The Forest Follows

01 | Tiril Hansen

Chapter One - Snow So White It Speaks of Blood

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I could spin the wheel and swerve off the mountain.

I won't. Not when I'm sober and mamma is at home, waiting for me to pick Mia up. But I could. I could fly into the thick expanse of trees, feel our Prius crush inwards around me. Smell acrid smoke and see the engine explode. Watch the fire catch the leaves and drown me in fiery colours. I squeeze my eyes shut, and push the thought from my mind. It's time for meds, I think.

Reaching into the glovebox, I keep one eye on the winding, empty road as I fumble for my Prozac bottle. My trembling fingers clasp around it, flicking open the lid. I try to shake one out when the car hits a pothole and jerks me forward.

I cry out. My stomach falls, and for a minute I can see it. In my mind, I see the glint of my silver car in the dark as I tumble over the edge. I jerk my wrist, swerving back onto the lane. My heart races in my ears. Cold sweat shimmers on my forehead, and I flick off the heating, wild eyes glancing around the road. Not a car in sight.

There's nobody to call the emergency department if I slip.

Cursing, I grip the hard leather of the steering wheel tighter, ignoring the rough burn on my palms. I need to focus. I can't afford to let my mind slip. Pills litter the floor, rolling underneath the pedals and in behind my seat. I grab one from my lap and swallow it dry, wincing at the bitterness. I'll clean everything up when I get to Damola's house.

At night, the top of Nordmarka is just visible from the mountains in Asker. Pappa goes up there all the time, lugging his expensive camera equipment in sturdy black bags, driving the truck up the dirt roads. Usually, Johannes goes with him as the lead editor of Frykt.

I shiver, remembering the folktale editorial they published last month. The sketches of the nattmara still watch me from the shadows. A stick-thin woman with hair as dark as the night she haunts, her only purpose to sit on her victim's chest.

There's nothing good in Marka, despite what the tourists tell you.

There's only darkness and fear and trees so thick you can't see two metres in front of you. I followed Mia and some people from our class up there a few weeks ago, and nothing good has come since. Mamma took us to therapy, and now Mia visits her psychiatrist every week, and I have my Prozac.

It's like we've been cursed.

The glare of a sign under my headlamps catches my eye. I slow down, squinting at it. Rosehus, it reads. En Mil. I sigh, wiping my clammy palms on the thighs of my jeans. Mia texted me an hour ago, telling me to pick her up around 3 am. I glance at the dashboard. It's almost four in the morning. I bite my lip, gripping the wheel harder and pushing the accelerator farther. I'm always late for things.

The moon bathes Damola's driveway in a silvery glow. I park at the end of the gravel pathway, hopping out of the car. Slamming the door behind me, I adjust my beanie to cover my ears, shoving my hands into my armpits to ward off the cold from the snow. People line the driveway, sprawled on the mown lawn either side of it. White plastic cups litter the grass like make-believe snow.

A beer can flies towards me. I duck, but it lands metres ahead of me with a dull clunk.

Someone laughs. I walk faster, pumping my legs until I'm at the door. Neon spills from the inside, dousing the snow like the night-time Aurora. A giggle cuts through the air. It sounds like Mia's, throaty from years of nicotine. I look around the garden before I spot her. Mia. Draped over Damola, a sloppy grin on her face that I see from all the way over here. They stand under the cover of the ash trees that line his front yard.