I’ve ran for so long that my legs have turned to jello. The daylit sky is dimming, snuffing out any chance of me finding shelter before nightfall. I finally slow down to a steady walk, keeping my eyes and ears open for the sound of something approaching. After a few more unsteady steps through the brush below I notice a break in the trees ahead. The sound of a car passing by makes me pause in surprise. I must be close to a road!

My feet ache as I weave through the remaining trees, doing everything I can to hike up the final hill to safety. I burst through the forest like I was drowning in it and look both ways.

Nothing.

Just an empty side road that hardly has any traffic. I squint down to the end of the road to read the sign. “Maple Street” I read out loud. My brow scrunches as I try to place where I’ve seen that road name before when it hits me.

Home, I’m so close! Probably another fifteen minutes or so and I could figure out my way there. If my legs will make it that far. I stare down at my muddied feet, sliced and bruised from tripping over sticks and rocks. The wound on my arm is still dripping crimson down onto the black asphalt and I sway a little, feeling lightheaded. While the bleeding has slowed some, it's still steadily oozing.

I can make it, if I just keep pressing forward. I can make it.

Don't give up.

My adventure finally comes to an end as I weakly stumble up the hill through the meadow. There could be snakes and other animals lingering in the brush of wildflowers but I’m too focused on my destination to care. I plow through the tall weeds and flowers, keeping my eyes on the prize.

I can't believe I made it without any sense of navigation. It must be fate. I belong in this home, on this land with my son and without John. My eyes gravitate to the rose bush planted near the meadow, Benjamin’s permanent setting in the earth. I pause, watching the fireflies dance around the empty yard as the sun finally sets behind the mountain. It's almost too dark to see but I manage my way over before I’m startled by something small flying a few feet in front of me. It lands near the rose bush, hopping around it and giving me a look before flying off again.

The bluejay! I smile so big that my cheeks hurt. I figured he’d have forgotten me by now. It's only been a week, but I typically stock the bird feeder daily. Surely it's empty by now. I stop by Benjamin’s grave, gently brushing the rose petals through my fingers and give them a slow, steady sniff. God, I’ve missed this place. I never thought I would say that, but being here now without John makes me grateful to be back and far away from the nightmare I just escaped from.

Craving a shower and a bandage for my wound, I power through the tall grass and make my way into the house from the sliding back door. It’s unlocked, just the way I left it. The lights turn on in the kitchen and reveal the bloodied mess John left me in our last night here. I glance around, seeing nothing out of place so far. Everything is exactly how I left it. I reach up and touch the mostly healed wound between my eyes remembering where all this blood came from and my face scrunches from the memory. I carry on, refusing to allow that memory to squander the happiness I feel to be back home.

I rummage through the cabinet just above the oven and locate the gallon of whisky that stays stocked in our house. My hands shake as they fight with the lid, grabbing a clean glass from the dishrack by the sink and pour me a hefty serving.

The first swallow goes down harsh, burning my eyes and blazing like fire down into the pit of my stomach. With no food to accompany the liquor, I feel nauseous immediately but take another swallow to help numb the pain I feel.

After a few more gulps I manage to finish the glass. Feeling significantly more numb than before, my legs finally give out and I slide down to the floor.

My back perches against the cabinets and I rest my eyes for a moment. My ears listen out for anything that would indicate that I’m not alone but the house remains quiet, so I allow myself to relax.

Tears burn against my closed lids the longer I’m left alone with my thoughts. Anxiety rips me apart, blaming me for allowing the masked stranger close enough to kidnap me.

I allowed it. I enticed him. Now he’s killed my husband and is probably out searching for me right now… What if this is the first place they look? My heart races at the thought. Remembering the demon he turned into, the sounds he made… Did I imagine the whole thing? Am I going crazy?

I weakly rise back to my feet before hunching over and groan into my palms, hanging into the sink. The wound on my arm pulsates and I dread what I know has to be done. It needs stitches, and I’m the only one that can do them.

There’s a First Aid kit under the sink to my left but I’ve been putting off the inevitable. I’ve done this countless times and it never gets any easier. As the bravery builds I drop to my knees to rummage through the cleaning supplies to find the First Aid tucked behind everything. I rise back up with shaky knees, feeling a little woozy, then hover my arm over the sink.

Rummaging through the first aid I notice that the rubbing alcohol is missing. Which means it’s probably gone, and the only thing that’s left is the whisky resting beside the sink. I take a deep breath, calming my nerves before doing what I know needs to be done.

I take the dishrag off of its hook beside me and roll it up tight before wedging it between my teeth. I bite down harshly, anticipating the burn that’s about to ensue. As I pour, the liquid fire sets in instantly and I groan in pain, eyes fighting back tears but knowing it's the only way I have to clean the wound.

