Without thinking, I grab the old woman's arm, pull her close, and shut the bathroom door.
My eyes zip around as I say breathlessly, "He found me; Hunter. We have to hide or he'll kill you too!"
"Calm down, dearest. Nothing will harm you here."
"No!" My scream bounces off the bathroom walls; my distress has reached me in the bowels. "You're not listening to me!"
The old woman tries to pry her fragile arm from my panicked grip, but I'm stronger and unwilling to let go.
"He's the heart reaper," I persist, "...and he doesn't show mercy!"
"Stay put, child. It's just the cats fighting, I assure you." The old woman looks flustered even though her words are the opposite. I don't think she's bothered by what I'm saying; think it's more about my attitude and the situation she's found herself in with me.
Maybe leaving would be the best. But where would I go, who do I know?
I let the woman go, holding my trembling hand with the other while watching her leave before pacing the space.
My fear comes afresh. My instincts are screaming at me to run. But I'm too scared, scared that I might go out there and find the old lady's heartless corpse sprawled on the floor with her blood painting the walls.
I can't stir an atom of calmness within me either. So, I take a deep breath and force myself to peek out.
The room is empty, causing me to creep across it to the entryway that leads to the living area—a small, tan space with no trace of electronic devices, silent except for horses snorting and the faint songs of birds coming from the forest.
Standing at the edge of a wall and peering past the open main entrance door, I find the old woman sitting on the porch, stroking three cats that struggle to share a bowl of food.
I carefully approach her and linger on the main door's threshold, while she glances toward me.
"I told you, it's just the cats," she says with a smile. "See, this one and this one…" She points at two calico cats. "…they're mine and found a friend."
My gaze lingers on the friend—a ginger cat. Sandwiched between the calicos, it looks up at me. And in that small moment of distraction, the others kick it out of its space, pushing it behind them.
"You two, be nice!" The old woman rebukes as I scan the snowless fields beyond the porch to be certain that Hunter isn't lurking, watching… waiting.
There's nothing though. Just the bright blue sky, the distant mountains, and the horses grazing within a fenced part of the field.
"You can let go of the edge now, dearest," the old lady says as she rises. "Whatever happened to you before won't reach you here. No dangers have ever come by."
She tries to reach for my face but withdraws her hand when I back away. Realizing she means no harm, I move forward and let her put an index under my eye to shift the lower lid down.
She scrutinizes the eye for a second before touching my forehead. "It's like you have a fever. How are you feeling?" Forget the fever. I feel bad, sick—sick from Hunter, sick from dread and fear.
"I don't know," I say. "I feel pain… but I can't let it out. What's wrong with me?" I notice the woman's blue eyes soften. She looks like she wants to speak yet remains silent. I continue, "I can't kick and scream and bawl my eyes out even though I want to. It's not happening."
"You feel it. You know it's there; you're grieving," the old lady says calmly. "Even if the tears haven't come. They will in time." She pats my shoulder before walking past me to the kitchen. "Come. Let me give you something. It will ease your fever and calm you down."
Closing the door; still restless, I move toward the window. I can't bring myself to sit down as my gaze wanders over the fields, aware that Hunter is still out there—killing, searching?
Moments later, the woman returns with a steaming bowl of soup. "Here, take this."
I accept the bowl and finally sit down, my hands shaking slightly as I scoop and bring the spoon to my lips.
"How did I get here?" I ask after noticing that the scratches on my skin have been treated. The clothes too—denim overall over a gray shirt—aren't mine.
"A young man brought you here early this morning. You were in a bad shape, dearest. I hope you don't mind that I changed your clothes."
My heart skips a beat at the mention of a young man. "A young man. Light hair?"
"No, very dark."
Hunter doesn't have dark hair, so who could it be if not him? I can't tell whether I'm relieved by that. If anything, it makes my anxiety grow.
I start spooning the food into my mouth without thinking about what harm there is to it.
I know nothing about the outside world or trusting people, as I've never actually been in a situation where my life might be in the hands of a total stranger.
