Tami Hoag - The Boy

She ran down the gravel road, struggling, stumbling. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs, ragged and hot; painful, like serrated knives plunging into and pulling out of her chest. The night air was too thick, too heavy. She thought she might drown in it. Her legs wobbled beneath her like rubber, heavy with fatigue. Sweat streamed from her pores. It felt like her skin was ready to peel away, leaving her red and raw and bloody.

Blood. So much blood. On her hands. In her hair. On her face. She was painted with it. When she found someoneif she found someonethey would see the blood, too. They would see the whites of her eyes and the red of the blood that streaked down her cheeks and across her jaw. They would see the blood that stained her hands like red lace gloves. They would be horrified without even knowing the true horror of what had happened.

She replayed it over and over in her minds eye, the images flashing like a strobe light, like random scenes from a movie. The flash of the knife. The flailing arms. Blood spraying everywhere.

She could taste the blood: bitter and metallic. She could taste the salt of her sweat and her tears. The mix made a nauseating cocktail in her mouth. She choked on it as she tried to swallow. She could smell it. The stench of fear: blood and body odor, urine and feces. The memory was so strong and so real she gagged on it.

Then suddenly she was falling, sprawling headlong. The road rushed up to meet her, slammed into her, the gravel biting into the flesh of her hands and bare arms and knees and the side of her face. The impact rattled her brain and knocked the wind from her. She tried to gasp for air, frantic, thinking she might die.

Maybe it was better if she died. Maybe she should just lie down and quit. Everyone in her life would probably be happier, relieved, unburdened.

The night waited, ever-patient, oblivious to her pain, not caring if she lived or died. Things died in the swamp all the time. Death was just a part of life here.

As the roar of her pulse in her ears subsided to a dull throb, the sounds of the bayou came through: crickets and frogs, the groan of an alligator somewhere nearby, the splash of something hitting the water, the distant rumble of thunder as a storm rolled up from the Gulf. Something moved suddenly in the brush at the side of the road. A bird flew up, its wings thumping against the thick, still air.

Startled, gasping, she scraped and scrambled, swimming on the rock, struggling to get her feet under her and to get herself upright.

Headlights appeared around a bend in the road. A driver in the dead of night in the middle of nowherewould this be help or harm? She knew all about the kind of men who prowled the darkness and preyed on women. A part of her wanted to crouch in the brush and hide. A part of her knew she couldnt.

She stood in the middle of the road and waved her arms above her head.

Help me! Stop! Help me. Please! In her mind she was shouting, but she could barely hear the words. They seemed nothing more than a rasp in her throat.

The car drew closer. The headlights blinded her.

The driver had to see her now.

Help me!

The vehicle slowed to a crawl.

Help! She flung herself at the drivers side of the hood as if she could physically force the car to stop. Please, help me!

She slapped the hood with one hand and the windshield with the other, smearing the glass with blood. For just a second her eyes locked on the terrified face of the driver, a woman, and then the engine roared. The tires chewed at the gravel. The car leapt forward, and she fell to the side, trying to grab hold of a door handle. Her head cracked hard against the window.