmth. It's the best I can do.

And then she moves.

A small, almost imperceptible shift, followed by a faint noise—a whimper, maybe. My eyes snap to her face just as her eyelids flutter open. Two wide, pure green eyes stare back at me, unblinking, shimmering with fear.

My stomach drops.

"Fuck."