Her Nice Revenge

a

ches tearing at my clothes and holding me back, keeping me trapped on the ground. I am being chased by the figure from my nightmares. The figure from my reality. I'm about to break free, about to return to the skies when a loud B

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ughts as viscous as crystallizing honey. My head feels like it weighs three times too much and the weight might pull me over backward. My skin is hot, but I'm shivering. I feel like death incar

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memory of where I am. I'm not entirely sure who or what I

bbing pain as my eyes focus, the murky shape becomes the wall of a rustic log cabin. My head spins as my eyes drift upward, searching for relief from the razor-sha

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at a lamp, I don't know if it's been twenty seconds or two hours. My head feels clear at last

w I've had to do before to survive. My eyes dart around the room, taking in as much information as they can. I seem to be in a cabin. I am lying in a warm bed nestled between the silkiest sheets I've ever touched. A window to my

up into myself with a familiar terror. They are chasing m

ept in a motel room just down the road from the airport, and I remember the helicopter we took the next morning. But I can't remember anything a

protect me at all costs makes me feel just a little bit calmer. I seize that thought like a drowning girl. I just need to convince myself that I'm safe, that Johnston is on

nd takes a step back. He's wearing a plaid, long-sleeved shirt and a black ski mask over his face. This is almost cartoonish. I survived so long, knowing the faces of the men w

o respond, the terror constricting my throat won't allow any sound to pass through. He must notice

e don't wear ski masks when they come to talk to you. But his

y and convince myself it's true. Everything is fine. This is normal. He

ds of security, I timidly

uses.

am I? Who is this man? Where is Johnston? Why would he

gh without a masked man making vaguely threatening statements. The fac

ake control of me now. I have to stay here, present. I have to get

ooking for me?" I ask, my voi

while you we

irio

sick. I didn't thi

d I get

death. You had a gash on your temple. I th

iding in the helicopter. How did I come to be in

r how you got t

han a real tray. On the tray is a glass of water and a bowl. I notice he is holding the tray oddly, only with his left hand. His right is tucked up against his midsection, the hand encased in a glove. The knuckles on his left hand gripping the tray are turning white. With his facial expressi

ungry? I h

own slightly. He has a noticeable limp. His right leg seems much weaker than his left. He set

elp? With the

for the bowl. I freeze when I see the sleeve of the shirt I'm

ren't my

ror. He gives no indica

nge my clothes?" I

xuding discomfort. "I was respectful." I continue to stare at him, feeling my face heat and my ears burn. His left eye looks away from me, his right obscured by the ski

," I

ost as an afterthought, already limping quickly from the roo

believe this is a good thing. Why is he wearing that mask? It freaks me out. What happened to him that caused such damage to his right side? Suddenly a thought pops into my mind. Perhaps he'd had a deb

unded so rough, it could certainly belong to an older man. He didn't act or speak in a way that suggested he was young. Or old. Well, there was that line about being respectful. Perh

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it is. The tray with my empty soup bowl is gone and has been replaced with a glass of water and a sandwi

ation that a significant amount of time has passed. I frown and try to think. What happened during the many gaps in my memory? How long has i

d this time I can't force it out of my mind. I grab the pillow next to me and sob into it, trying to muffle the sound. My whole family is gone and I've been sent to hide in Alaska. Far, far away from my home. I'll never tell my mom stories about college again. Dad will never again tell me how proud h

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vomit. Or pass out. Or do both at the same time. I quietly slip out of the bed and wander to the other side of the room, padding across the floor on thick socks that must belong to him. I realize that during our first meeting, I never caught his name. The bedroom door is

orely mistaken. I watch the dancing lights in the sky. Shades of green and purple flicker and sway slowly in the night sky, backlit by more stars than I've ever seen before. The sight is breathtaking. I don't know how long I've been standing there when my stomach rumbles again, reminding me why I ventured out of the bedroom. Reluctantly, I return to the kitchen