Shot

           

I wasn't supposed to survive, let alone escape. So, somehow, it wasn't surprising that I was staring at my own suicide note, dated three days from now. It was unmistakably my handwriting. The way I curled my letters around each other, how I tapered off at the end... There were even small blotches of water where supposed tears had fallen and a stain on the corner that could only be blood. The detailed note was a goodbye to the only person I still cared about, my sister. It was an explanation of why I decided to end my life and a plea to move on.

Despite my handwriting, my wording, my personal pleas, the note wasn't mine. It was a threat. An undeniable promise that what the note detailed would soon come true. They'd found me, and there was no escaping. I didn't know how they did it, I didn't even know if I would live to find out. At this point, I didn't think it mattered.

I hurriedly packed a makeshift bag of supplies, throwing the essentials into a small backpack. As I worked, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I was all too familiar with. It rang only once before the comforting and feminine voice of my sister sounded through my ears.

"Charlotte?"

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Krysta. Where are you?"

"I'm just at home," she responded quickly, her voice alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"They've found me."

Krysta was quiet for an unmeasurable amount of time. I counted the seconds by her shallow and panicked breathing, immediately regretting the decision to call her.

After a few more tense breaths, she carefully whispered, "What happened?"

I glanced at the desk in the corner of the room and the note lying on top. At the sight, I felt an immediate wave of indecision and anxiety. I hadn't planned on telling her about the note. She was already too involved for her own good. Krysta was threatened almost as frequently as I was, as it was the only way they were able to keep me in line. It was never to her face though, always to mine. They knew I would do anything for her. Even now, when the note was clearly directed at me, I couldn't help but feel as if she was in trouble, too.

"Charlotte?" My sisters voice cut through the phone once more.

I tore my gaze from the letter atop the desk, quickly zipping up the overused backpack. "I'm here. Listen, I'm coming to get you." As I spoke, I swung the bag over my shoulders and began wiping down every surface my fingers had touched, erasing all evidence of my stay at the run down motel.

"What?" Her voice cracked. "Char, just tell me what's going on. I can't just leave. Is it the bloods-"

"Krysta," I quickly cut her off. "I can't talk over the phone. I'll be there soon." Abruptly, I hung up the phone and swiftly gathered the last of my things, securing my jacket around my waist. I tied up my long hair, securing each strand beneath my hood. Right before I left, I grabbed "my" suicide note and stuffed it into a pocket, trying to bury the impending reality of my death.

***

The family cabin was small, quaint, and seemingly safe. I was currently seated next to Krysta on the faded leather couch and we were both staring blankly out the window. The cream-colored curtains were closed halfway, concealing our bodies from the outside world. Behind us, a fireplace provided a small source of warmth.

It'd been two days since we'd arrived; three since I found the note. No one outside of Krysta and I knew where this cabin was, meaning this should be the safest place on earth. However, I knew better. They'd found me before. Of course, they'd find me again. It's what they did. I was only hoping to get Krysta somewhere far away, protected, before I met my fate.