Prologue
A taste that lingers without remorse,
should never be taken with such force.
Too much, it burns, too little, it’s bland,
it’s not a thing you can demand.
Pour on open wounds, it stings,
a raw, sharp bite, to pain it clings.
It’s a farce it adds needed flavor,
making love, not something that I savor.
—love is saltby Lily Parker
Chapter 1
Lily
Icould jump. Not should, nor would I actually. But I could.
Especially standing here at the edge.
The gold chain glimmers in the sunlight as I thumb it like my personal rosary. Except this necklace doesn’t bring peace or help keep count of prayers. No. This necklace was worn by the devil himself. It’s smooth, the ridged links scraping my skin as I slip the delicate chain through my fingers until the raven bumps my thumb and forefinger. The bird, also gold, stares up at me.
Scoffing, I pocket the jewelry and fold to sit on the sun-heated rock. It’s like taking a warm bath. The toasty sandstone mimics a heated seat, and I let myself groan at the sensation. Mostly because I don’t have heated seats, probably never will.
My secondhand hiking boots scrape along the rock when I tuck my legs up, resting my chin on my knee, and I take a deep breath to inhale the breathtaking views of Yosemite. The sun spreads across the nude-colored dome in the distance, like butter gliding across a fresh stack of diner waffles. Magenta and apricot swirls with unearthly variation, all oozing against the cloudless sky as dusk settles over the park. Rugged in beauty, trees encase the water below the sheer drop I’m perched on. Towering pines and ancient sequoias stretch as far as mynear perfect vision can see with three-month-old contacts. Dark green contrasts with the fiery shades of burnt oranges, crisp golds, and the reds of the maples and dogwoods.
In the years I’ve been traveling, fall has always been my favorite season. I make my way out West every September to catch the crisp cool air or the faint scent of apples, leaves, and pine.
Yosemite, though, is a first for me. The Great Smoky Mountains, Yellowstone, Zion—I’ve traveled and hiked each of them. I’d pick up a temporary job in a nearby town and hustle for money, while spending all my free time on the nature trails. It seems to be the prescribed treatment for my incessant nightmares.
Out West is where I’d like to stay. Far away from my small hometown of Ruin, Mississippi. However, I can’t hold a steady job, and around the six-month mark the itch to move on, to run, scratches at my gut and pushes me to leave.
The distant roar of an unseen waterfall echoes, ghostlike, off the valley, and I take a gander over my shoulder, checking the trail behind me for other climbers. No one, thankfully. I don’t want people to see me up here and assume the worst—don’t want their stares, whispers, or the way their expressions might take pity on me, like they can see through me.
Rustling, I dig through the pocket of my khakis and pull out my vape, juiced with Blueberry Ice—my favorite. When I press the button a few times, it powers on, and I bring the mouthpiece to my lips to inhale, then release a slow exhale of vapor.
The cool sensation hits the back of my throat while the taste of ripe blueberries sweetens my taste buds. Another inhale, and mint smooths over my tongue. The tense muscles I carried up here from last night’s nightmare relax while the breeze tosses the branches near me.
I itch to pull out my pencil and write, the tiny notebook weighing heavy in my pocket. Granted, the best lines come when I’m riding that creative high, floating somewhere between brilliance and madness, and this vape pen isn’t even getting me close.
I ignore the desire to record the hellish voices in my head, allowing the rhythmic pulse of words to fade away on the humming wind. With another deep breath, the faint sweetness fills my lungs again, followed by the brittle air. When I shift forward, the slick soles of my hiking boots slip against the smooth rock face, and my stomach vaults into my throat.Shit, I need new shoes. My boots offer little traction with theirusedstatus and all the miles I’ve put on them since.
When everything … happened, my hometown became my personal hell. Not the kind that comes from having to share the town withhim, but a truly disturbing abyss where demons claw their way out of the pit. Their twisted, shadowy forms all wearhisface, writhing as they emerge from the darkness.Mydarkness. Each day I stayed, convincing myself I could heal—it was all in vain. Nothing could mend the cuts carved into me.
I’ve been on the move for almost five years and not once have I come close to feeling whole again.
With another drag from my vape pen, I shift back, letting the valley sprawl out in front of me, like one of the old watercolor paintings that used to hang in my parents’ home. Threads of fall have replaced most of the green, but flecks of pine dot the tree line along the trail that twists and disappears behind me. For it being early October with some of the nicest hiking weather, the trail is quiet today. The kind that settles into your bones with the whipping wind or a distant hawk’s call.
There’s a rustle that causes a prickle at the base of my neck, and I glance over my shoulder at the trail stretching through thetrees. A breeze wrestles a few leaves loose from where they cling to their branches, but there’s nothing there.
This is a higher point, so I’m not sure many people would venture up here. I like it because all the tourists’ noise and clutter is relegated below me. So, when another snap echoes behind me, I stiffen. Attempting to temper my paranoia, I keep facing forward, following a large bird as it glides down from the nest in a tree. My hands tremble as I reach out for a loose rock to …what?Bludgeon someone with? Throw at a bear? I gulp. Perhaps seeking the most off-beat path was poor judgement, especially when I’m alone.
