- Brandon
As I guide my mystery cliff-gazing woman through the trees and toward my cabin, I’m still concerned for her. While I’m happy that she’s agreed to come stay in my place for the night (and not be stubborn enough to get herself killed because of the near-freezing temperatures at this time of year), I’m concerned about all that fight in her.
I’m trying to figure out why she feels the need to strike out at me that way. It’s very similar to the way some of my SEAL buddies became after too much combat—after too many bad memories and experiences.
Part of me wonders whether she’s a survivor of domestic abuse or assault. Could be. But with the way she fights? She appeared more likely to swing back, but, I know that abuse isn’t always that simple.
Covertly, I gaze at her as we make our way through a particularly gnarly patch of wooded forest, which makes a barrier of sorts before the “clearing” that is my lot. She’s looking dazed. Confused. But determined. Wary, somehow, as if she can’t quite tell whether she wants to “check out” or be over-the-top vigilant.
I watch her arms. Her feet. The way they are held at attention and wired for action. No normal woman naturally knows how to fight like that. She’s been trained. Maybe by someone in the Army or Navy as well. That instinct of hers? That’s not hardwired. That’s learned.
I bring my eyes away from her a bit, thankful that she’s at least taking my coat as a sign of kindness, rather than as an attempt to capture or kidnap her, like she had first been thinking it was. Which is why it would be good for me to learn something — anything about her. I flick my gaze near her again, watching the mechanical way she seems to move. Though I don’t know what, if anything, I’m gonna get out of her.
I decide to walk a little faster, a little ahead of her. The house is closer now. I can see it through the trees. And I don’t want those trees taking a big old chunk out of her face because she’s not really looking where she’s going.
I move ahead of her, just in time to move some tree branches up and away from her face. She notices, but just barely. As I fall back in line with her step, I decide that it’s worth a try. If she needs more than just a warm place to stay after tonight — like a therapist or something, I need to know about it. I should know about it. Especially if she gets out of control.
I don’t like this thought at all. I don’t like the idea that this poor girl is gonna lose her head while she’s with me. Do something that’s gonna fucking force me to protect myself and her. But she’s already flown off the handle. She’s already attacked me two times in the few short minutes we’ve known each other, and it could happen again. I need to know what and who I’m dealing with. Basic Navy training right there.
“So” — I clear my throat — “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you have a name?”
I pause, hoping against hope that maybe she’ll open up— maybe pull the jacket away from her face and answer me — treat me like I’m more than just background noise. But my hopes are dashed immediately. She just continues onward, but I don’t think she’s even “here” anymore. I doubt she even sees the house. Or the fact that we’ve stepped onto my property. The open bit of forest floor right outside my cabin.
“I’m Brandon. Brandon Whitley,” I say, hoping that by me volunteering information, she will feel encouraged to as well. My mom always said never to make someone do something you aren’t willing to do yourself— and especially not to ask that of a lady.
Unfortunately for my mom’s advice and for me, though, she doesn’t throw me a bone. Nothing. The only thing she does do is stop moving. She stands still, as if she’s finally noticed we’re out of the woods. Either that, or she’s suddenly across an invisible wall.
I stop, deciding on another course of action, another series of questions to ask, since it doesn’t seem like she’s willing to disclose anything so personal. I ask these as I begin to walk up the stairs to the porch of my cabin.
“What are you doing out this way, anyway?” Luckily, my wordless woman follows after me. I don’t have to encourage her up the stairs. Or try to guide her. She might just think I’m trying to attack her again. “Do you live around here?”
Again, there’s no verbal response from her to any of these questions, no sense that my presence means anything to her. There’s just a glaze in her eyes, a loneliness she won’t let me penetrate, not even if I tried. I take a look at her clothes.
A thin, haphazardly decorated T-shirt. It probably would’ve looked cool and trendy at one point, but it looks tattered and confused now— much like her face. And the fabric is much too thin to be wearing in the mountains, which is another reason I sensed she hadn’t planned to come here and could be in the middle of doing something irrational.
Her sweatpants are a little better, but not much. They have holes in them. And even with the thicker fabric, they will do little against hours of exposure to the elements. Her tennis shoes and socks are looking as well and beat to hell. They’re definitely not suitable for any kind of hiking, if that’s what she was doing, which I doubt.
As I get to the door and fiddle with the locks and keys to get it open — push away the damn screen door that keeps getting in my face — I try another set of questions, ones I really want answers to. “What are you doing out here at this time a year dressed like that?”
The woman tromps up the stairs, the thin features on her face looking beautiful for a moment— until the stress she must be feeling darkens them again, and I feel like I’m watching watercolors run. I can’t help but notice her attractive, curvy figure, well-proportioned even under those sweatpants and T-shirt. Her body looks good despite all that fabric, with all those holes and frayed edges.
I get the front door open, images of her sitting on the cliff flashing through my mind. Her hair is whipping about her face in a similar manner, like she’s still on that cliff ready to jump.
“What are you doing so close to the edge like that? You want to tell me that?” I hadn’t meant to come across combative, but her frail appearance brings it out of me. I can see from the countenance peeking out from under her stressed face that she used to be vivacious and maybe even in love with life, with herself and her body. But as it is underneath her clothes now, it looks like she’s just trying to get away from a shell. Or turn herself into one, if I had let her jump.
Briefly, I imagine myself giving her a check-up— running my hands up and down her body so I can just see the ghost of her through her clothing. Feeling her ribs. Her belly. Her breasts. Telling her what she needs to eat. How much. When. To bring back her spirt and give her life again.
As she comes up to where I am on the porch, I imagine what it would be like to feed her— to make myself into her dinner table, where she can eat and drink real food. A proper meal, whatever she wants or needs. Anything to make her full and happy again.
I hate myself for thinking in such a way. For fantasizing about her, when she is obviously in such a distressed state.
I mean it about the food, though. The woman comes to stand next to me, finally answering my question to her. My last one, as if it’s a radio signal out in space, and it’s just reached her receiver. “I wasn’t gonna jump. I wasn’t gonna do myself in, if that’s what you think.”
With that, she walks inside, and I follow after her, happy to let the screen door clack shut on us.
“I wasn’t gonna do it,” she says again, but I have to wonder if it’s for herself more than for me.
As I watch her walk ahead of me, I get another look at her body. Her back and ass, which looks plump and curvy, just my style, especially in all that blown-out fabric. Then I tell myself to let those thoughts go and think about priorities.
She’s gonna eat something. She may not be a ghost now, but I’m not gonna let her turn into one between now and tomorrow morning.