[11]: Trent

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Cassie froze. A person. Another person. She hadn't seen a new person apart from Marilyn in ten years, yet she wasn't sure she liked it.

When Cassie remained silent, the person spoke again, "Miss?" It was the voice of a girl, maybe just a few years short of her age.

The brunette looked her up and down, her face painted with fear and concern. "Daddy?" She called, "somebody's here!"

Cassie scrambled up to her feet, dusting off her oversized clothing which consisted of a pair of worn jeans and a blood stained black shirt that was covered up with an old leather jacket - all of which belonged to Marilyn.

She was terrified he was chasing her. That he was closing in and he'd come and kill them all. Her heart pounded against her ribs and her head was in a spin. Another fucking person.

"I have to go..." She choked out. Her mutter was hardly audible, but the girl's young ears picked up on it.

"Where to?" Her voice softened as if she was dealing with a child younger than herself. "Maybe I can help you."

Cassie knew the brunette was just trying to be nice, but her patronizing tone oozed snobbery. "You can't." She breathed out, trying to get around the teen girl.

"My Father might," She reasoned, blocking Cassie's path. "Are you lost?"

The blonde internally cried out, just wanting to get away. She didn't know how far the next opening would be, or if she'd find one, but it was probably better than this, no matter how much she wanted help from them - it was too close to the cottage.

"No, I'm fine." She seethed through ground teeth.

But the stranger kept persisting, "You look a little disheveled. Why don't you come inside to get cleaned up?"

By now it was evidently condescending. "I said I'm fine." Cassie huffed, extending her arms out and giving the girl a small push. She never expected for her to scream, or call for her dad - or hit her head on a piece of log. She never expected for a big, burly man to come out from their cottage holding a loaded shotgun.

Cassie did what any sane person without a death wish would, she bolted. She was exhausted - her brief rest hadn't aided her at all. But she picked up her pace.

Just when she thought she could slow down, a sharp pain erupted in her right arm along with a gunshot.

"Motherfucker!" Cassie cursed as she was sent tumbling to the forest floor. Immediately pale hands went to touch the wound through her jacket. She screamed in pain, clutching her arm with as much pressure as she could muster.

Tears seeped from her emerald orbs as she screamed. She sat up and cradled her arm. She couldn't go any further - she was down for good. Any normal person would've gotten back up, but Cassie was tired and weak.

She had no idea how long she'd been sitting there, but she did know she's lost tons and tons of blood. Marilyn could probably smell it. For all she knew he was going to come and end it.

Slipping in and out of consciousness was an outlandish feeling. You don't know if you're awake or not, or if what you're experiencing is actually happening.

Cassie swore Marilyn was looking down on her. She swore she tried to push away from his touch. She physically felt his fingers graze her jaw and lift up her chin. She swore she was currently staring up into deep chocolate pools, and she detested herself for not looking away.

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