A useful trick my father taught me a long time ago. Probably the only good thing I learned from him.

Unable to handle the pain anymore, I spit out the rag and toss the half empty jug of liquor into the sink before stumbling backward.

“Fuck!” I cry out and sniffle back tears, holding onto my arm just above the wound like the pressure will make a difference. This pain never gets any easier, but I’ve also never been cut this deeply. I give myself a few minutes to allow the burning sensation to subside before continuing.

Putting the rolled up rag back in my mouth, I gather the needle and thread out of the kit and get to work. The first stitch is always the hardest. Hurting myself after already being hurt makes it hard to focus on the task at hand, but I power through.

My hand shakes as I press the needle through the first time and I fight back another curse word. I clamp my teeth down tighter around the rolled up dishrag but it's no use.

“God!” I scream as it finally pops through the skin and the dishrag falls from my mouth. “Damnit!” I hiss.

Ready to give up already, my head hangs down into the sink as I catch my breath. I can feel every muscle in my legs tremble, ready to give up after a long day of overuse. I let out a sob as the room spins now that the liquor has finally settled in.

I can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

“That was impressive.” A familiar voice startles me from my hunched over position. I spin on my heel and stop but the room continues to spin afterward. Micah stands a few feet from me, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the entrance to the kitchen.

He’s wearing all black, with an old leather jacket that has a raven claw embroidered on one of the front pockets. His hair is greasy, and a little wild but pushed back away from his stoney eyes. There’s something different about his demeanor compared to the handful of times I’ve seen him. Almost like he sympathizes with me, but that's honestly hard to believe.

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“How…?” I try to rationalize but I’m too drunk and exhausted to think straight.

“Humans are a creature of habit.” He explains, seeming to understand where I was going with my question without me having to finish it. “Figured this would be the first place you’d go.” He adds, glazing over the antique kitchen accessories and decor. He seems unimpressed as his eyes fall back on me.

“Not to mention, you left a pretty easy trail to follow.” He gestures down toward the bleeding cut still dripping from my arm.

“No…” I whimper in defeat. Just one more night, that’s all I wanted. One more night with this house, with my memories. The good memories. I know that I constantly fall victim to nostalgia, ignoring every awful thing that’s happened here and focusing on the childhood memories spent here with my grandmother, but I needed this. I crave the good times.

Micah steps closer, unfurling his arms as he approaches and I jump back, “You stay away from me!” I shout at him drunkenly while backing as far as I can into the cabinets behind me. Like by some miracle I’ll be able to melt through the cracks and escape. He doesn't listen, approaching me and grabbing my injured arm roughly.

“Ouch!” I cry, striking him across the face in retaliation with my free hand. He hardly seems phased by it and grabs my other arm as well.

“Chill!” He snaps, holding me in place by the wrists. I continue to thrash against him, my depleted energy no match for his strength.

He wrangles me down to the ground without much effort and I scream in retaliation. I’ve fought so much that my hair has tangled across my face, acting as a curtain to shield me from the man hovering over me. I’ve never fought back this hard, and it feels… good.

His hand is rough and calloused, grabbing me by the jaw to force my attention on him. I blow what hair I can out of my line of sight, looking like a crazed animal.

“Hold still.” He demands, giving my face a gentle shake.

“Fuck you.” I hiss, the words burning my throat as they ooze out from squished lips. I’m drunk and they feel wrong to say. I mean them, but maybe not directly toward him.

He finds this amusing somehow, chuckling and lighting up the room with his perfect smile. “Maybe one day.” He jokes, plucking the needle and thread still dangling from my open wound before I can respond. I moan in pain through clenched teeth, wishing I was anywhere else but underneath him. He pauses to take a good look at the wound, then at the needle and thread still pinched between his fingers.

“How many times have you had to do this?” He asks curiously.

I scowl and turn my attention away from him. I won't dignify him with a response. When I don't answer, he yanks my wrist forward and I cry out. My entire arm is sore from this cut and he’s being as rough as possible.

“What if I told you that you never have to do this again?” His question catches me off guard. Before I can answer, he’s already flicking the needle and thread into the sink beside us. My scowl remains as I cut my eyes at him. What is he talking about? I get my answer when he brings my still-bleeding cut to his lips and my eyes widen with disgust.

“STOP!” I demand, feeling physically repulsed by the gesture and trying to pull away from him. “What’s wrong with you people? Leave me alone!” I fight using my words now, feeling as if they’re all I have left after years of being complacent with abuse.

My arguing gets me nowhere and neither does my wriggling. His tongue runs over the length of the wound and I feel my body tense with a conflicting swirl of pleasure and repulsion. Hot, steady breaths spread across my tender flesh as the cut begins to numb and vanish right before my eyes in a matter of seconds. Holy shit- how?

