The Artist

Chapter 10

6/19

My mind is plagued by nightmares. Day after day, night after night. It all started when I was taken from the prison. I haven't told anyone. I don't know why. They're starting to get worse.
     I woke before Drake and O'Dera to find a demonic being lurking above me, holding the body of a broken man and the face of Wesley, made of snow. I woke in cold sweats. I woke with the feeling of my throat being torn from my neck. I woke with persistent flashbacks of prison.
     I shudder, retaining my scream, watching the snowy construct of the man who's tortured me crumple to the ground. I lean back, trying to relax, placing a hand over my damp forehead, peering into the pitch of night. My hands splay over the thin blanket covering me. I had to use my coat as a pillow, so not only was I sweating, but I was freezing.
     A hollow pit yawns in my stomach, demanding to be filled. I'm tempted to stuff snow in my mouth just to avoid the hunger.
     But I hurry to my feet, bundling my coat in my arms, and snatch a water bottle from Drake's pack, nearly sprinting out the door. Panic spikes my blood, and the nerves in my stomach dance.
     I have to leave. It's now or never, and I'll regret it if it's not now.
     I stumble away from the barn, dart past the grave, all the while sucking down water as if I'll never have it again. I start heading south, even though it's still the dark of the morning.
     I had made this decision last-minute, and I was terrified of waking too late to have time to get away. But it seems my body feels like cooperating, for once.
     And if all comes to pass, I'll settle down somewhere. If not . . .
     I shake the thought away. My powers are useless, at least, so they may not react to any dangerous situation. I don't bother hiding the empty water bottle when I toss it in a random direction. It's not like either one of them can track my scent.
     I shiver, unable to regain the warmth I lost during sleep. This time I slip on my gloves, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my coat. My neck is stiff, so I roll it to stretch. The bruised rib is barely a dull hammer against my side.
     I have no idea where I'm going, or where I will go. As I walk at a brisk pace, I reflect back on my purpose for abandoning possibly the only chance I'll ever get at a new life. For the first time I wonder: Should I really be doing this?
     This question makes me stop. Why have I been avoiding the option to join the Deviant League? What would joining them do to ruin my already broken life? After all, they went through all this trouble to save me, even if they left everyone else behind. I swallow at the reminder.
     But now I don't know where I am. The snow has melted almost completely, and when I look back, I can barely see my footprints in the slush. The darkness doesn't help, either.
     I grit my teeth, irritated, and continue walking, this time in a random direction. If I can't be bothered to consider their offer, I may as well try and get answers from somewhere. Anywhere.
     Holding myself, I make my way past a patch cleared of trees. In the center, a small pool glimmers in the starlight. The horribly faint starlight. Something about it makes me pause, so I trudge over to it. The grounds squelches beneath me.
     I don't drink from it. I don't disturb it. I just sit in front of it, hugging my knees, and close my eyes. The restlessness from before is replaced by persistent fatigue, despite my wandering for hardly twenty minutes. Yet I know that if I rest now, I'll be vulnerable. Not only that, but the horrid dreams will plague my mind during sleep.
     Who knows what lurks in these woods. Wolves, though they'll avoid me. A bear, maybe. Coyotes would rather stick to the shadows. A moose would flee. An elk, too.
     But a fox?
     I can only imagine. At the thought of the animal, I remember how I had referred to Oscar as a fox. How hypocritical, for I am one, too, if not red, then arctic. I am a survivor, a deceptionist, a liar, a broken person.
     If I am all of those things, wouldn't it have been better to just leave me at prison? To my own fate?
     Why?
     I bury my face in the crook of my elbow, letting out a long breath. Maybe I'm hallucinating. When I snap back to my senses, this will all be over, and I'll end up back in my cell with my warden watching my every move.
     Something pushes at the back of the brain, and a memory flashes in my mind. My heart races, my palms sweat as I see myself in the arena for a testing of abilities, but this one is years ago. This one was the worst.
     I am not even fourteen, hunched on the mosaic, cradling my stomach as I process the blow to it. My back is bleeding from gashes caused by a barbed whip. A guard stands above me, slipping on brass knuckles, ready to knock me out cold. Maybe even kill me.
     I pray that she does.
     She reels her arm back as I look up at her: a fatal mistake. Her punch lands true. My nose shatters, and blood spurts everywhere.
     That day I had laid unconscious for several hours in the middle of the floor, all because I couldn't even muster to move the wind. They hadn't stopped testing children behind me, and only until everyone was done did they have a healer at the ready. I don't know why they didn't kill me. Probably because I hadn't rebelled and still proved to be useful.
     I snap my head up when I hear steps padding through the endless wood.
     I crouch, holding my body as still as possible, exposed near the pool. The noise sounds again, and my head slowly turns toward it.
     In the darkness, I can hardly see the glint of a small ball of metal. Something drops on the ground, and I take the moment to bolt for the woods.
     A swoosh is muffled by the proximity of the woods, and something wraps around my legs, tripping me. I fall, grunting at the impact. My heart is at a gallop, and the adrenaline and the cold make my hands in my gloves numb. I fumble to unravel this thing trapping my ankles together. In a patch of dim moonlight, I can see what it is.
     A bola.
     Who on earth would need one of these outdated things? Did they just mistake me for an animal?
     I seethe, pushing myself to a standing position once I slip out of their taut grip. I can tell someone is running toward me, so I sprint away. I could climb a tree, if I'm that desperate. Maybe I could yell. Let them know I'm human.
     But then I wonder if it's really E.V.O.G.A.P., coming to hunt me down once and for all. Horror and dread keeps my mouth shut.
     I duck behind a tree's massive roots, trying to steady my breathing. I begin to tremble when the person pursuing me stops nearby. They cock a shotgun, loud and clear. It is evident they did it on purpose, to make me run again. Or whatever they think I am, if they are not E.V.O.G.A.P.
     "Come out, come out, mountain cat," comes the deep voice of a man.
     Mountain cat?
     I step out of the shadows with my hands up. "I'm—"
     The man points the gun at me and shoots.
     Burning. In my gut, my legs, my arms. The spray of bullets hits me nearly everywhere. I gasp as blood pours from my wounds. Already I begin to start losing consciousness. I collapse, wheezing, feeling so much fear, so much terror that my shaking causes the blood loss to increase.
     Someone—two someones—place their hands over the punctures.
     Someone speaks, but their voice is muffled, as if they were talking through cotton. My brain feels fuzzy, heavy. But the most intense feeling is burning. Burning, burning, burning.
     I close my eyes.