𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊

A frail young woman stood half-hidden under the wide awning of a wrap-around porch, her small frame soaking up the shadows like a sponge. The whisper of a breeze brushed the unruly onyx-colored hair across her forehead, like ruffled raven feathers, but the California evening air was otherwise still as hot, dry, and still as ever.

The sleeping infant wiggled in her arms, coaxing her to continue bouncing as she stared blankly out across the yard. The house was on a cliff overlooking the clear coast of the Pacific and she regretted never stopping to look at it like she was right now before it was too late. Before she had to leave. 

The sun was setting now, casting a golden glow across the rippling ocean and her sickly skin alike. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, but the pain in her eyes aged her significantly.

She wished she could stay there forever with the wind against her face and the painted brick wall warming her back. But the baby in her arms was beginning to stir and her window of time was drawing shut. The night was fast approaching.

As quietly as she could, the wild-haired woman stepped down from the porch and into the front yard where the grass was cool and tickled her toes. The watch on her wrist ticked quietly in rhythm with her heartbeat and told her that it was only half-past seven. She didn't have much time left.

The infant giggled against her chest, tugging on her mother's hair in an attempt to gather her attention. But she paid it no mind and continued to cross the yard, eyes just as steady as her breathing. As she unlatched the gate and walked through, she muttered under her breath.

"It's alright, beautiful girl. We'll be safe soon. Just you wait." And all the while she knew it wasn't for her daughter's sake that she recited those words like a prayer.

The pair entered the wooded area behind the massive, castle of a house without so much as turning back. She wasn't afraid of what she might see. Rather, she feared that turning back just once to peek at the place she had called her home for as long as she could remember would convince her that leaving wasn't necessary and that everything would be alright. But it wasn't, and she knew that. She knew it just as well as she knew the fate that her newborn daughter would inherit if she decided to stay.

The woman wasted no time before sucking in a shaken breath and breaking into a dead sprint, dodging mossy fallen logs and low hanging tree branches. Her long skirts constantly caught on sharp thorns and her bare feet were punctured by pine needles and sharp stones but not once did she stop to assess the damage. She couldn't afford to.

After half walking/half running under the coverage of the dense treetops, she finally broke through into a large open space where the trees didn't grow and the ground was blanketed in the soft dusty sand. She dragged her toes through it, eager to feel something other than pins and needles on her poor feet. A wooden house stood in the middle of the barren field, enclosed by a short fence and a few drowsy looking trees in the front. Instantly she knew that she had arrived at the Emerson Ranch.

A baby blue sports car was parked outside near the driveway, glimmering in what was left of the sunlight. She found that it was significantly darker than when she had entered the forest and felt a sudden spike of worry once again crash into her body like stormy waves on half-submerged boulders.

As she limped closer to the slant-roofed building, she watched as a figure clamored out the front door and look both ways across the desolate yard before running to meet her halfway. It was a man, a little older than sixty. A red bandana was knotted snug around his neck and the white undershirt he was wearing had been stained black with grease. He had obviously just been hard at work.

"Maria," he sighed, threading a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "God, look at you. How long's it been since you've eaten?" Mr. Emerson's voice dripped with worry.