I had to detach. If I thought about it emotionally, I was going to freeze, and then none of us would escape the forest.
Detach.And so I did, not once looking back at Georgie as I hurried back to where I left Arianna as a prisoner of the forest.
I should’ve made it back to Arianna by now. Me and Georgie couldn’t have gone that far—not with the constant falls and struggles or the continuous breaks. Yet, why did it feel as if I walked for hours, my limbs screaming in protest, my toes numb and my eyelids threatening to close?
“Just a second,” I whispered. I didn’t bother looking for a place to sit. I simply dropped on the ground, my face facing the sky. “Just a second.”
My voice trailed off into silence as my eyelids grew heavy, desperately seeking the rest my weary body craved. Would it be that bad to fall asleep for a bit? Just enough to rest.
Yes. Georgie was going to die if I laid here for too long. She was out there, alone, frightened. She couldn’t rest like I was going to; she was going to keep waiting for my help, hoping her pain would come to an end.
I had to do this.
Get up, Charisma.
I pressed down onto my bruised palms, a soft groan escaping my mouth, but I didn’t even make it halfway up before I landed on my back again. I wasn’t sure how many times I had kept trying until my legs simply refused to move. My eyelids fluttered.
Don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep. Come on.
With all my strength, I fought to get up, but my back didn’t even flinch, almost as if I was glued to the ground, the mud ready to swallow me whole.
Just a second to rest, then I’ll go. Just that.
Soon enough, I drifted off to sleep, every part of my body purring happily. Just for a few moments, then I was going to get back to Georgie.
“Charisma?”
I looked around at the sound of my mother’s voice and shivered as my gaze fell upon my house. My feet were planted on the old wooden floor, which groaned under my weight. I took a moment to scan my surroundings, searching for a hidden clue that this was all in my head, and I was still a prisoner in the gods’ world, but everything was in its place—the rotten kitchen counter with fist marks pounded into it and a few unwashed dishes, the dirty rug stained with beer and wine, the door that stood ajar, letting the wind rush in. Even my ripped shoes were waiting in front of the door. Just as if I had never left.
My brows furrowed. Was this part of the test? Did the test evenexist?
“You let this happen! You’re like this because you brought that cursed girl into our lives.”
At the sound of that voice, a shiver ran down my spine, every fiber in my body tensing with alertness. In the quiet room, I heard my ragged breath, a tremor in the stillness, and looking down, I noticed my dirty fake Converses and my usual sweatpants. I inspected my hands, trying to find evidence of what had happened in the woods. But they were clean, there was no blood on them.
Was the gods’ world just a nightmare? Was I always home but experienced a horrifying and hyperrealistic dream?
Ashamed as I was, I dared to hope for a moment that this was nothing more than a fleeting dream, that I wouldn’t have to relive this ordeal.
God, I was selfish. What about my mother who had been a hostage of her own mind for years?
I shook my head and raced toward my mother’s room, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet, before throwing open the door and bursting inside, my chest tight with worry. I had done this at least a thousand times, and it still shook me to my core every single time.
My mom sat huddled in the shadowy corner of the room, her breath hitching in her rib cage as she clutched her knees to her chest. A cold sweat slicked over her skin as she swayed, her whispered words lost in a rising tide of panic.
Dad’s face contorted into a mask of rage as his attention swiped to me, his jaw clenched tight, each muscle screaming silent fury. He watched me for a second, acknowledging my presence with a disgusted sneer before he went back to acting like I wasn’t here, instead focusing on my mother.
He sighed, pinching his ears before resting his palms on his sides. “Mary,” he said in a low voice. “You have to come back to your senses; I can’t do this anymore. I can’t control the thoughts. I’m afraid I’ll do something bad soon. I can’t think straight anymore. You have to come back.”
I squinted. He had never voiced his thoughts before—no, he only threw ugly words and punches her way. I sat behind them at the doorframe, contemplating what to do.
He loved—or used to—my mother so much, that much I knew. In her rare moments of lucidity, she used to tell me about how they met and about how romantic he used to be. She was everything he had after he lost his parents and his two brothers in a fire. They were there for each other at every step of their life. They werehappy. Until Mom had me. Until I was born.
My dad walked toward her, lowering himself on his knees. With a sigh, he threaded a hand over his bald head, looking at her with a tilt of his head.
“All I think about is killing the two of you.” He laughed in a sad, sarcastic way.
At that, I inched closer, my heart galloping. Was this what he thought about every time he was strangling her? Didn’t he realize she wasn’t hurting because she was rarely here? She had no idea what was happening outside her head.