Dad Griffin and Dad Tad had always been the ones protecting me, and though they said the outside world is dangerous for the Whites, they didn't mention how. And surely, this woman wouldn't know that I was a White, would she?
Not while she lives in this little cottage on this lone side of the country where houses are scarce and internet connection is low.
~
A warm bath and clothes for the cold are all I need before I retire to sleep. However, I wouldn't say it was a nice nap since I kept waking up at intervals whenever I heard the faintest sound. And this last little noise is what gets me fucked.
When I scramble out of bed, the pungent aroma of browned onions and garlic lures me to the kitchen, and I find the old woman busying herself over a pot of stir-fried vegetables.
I lean against the wall and rap my knuckles gently on the brick to gain her attention. "Can I come in?"
"Please do," she says with a warm smile before I walk to the middle counter and settle on a stool beside it.
I note the old lady's curious eyes occasionally flickering at my fiddling hands as she blends soup into a puree, standing opposite me on the counter.
My hands are rough; I've been told that so many times. And some say it's a sign of working hard, maybe too hard for someone so young.
"I didn't catch your name, dearest," the old woman says.
I respond flatly, "Heidi."
"Hm. I'm Magen. May I ask where you came from?"
I bite my lip as Magen turns the puree into a pot.
"Alloy City," I reply, hoping the questions stop here. They don't.
"Alloy City—the capital. Braevalle is a long way from there; shocking how you end up here."
She's trying to get something from me—a response that can explain my situation. Yet, she won't hear it from me, as I can't mention the White mansion or the events that unfolded; just as I can't lie about a random house since there aren't many houses in these mountains.
"I lost my friends on a hiking trip," I say, hoping that sounds convincing enough.
Magen's eyes scan my body nevertheless. "Is that how you got all these scratches, and the wound on your forehead?" When I don't reply. She asks again, "How long have you been on the road? You look stressed."
I still don't respond.
Magen may have sensed my reluctance, so she let the topic slide. "Don't worry. You can stay here for as long as you want." She turns to the stove counter. "Most of my children's clothes are here. They can't wear them anymore. You can have them. I'll help you recover too since I'm good with herbs."
I silently watch her bring the soup to a boil before spooning a liquid from another pot into a bowl. Then she sets it in front of me. "Here, take this before you rest. I made it while you were asleep."
I hold the bowl and stare blankly at its yellowish content before raising it to my lips. It's warm and slightly burns as it goes down my throat, eliciting shudders.
"You can ride the horses when you feel up to it. They don't pick their riders. It's been long since they've had one too," Magen says while nodding toward the window facing the fields.
I shake my head immediately and whisper hoarsely, "Hunter."
If I'm not going to run, I'll hide, which means not staying in plain sight where Hunter has the chance to see and hurt me.
That's what I thought until after lunch when I decided to take Magen's advice. After all, the weather is far too inviting to stay locked up in a house all day because of my fear.
Magen watches from the porch as I approach the copper-red horse and gently stroke its mane. I press my forehead against the horse's warm body, hesitating to mount.
Being a former White, there are so many things I can do—things that were added to all the White children's curriculum—and horse riding is one of them.
But since it's Saturn's hobby, and I've watched the girl ride so many times, I can't help being reminded about her.
"We're back here again, hoppy," I mumble while gently hitting my head against the horse. Hoppy is Saturn's horse, and this one looks close to Hoppy.
The loud hoot of an owl scares me; causes me to whip my head toward the woods, nervous eyes scanning the trees.
Anxiety stirs as I look away, and I'm assuring myself that it's just my imagination playing tricks on me.
But then the owl hoots again. And there he is. Not the owl, Hunter—standing motionless at the forest's edge; blending with the trees, probably pretending to be one.
His dark attire makes him look almost ghostly, like a figure carved from the night, catching my breath in my throat.
I can't brace myself to move. Instead, I stare at him, frozen; tied to a spot, screaming in my mind that I need to run.