grip on my neck. I can feel the blackness coming. But I’m not done yet. His body wobbles a little, and I throw my whole body backwards, flex my legs and find my strength, just as his is starting to wane, and deliver a two-footed kick to his chest.
He flies backward, landing hard on the floor, and I take a moment to gasp for air. It rushes in, making the stars that signal the beginning of unconsciousness fade a little. I crawl backwards until I reach the front door.
And I wait.
He tries to get up a few times. The nasty words spill out of his mouth in a slur. But he never makes it. It takes long, endless minutes for his eyes to finally close.
And even though all I want to do is sit here and cry, I get to my feet. My legs are shaking so bad they almost give. But I steady myself against the front door and give myself a moment to cope.
Cope. I do that well. Coping with violence and terror is a gift from the man in my dreams.
My lungs suck in as much air as I can. I close my eyes. I count to ten. And when I open them, I move.
I run to his bedroom, fling open a door that has to be a closet and smile when I see clothes hanging. I grab a long-sleeved flannel shirt and shove my arms inside. I don’t even stop to button it up. I just grab the nearest pair of jeans. They are way too big and far too long, but fuck it. I roll them up and find a belt, and then go for the shoes. He’s got one pair of boots in the closet. Boots that are like a million sizes too big. But it’s the dead of winter and I can’t go outside unless I have something on my feet. I grab two pairs of socks and tug them on with shaking hands, then slip my feet into his boots.
When I go back out into the living room, I half expect him to be waiting with a shotgun trained on my face. But he’s not. He’s on the ground still. Breathing heavy and hard. I walk past him, and he reaches out and grabs my ankle, pulling me to the ground.
“No!” I scream it in a voice I’ve never heard before. I kick him in the face again, and the blood spills out of his lip. One more and he lets go.
I get to my feet, ready to pass out from the adrenaline and the fear. And then I force myself to move. I bolt for the door and throw it open. It’s snowing. And freezing-ass cold. There’s a snow machine parked in front of the cabin. But beyond that there is nothing. Nothing but trees and darkness.
The keys, Sydney. Find his keys.
Right. I calm myself and turn back to the cabin. They have to be here somewhere.
I rifle through the kitchen drawers, then the nightstand in his bedroom. I look through the closet and check the bathroom. But even before I finish all that I know where they must be.
In his fucking pocket.
I walk back to his body, keeping more than an arm’s length of distance between us. His head is tilted to the side and his eyes are open.
“ You’renotgonnagetaway ,” he says, his words slurring so bad I almost don’t understand him.
“Fuck you.” I walk behind him and bend down, reaching into his pocket. His hand comes up, reaching for me, but he misses. The drugs are working now. He might not be out, but he’s down.
Down enough for me to shove my hand in and pull out what I need, anyway. I spit on him as I walk by. And then I grab a coat that’s lying across the couch, find gloves in the pocket, open the door, and walk out.
The snow machine is covered in snow, and there are no tracks, so it’s been sitting for a little while at least. But I’m a country girl. A backcountry girl. I’ve been riding snow machines all my life. I brush off as much snow as I can, find the ignition, and shove the key in. I turn it to the on position and then pump the primer a few times before releasing the choke.
“You’re not gonna get away, bitch.”
I look up and see Case standing in the doorway, holding onto it like his life depends on it. He smiles. “You cunt. There’s no gas.”
“Fuck you,” I say, pulling on the starter cord as I do it. Nothing. “Not
He flies backward, landing hard on the floor, and I take a moment to gasp for air. It rushes in, making the stars that signal the beginning of unconsciousness fade a little. I crawl backwards until I reach the front door.
And I wait.
He tries to get up a few times. The nasty words spill out of his mouth in a slur. But he never makes it. It takes long, endless minutes for his eyes to finally close.
And even though all I want to do is sit here and cry, I get to my feet. My legs are shaking so bad they almost give. But I steady myself against the front door and give myself a moment to cope.
Cope. I do that well. Coping with violence and terror is a gift from the man in my dreams.
My lungs suck in as much air as I can. I close my eyes. I count to ten. And when I open them, I move.
I run to his bedroom, fling open a door that has to be a closet and smile when I see clothes hanging. I grab a long-sleeved flannel shirt and shove my arms inside. I don’t even stop to button it up. I just grab the nearest pair of jeans. They are way too big and far too long, but fuck it. I roll them up and find a belt, and then go for the shoes. He’s got one pair of boots in the closet. Boots that are like a million sizes too big. But it’s the dead of winter and I can’t go outside unless I have something on my feet. I grab two pairs of socks and tug them on with shaking hands, then slip my feet into his boots.
When I go back out into the living room, I half expect him to be waiting with a shotgun trained on my face. But he’s not. He’s on the ground still. Breathing heavy and hard. I walk past him, and he reaches out and grabs my ankle, pulling me to the ground.
“No!” I scream it in a voice I’ve never heard before. I kick him in the face again, and the blood spills out of his lip. One more and he lets go.
I get to my feet, ready to pass out from the adrenaline and the fear. And then I force myself to move. I bolt for the door and throw it open. It’s snowing. And freezing-ass cold. There’s a snow machine parked in front of the cabin. But beyond that there is nothing. Nothing but trees and darkness.
The keys, Sydney. Find his keys.
Right. I calm myself and turn back to the cabin. They have to be here somewhere.
I rifle through the kitchen drawers, then the nightstand in his bedroom. I look through the closet and check the bathroom. But even before I finish all that I know where they must be.
In his fucking pocket.
I walk back to his body, keeping more than an arm’s length of distance between us. His head is tilted to the side and his eyes are open.
“ You’renotgonnagetaway ,” he says, his words slurring so bad I almost don’t understand him.
“Fuck you.” I walk behind him and bend down, reaching into his pocket. His hand comes up, reaching for me, but he misses. The drugs are working now. He might not be out, but he’s down.
Down enough for me to shove my hand in and pull out what I need, anyway. I spit on him as I walk by. And then I grab a coat that’s lying across the couch, find gloves in the pocket, open the door, and walk out.
The snow machine is covered in snow, and there are no tracks, so it’s been sitting for a little while at least. But I’m a country girl. A backcountry girl. I’ve been riding snow machines all my life. I brush off as much snow as I can, find the ignition, and shove the key in. I turn it to the on position and then pump the primer a few times before releasing the choke.
“You’re not gonna get away, bitch.”
I look up and see Case standing in the doorway, holding onto it like his life depends on it. He smiles. “You cunt. There’s no gas.”
“Fuck you,” I say, pulling on the starter cord as I do it. Nothing. “Not
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