I swallow down the panicked lump in my throat, my words evading me and I finally hold still. His eyes are locked in mine with an expression void of any emotion. I notice how dark his once brilliant blue eyes are now, and realize he’s who jumped in after Elias earlier. He saved me.

Something takes over me. Delirium, bravery, liquid courage- maybe a combination of the three? But my hand reaches out, still restricted under Micah’s grip, and I touch his face with bloodied fingers. My brow furrows, watching for any change in his demeanor but he remains still, never taking his eyes off of me.

He cups my hand to his face. Meanwhile, my thumb brushes across his cheek, feeling the raised bumps where feathers are struggling to push through his skin. My eyes skim over his stoic expression, wondering what he’s thinking. All the terror I felt before has been washed away and replaced with curiosity. The same curiosity that got me in this situation to begin with.

What are these things?

My heavy breathing steadies and my muscles relax against the tile. I remind myself that if he wanted to kill me he would’ve done it by now. He saved me. He’s safe.

“Micah,” His name comes out a strained whisper. “Please don't put me in the bunker.” I plead with teary eyes, praying that he’ll have a change of heart and lessen my punishment.

His hunched over stance softens, only a little, before nodding gently, “I won’t.”

My insides warm. “Promise?”

His thumb caresses the back of my hand, just once, before pulling it away and averting his eyes from mine still pleading with him.

“I swear.” His voice is filled with sincerity. I believe him.

When he drops my arm from his grip and rises to a towering stand, the spell between us is broken and I snap back to reality. I sit up and scurry back against the oven door behind me, wondering why I did that just now.

I guess I needed to save my ass somehow…

“Is she in there?” A staticky voice echoes through a speaker located somewhere on Micah’s body. He digs around in his front pocket to locate a walkie-talkie and respond to whoever it is on the other side.

“Yeah. I found her.” He answers, never taking his eyes off of me.

A few seconds later, a different voice comes through- “Good. Headlights are approaching so get the girl and get the hell out of there.”

“Roger that.” He answers, stuffing the device back into the same pocket and kneeling down to my level.

I cower against the oven, “What if I don’t want to leave with you?” I ask, mustering up the little courage I have left in me.

Micah seems almost amused by this. He brushes his hair back from his eyes to get a good look at me. “The way I see it you’ve got two options- you leave with me now and live out the rest of your pathetic little life comfortably while being our family’s juice box. OR- you stay here and likely get arrested and tried for the murder of your husband. Then you’ll end up in jail because you have no alibi and you’ll be in prison for the rest of your life.”

I can feel my nerve dissolve with each word he spews from his mouth- because he’s right. If I stay here and the police find me they’ll likely bring me in for questioning, and I don't have any alibi. With no other leads and no way the police will believe my story about a masked, blood sucking monster kidnapping me and killing my husband, I’m left with no other choice. I have to go with him.

My chin quivers at the realization that my life has spiraled completely out of control and there's no way for me to regain charge of it. I sniffle, feeling the tears spill over as my reality sets in and exhaustion takes over.

“Okay.” I squeak, defeat washing over me.

I try to rise up from the floor but my knees wobble and my legs give out immediately. My body is exhausted. He watches me struggle with that same unreadable look before yanking me up by my arm before scooping me up to carry me out. I don't argue, but would rather walk if that were an option.

“You’re making the right choice.” His voice is calm in an effort to soothe me I suppose, and I try to believe him. He feels like someone I could learn to trust.

This is the first time we’ve actually spoken to one another and it's shown him in a new light, making me feel like he might be right and I’m doing the right thing- that he might not hate me after all.

He saved me- twice.

Once from my husband, and once from Elias. I can trust him- if only just a little. My arms wrap around his neck for support as he hikes me up to get a better grip on me. He flicks the lights off to the kitchen and I keep my eyes up to the starry night sky, refusing to look back into my kitchen.

He carries me all the way down to the main road to locate his motorcycle stashed in the woods nearby. I’m placed down gently and instructed to climb aboard after his long leg swings over the side of the bike to steady it. I’ve never been on a bike before, and as it rumbles to life I jolt forward, clinging to Micah’s leather jacket in fear.

My heart pounds against his back, hammering in my chest as I try to convince myself that this is safe. He won't hurt me. I’m making the right choice.

“You’re alright, little bird. I’ve got you.” His voice rumbles through his back, vibrating against me, confirming what I’ve been trying to convince myself of since agreeing to leave the sanctuary of my home with him.

He gives my thigh a gentle pat before taking off down the main road, just in time to dodge the squad cars that roll up to my house. They’re looking for John, I’m sure. No one would be looking for me.

I’m invisible.

The thought pangs in my chest, curling me into Micah even tighter as I fight back tears. No one cares. But… maybe they do?