Morgan
It may only be a small blade, but it’s sharp. I hold the scissors as a weapon in my clenched fist, shifting left, then circling entirely to my right. Where are you?
One step, two steps, three steps. I keep my eyes focused on the movement I hear coming from in front of me. Four steps, five steps, six steps.
“Fuck!” I scream as I barrel over a sharp object protruding from the earth. The burn at my shins is enough to tell me the sutures binding my skin together are no more. Blood trickles over my feet. I groan, falling on to my bottom and eye a cut tree stump misplaced in a sea of towering trees. You came so far, Morgan.
I did. I’ve been walking, running, sneaking, and jumping at every noise I’ve heard for what I believe to be hours. And now my legs sting, burn, and ache all at once, until they don’t. I’m numb. I try to stand. I fall. I try to pull myself up once more, only to find my arse meeting turf.
“No. No. No.” Why is this happening? If I can’t walk, I’m sitting prey. Please God, let me walk.
A beam of light, the colours of red, yellow, pink, indigo and blue, forms an arch before my eyes. It hangs in limbo in mid-air. I follow the rainbow downwards until I see the scissors still wrapped tightly in my grip. I still have a weapon. I have a chance.
I’m shaking when I inspect my reopened wounds. They’re deep, and I’m not sure what I’m seeing … blood, so much blood.
There’s no longer a bandage inside the backpack. There’s nothing except an empty canister and a compass. The tank top I’m wearing. I can use some of the material.
Every cut I make is close to my stomach, and I flinch, worried I’m going to plough this sharp utensil through my guts. The constant dizziness I’m experiencing, whether from blood loss or starvation, is making this task hard. Concentrate, Morgan. You don’t need to inflict your own wounds.
“I know,” I scold myself.
Take the fucking shirt off.
“Of course,” I murmur dropping the scissors to the ground and slowly pulling the top the Wolf had left for me over my head.
The material is not hacked or jagged; it’s a neat cut that travels from back to front. When I make the last snip, a band of material falls away. A snip on either seam gives me two lengths.
It’s a growl more than a groan that bursts from my lips as I tie each length around my shins. The white turns red almost immediately.
You can do this, Morgan. Encouragement is all I have left. I’m feeling broken, so fucking broken.
Elbow, wrist, pull, scan my environment. Elbow, wrist, push, scan. Elbow, wrist, push, scan. Any ground I crawl over is good because I need shelter from the scorching sun, and an aid to assist me with walking. Sitting on my arse, feeling sore and sorry for myself, will result in my death, and death is not an option for me.
It must take more than a hundred turns of my scratched-up arms against the rough terrain to find the perfect-sized fallen branch to use as a walking stick, but I locate it. Sun dances behind the trees as different-shaped shadows form. My eyes burn as a blinding light saturates them with a bright beam. My head lifts from the dirt, and I’m squinting, everything in front of me blurred.
Where is the light? It has to be the wolf.
I contemplate an attempt at running when fright leeches onto my heart, but something in my brain overrides my current fear and encourages me to move towards the light and not away from it. I find my feet and hobble, putting as much weight on my arms and the stick now acting as my cane. Every baby step is a victory. Every stumble without falling is my encouragement. The beam of light I previously saw grows fierce and broader in size, causing me to place my free hand on my brow, trying to shield my scrunched eyes. Where is the light coming from?
Music.
Soft music plays. Smooth, piano music. Sweet, gentle, and caressing. I shift my head left, right, up, down—I can’t see anything. The music grows louder, and when it does, I realise it’s coming from one direction. It’s coming from the same direction the beam of light is, so I shuffle, following the sound. The more ground I cover, the more the beat vibrates through my chest. It’s a female voice singing, the words are indecipherable, but I hear her.
I know this song. I can’t place how or who is singing it, but I know this song.
The music stops playing. It just stops, and all I hear is every quick breath I inhale. I take a step. Both my knees crack violently. Pain shoots up my thighs and into my spine. Walk it out, Morgan. Push through your grief.
I do. I take another step, and with that step, the music again starts to play—the same piano music. The ground below me is brown, burnt leaf upon brown, charred leaf, which is forgiving under my feet—soft and cushioning. The smell, however, is mouldy and rotten.
The music stops. Then starts. I concentrate on the words as I continue to shuffle gingerly forward. Does this mean something? Is the wolf trying to give me another clue? Or is this a trap?
With every hobble I make, memories flood my mind. Memories of Reid and I, meeting on the university grounds, me in my red dress. Reid would refer to me as the lady in red from that day and many years after. Red—it’s what the wolf also calls me. This can’t be coincidental. So, can the wolf still be Cullum Williams? Or is this tied to Reid in some way? How could the man I love be so evil though? Confusion.
“Birdy,” I mouth. The Artist. “People Help the People,” by Birdy. It’s the song. Relief has my shoulders dropping. I knew I knew this song. I once played it over and over for weeks. I was drawn to it, her raw heart-filled words. Aleeha was around two and Brax four. The kids would be sound asleep, and I’d play it on repeat.
“Melodramatic ... this song is so dark, Morgan,” Reid would say, yet he’d sit watching me, as I cleaned the kitchen and sang.
I tip my chin back and close my eyes, picturing the kitchen in our newly built house, which now holds years of memories. I see me singing and swaying my hips like I was on centre-stage in a packed auditorium, Reid never taking his gaze from me. He’d explore me like it was the first time he’d ever seen me. Our love—it was intense in a way. We couldn’t breathe without being loved by each other. Like the world would cave in on itself if we couldn’t feel each other’s presence.
We lost that. We let it slide through our fingers. I want it back. I want my life back. My husband. My children. Reid can’t be responsible for this. He can’t be.
I still, crying out with every bit of pressure I can force through my vocal cords. “I want to go home. Let me go home.”
Is anybody coming for me. I scream in the hope that someone, anyone, will hear me. Maybe just this one time, someone will. If I could hear the music, maybe someone else could hear it too.
“I don’t want to play your game,” I scream, my pitch so high from my bottled anger that it could shatter every piece of glass residing on this Earth. My throat stings from the pain of its force. The taste of blood coats my tongue.
It's a deflated feeling. Twelve others have been where I am, and none of them has won the wolf's wild, twisted game. Not one. Why do I think I have a chance? My survival skills are less than limited. Hell, I can’t even keep my husband happy or be there for my children when they need me.
I sink to the ground, and for one moment I pray it will swallow me whole and put me out of my God damn misery.
Do I sit here and wait for him to come finish me off? Or follow the music to what will only be another test, or trap, or some bullshit I’ve no control over?
Will I walk to my death?