The Bleeding Chameleon

An Onslaught of Branches

A flurry of scarlet hurried past the broken human lump on the ground. The maimed boy blinked the twinkling stars from his eyes and prayed that by some miracle his jaw hadn't disconnected from his face. He couldn't move his muscles, his consciousness refused. Every time he moved his cheek from the blacktop his vision went fuzzy and his forehead turned hot.

And the girl had vanished, one moment a touchable immovable force and the next, gone like she the first encounter. So he harbored a particular fight in the back of his chest that she could be anywhere around him, and still he couldn't possibly know.

But more than the fright, and more than the confusion, there was a salty pillar of anger in his belly. This girl, this girl in red, couldn't just wander into his park and break things all willy-nilly. She wasn't above the law. He wouldn't allow her to slip through the cracks, not again. She was due for a humbling, and he would be the one to give it to her, but first, he had to stand.

He peeled his face from the ground. Tidal waves splashed in his head, and he imagined his brain as Jell-O tossed from one side of his skull to the other. He half-expected icy slush to seep out of his ears and onto the ground blacktop. But when it didn't, he knew the worst of the pain ceased. With both palms on the ground, he lifted shakily to his feet. They wobbled like a newborn's.

He tucked his laces into his shoes and ran to the fence. She must have climbed it, as it was still closed and shook even without wind. So he would have to climb it too, which would prove difficult with little-to-no upper body strength.

Both of his feet bucked beneath him, swinging up and over the bar he grasped. Awkwardly, he walked one foot above the other, his back to the ground. If he fell, it was game over, there would be no coming back from that. If he fell, his already mangled head would smash like a pumpkin.

One foot, then two feet, then three feet, then four feet. He heaved his arms and legs further than he ever thought possible, until he sat atop the fence, jagged spikes poking uncomfortably at his thighs and tail bone. He took another deep breath and threw himself down, contracting his abdominal muscles like a gymnast would do.

The back of his shirt tore loudly; howling like a dying cat, but his back stayed intact. He massaged his ankles and the scuffs he wore on both knees, but felt proud of how well he jumped. Hmmmm, it's never too late to try out for gymnastics, he thought. But now was not the time to fantasize about the future.

Where is she now? Where had she gone? He knew she scaled the fence, but beyond it lay three paths you can take to reach the dam. If she knew anything about the layout of Forest View, she would have taken the middle path, as that was the fastest. But did she know anything about the park beyond how to kill everyone in it? He had no idea.

He used this tidbit of knowledge to his advantage though. If he made it to the dam first, he could stop her. Hell, he might even have some fun with it and throw her in. Ew, stop it, he whispered to himself; you are not about to kill this girl. Only, was that true? If it came down to it and it was his life or hers, would he kill her? He didn't want to think about it. No one will die tonight, that would be ridiculous.

He wandered up the pathway, out of breath from the steep climb. It was so dark that he closed his eyes and let the muscle memory take him where he needed to go. He tripped on his shoe or a stray rock every once in a while, but he knew where each bush was and where every trash can sat.

The buzz bugs, but that was the extent of all noise in the path he took. He worried that maybe she hadn't gone to the dam at all. Maybe she'd gone further up the mountain to hide, or raided the gift shack. The more he pondered it, the more his worry grew, until it didn't matter if he was right or wrong because he still felt the same inescapable dread. He'd either meet her at the end of the path, or he wouldn't, and both sounded awful.