Awake | Wattys Winner!

FIFTEEN: red

My vision was covered in a blanket of morning fog. The thick kind, that stings you with pinpricks of cold and makes your breath come in raspy clouds of condensation.

It was enough to cloak most of what I saw. All I could make out was the forest canopy above me, a haze of emerald green dancing amongst the white. It was a vibrant, mossy colour that registered with it some sort of familiarity, but my brain was slow and fumbled over it as I tried to process what I was doing here.

I was laying down. I could feel the thick underbrush cradling my neck, the soil cold against my bare legs.

It was then that I worked out I was dreaming, or at least that I wasn't completely conscious, because I couldn't rotate my head to look anywhere but above me.

I focused on my senses. I could smell the wet soil beneath my body, the earth moist from the overnight rain. I could hear the low coos of birds and the whispers of leaves moving in the slow, delicate wind. I could feel something cool in my right hand, it was smooth and shaped perfectly for my fist to grip, which was evident as I tightened my fingers.

It was a handle of something. Something with weight to it, something about the length of my forearm.

My hand rose, as if by some kind of uncontrollable force. I was a marionette puppet, my limbs controlled by an invisible rope. As if it was desperate to distract me, my mind directed my focus to my toes.

I wiggled them, soil falling around my bare feet.

And then there was a stinging sensation across my throat, a hoarse pain that only grew. It felt as if I was screaming at the top of my lungs, desperate enough to rip at my voice box from the outside. But all I could hear were the birds lightly chatting in the branches high above me.

Wake up.

The instruction was loud, cracking through the far away noises of the forest as if it were muttered directly into my ears. The tone was demanding; it was an order. But what did it mean? How could I wake up?

The stinging furthered to the point where I was squirming, my tangled hair catching in the leaves and bark on which I lay. I tried to yell, to scream, but I had no control over my mouth to utter a sound.

There was a warm and sticky liquid pooling around my hand. I felt it flow slowly, cloaking the insides of my fingers and sliding revoltingly down the side of my neck, carving its path on the planes of my chest.

WAKE UP.

The voice was louder, so loud that I realised it was coming from my own lips.

I sat upwards.

The knife fell to the ground, the wet blade caking the dirt around it in a muddy scarlet.

My hands rushed to my neck in an instinctive action to cover the wound. The wound I'd inflicted on myself, in the middle of the forest, early in the morning. So early that nobody would know I was gone.

I gasped for air. Someone wanted me dead. And it wasn't me, I knew that for sure. The revelation hit me so hard that it brought temporary relief to the shallow cut made across my throat, because instead I was flushed with an overwhelming fear that could outweigh any physical pain.

He's trying to kill me.

My feet pounded along the earth, scraping against twigs and rocks and drawing blood, matching the wound at my neck. The clothes I'd fallen asleep in were soaked with warm red, and I was sure it was enough to kill me if I didn't stop the flow soon.

But I couldn't stop it, I had to run.

I didn't know how deep into the forest I was, for all I knew he'd had me wander in so deep I'd never find my way to the paths again. I was choking. Had Isaac noticed I'd strayed from his bed, and somehow found a knife from his apartment?