Young Writers Society

Day Three

I think I'm beginning to realize I'm much more hurt than I first thought.

I keep seeing shadows in the corners of my vision. When I turn quickly to confront them, they vanish, bringing on a horrible dizzy spell. My ears are still ringing, the volume rising when I think about it too much. Dread pools inside of me. I need a doctor.

I bend over, coughing up nothing but air. A memory fills my head and I'm too exhausted to stop it.

"You're running a fever, you're in no shape to go out tonight." Harold points out, shutting the door before I can cross through it.

"If I don't go, we'll have to spend another night in this hotel to finish the job. You," I pause to cough, "...know we don't have enough to do that."

He sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Then we won't. We can go home and ration what we have until you're better."

Angry, I shake my head. "This is utterly stupid. Just let me go, I'll be fine."

"I won't risk it. Just sit down, I'll get our things."

. . .

Harold... my mind swims with guilt. It's my fault he thought he had to kill Rory. If I hadn't been so rash and gone to her house, she wouldn't have been there when Harold returned. Why had I even gone to her in the first place? It wasn't like she was my friend. 

What should I do now?

Obviously, I need to find Harold. I know I can't kill him. Surely, Rory is dead, but that isn't his fault, only my own.

I look up at the sky. The sun is beginning to set in the west. It's been at least a full day since I fell- maybe longer. I can just make out the tall rocky wall surrounded by trees. It's just as steep as I has seen before, but I hadn't noticed how the walls began to curve into a slope as you walked along the cliff. Almost like stairs. I almost laugh at the humorless joke. Trying not to focus on what I could've done, I focus on the surroundings around me.

The water must've dragged me a long way down before I washed up on the shore. From what I can tell, I'm still miles away from where Harold parked the truck. If it's still there, I'll try to track his steps. In an hour or so, it'll be light enough for me to make them out clearly. I pause to consider what to do if the truck is gone. I could attempt to follow the tire treads, but they could just as easily vanish when Harold inevitably hits a road.

Head swimming with pain, I grit my teeth to focus. If the truck is gone, I could try to find a phone and call him. He has many burners, but I have a few numbers in mind that I could try with the best chance of reaching him.

Suddenly, it hits me. Do I even want to find him? Right now, I have a free pass to escape this life my brother and I created for ourselves. I have successfully faked my own death.

I will my legs to straighten out and hold my weight standing. The pain I feel almost helps to distract myself from the question. After waiting to see if I'm stable enough not to fall, I decide to give myself the task of seeing if his truck is still there. It's likely my brother has already gone. If the truck isn't there, at least I know I won't have to meet his eyes. If it is...

As conflicted as I feel about what I should do, I remember the need for a doctor. This is enough to get me moving. I focus on moving my feet forward and that's enough to avoid my questions. For now, at least.