The Season Trials

C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

[significantly shorter than the rest]

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C H A P T E R           T H I R T E E N

I run for what feels like hours—and probably is because pitch blackness envelopes the sky. I'm constantly checking behind me, paranoid soldiers are going to run out anytime soon and catch me again.

But, they don't. It's as if they don't even know I'm gone—as if I succeeded in evading them. Still, I don't let down my guard; I can't afford to.

My wrist aches. My ankles feels as though it's aflame. I'm so exhausted my legs nearly collapse underneath me. Still, somehow I manage to keep running.

And, by some miracle, I end up finding a dead end street in the darkness. The houses that line the heavily cracked road are small and decrepit; almost abandoned. There's no street light so my view is limited. The only light comes from the few houses that seem to be inhabited.

I stop by a tree, satisfied that it provides enough cover with the large overhanging leaves. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sag against it. Before I even know what's happening, my legs collapse underneath me and I fall into a haphazard slouch. Tears threaten to fall, but I hold them back.

I can't stay here long, that I know. I need to keep moving. But it's all too tempting. I could just simply fall asleep and wave before sunrise. It'd be so easy. If I hid in the top of the tree branches, no one would see me. I could stay for days and I'd be safe.

Except that a lie. One I can't even entertain for a second.

' The only chance I have of escaping is if I move now. In the darkness I have cover. I don't even have to hide if I'm lucky. In broad daylight, however, I'll be seen from everywhere. I won't even last a whole day before I'm caught.

As tempting as it is to just lie down and give up, I know it can't. It'll make everything I've suffered through pointless.

Still, I don't move. I just rest my back against the tree ridged tree log.

Here I don't have to front strength. I don't have to pretend I'm brave. I don't have to hide my fear from anyone who will use it against me; taking advantage of my every weakness.

In the cloud of darkness, I draw my knees up to my chest, shivering through the flimsy clothes that offer no protection against the frigid wind. I can't see my arms, but I can feel the blood now that it's dried. By some miracle, the wound on my hip from inside the cage isn't bleeding profusely—but I know if I don't stop it now I'll bleed out eventually.

Right now, I don't care though.

Self-pity is like an earthquake. It shakes everything around you, leaving you to suffer through the aftershocks; forcing you to try and put yourself back together again. If you can't, you're soon drowning in it, any air robbed from you.

I don't even know why I want to cry so badly—there's too many possibilities. I've seen death and horror unlike anything anyone has before. At this point, I don't even know where to begin.

All I know is that everything hurts—and the tears feel as though they're burning my cheeks.

From here, everything is unknown. When I was with Sergeant I had a roof over my head. Now, I'm on the streets. I have nothing but she bloody, torn clothing I'm wearing.

I grip my legs tighter, trying to pretend it'll stop the shaking somehow.

Before I'd been sold to the General, I'd been hopeful.

Now it's destroyed.

I can't get to the ring. I don't even know where it was.

If my hunch right, then I know it's not possible. Margery is under lock and key, in constant fear of Miss Prestige. Worse, I now know for sure that the General and Miss Prestige are married. The ring has to be in their home.

A place I'll never even get close too. It's a suicide mission even trying.

Still, the thought of giving up is nauseating. After everything I've endured to survive... throwing that all to waste is pointless.

And I have to get back to Jaylee and dad. There's only two ways I'm going to get there—dead or alive. And dead isn't an option. I won't force them to bury my body, not after they've already been forced to bury mum.

I might not even have a body to bury. I might be too mutilated; too scarred and broken.

As if on cue, rain starts to pelt onto the ground. Some of it hits me, the force of it bruising. It pours loudly, the sound akin to a clap of thunder. I can only be so lucky the storm hasn't actually hit yet—just the rain.

I huddle in closer, tossing up between breaking into someone's home. Half of them look abandoned, but that doesn't mean there's still no supplies there. It'll be shelter from the rain—because if I'm out here for much longer I'll get ill.

They'll surely have a bed I can sleep on; blankets I can huddle under for warmth.

In no time, I'm soaked under the rain. Shivers wrack my body. A puddle pools underneath me but I don't move. Whether it's the blood running from my body or the rain—or both—I don't know.

I have to move soon, I know.

Except I have no motivation too. All I want to do is sit against the tree. After everything, strofever is the least of my problems. The chill will pass eventually.

Above me, an owl hoots loudly. Then there's the sound of rustling as it flies from the tree above me. Leaves fall on me, heavy droplets of rain too.

I wait for the pounding footsteps on the slippery. I wait for the shouts that I've been caught and there's no point running. I wait for soldiers to grab me and haul me back to the cage, for another fight.

Except that doesn't happen.

Time passes. I wait to be caught. I don't let myself relax—even for a split second. The rain continues to fall. I huddle to try to keep the shivers away, even though it's a pointless effort because I know I'll be sick by morning.

I can no longer tell the difference between what's tears and what's rain dripping down my face. It's most likely both. Either way, I feel broken in every way possible—emotionally and physically.

There's nothing I can do to dig myself out of the hole.

I'm buried ten-feet-under, with no escape.

Eventually, I fall asleep shivering, pushed beyond the point of exhaustion.