Instinct - GBE2 prompt

The headlight, coldly brilliant, fell on her back. She knew it an illusion but heat flared there, made her back crawl, trying to shy away from her body. She gasped, bare foot catching on thorny tendrils, but didn't hesitate. Running was all that remained.

Three years he'd kept her locked in the shed. Snatched her from a suburban street, in broad daylight, people walking by with no idea. How many times she'd berated herself for leaning in when he'd opened the van door, offered a map for her to point directions on, 'Get in, sit a second, look at this'. Where had her instincts been then? Submerged under a thick veneer of civilisation. Nothing can happen to me in a street full of people. Look at his open smile, his clean clothes, shiny shoes and well kept van. No danger there.

She'd been too shocked to react fast enough when the prickle of cold steel had poked between her ribs. Too stunned to move, focussed on the thin trickle, tickle, of blood soaking into her pale pink blouse. Hadn't even flinched when he'd leaned across her, quietly closed the door and fastened her seatbelt. That single action had dulled her more. He cared about her, didn't want her to come to harm, whilst twisting the knife in her ribs. Just a little, renewing the flow, reminding her, silently, to behave, be still, be civilised about it.

Three years since he'd locked her in the shed. Three years in constant darkness. The concrete walls allowed no chink of light. The wooden roof had been sealed, literally pitch black. Every night the door would snap open, admitting him, but no light. Everything he did to her, every filthy, degrading action was committed in complete darkness. For that she had become unutterably grateful. Even now, running through the woods, she couldn't look down. She had no urge to look at her body, barely covered in the tattered remains of a pink blouse, encrusted with three years of dirt, blood and worse.

Truthfully, though she was loathe to admit it, she was struggling to see. Even starlight was harsh, her ability to process it severely impeded. Her eyeballs were already aching and it had been no more than half an hour since she'd broken free of the shed, run for her life, blindly, eyes slitted against the sudden onslaught of light in the scrapyard.

Swerving between trunks, ignoring the constant scratch and tear of woodland against skin, she ran on. At moments the bike, he, seemed close, almost on her, at others it faded back. She had a single advantage, her ability to negotiate the territory, but she would lose it the second he decided to abandon the trail bike, come after her on foot. She had to get away, as far away as her emaciated frame and wasted muscles would carry her. Find a bolt hole maybe, double back, steal his car.

She ran on, unconscious of the smile at her lips, considering her escape. Three years had been ample time to hone her instincts. She'd come to know, as soon as he walked through the door, how bad it would be. Some survival instinct had helped her mould herself to his actions, keeping him calm, satisfied. When her brain screamed in horror, disbelief at her compliance, she had shut down, knowing it was her only hope. If he grew bored with her, he'd kill her. Of that she'd had no doubt.

Deprived of light, she'd sharpened her hearing, her sense of touch. They were useful now. Deep into the woods it was dark, another advantage for her. She could no longer hear the bike, had to assume he was on foot, shotgun death creeping closer. She dodged a massive oak, felt the absence in the air to her right and hurled herself down and forward, curling into a ball. Her instinct proved right, her body hitting a long slope which dropped sharply into a narrow ravine. She grabbed for a shrub, stopped her forward motion, her heart pounding hard against the possibility that falling into the river below would have given him her location. She lay still for a few moments, exhausted body pathetically grateful for the rest.

She replayed the scene, using it to keep herself awake. As soon as he'd entered the shed she'd known he was in a bad mood. Something in the air sparked her caution. She hadn't needed the rough grab at her arm, the painful yank toward the wall and the chains there. Her arm had brushed against his right hand, felt metal, cold, cruel, hooked. It was all it took. The one tool too far. She'd shut out the sensible girl in her head and gone feral. Biting, kicking, grabbing. Her sudden change had slowed him just enough. She'd grabbed the hook, swung it, heard the meaty smack as it plunged into his thigh and then run.

She got up now, urged on by the word 'run', some deeper sense telling her he was closing in. As she started along the river's edge she heard him, far above, incoherent with rage, roaring insults and promises. The river wasn't a good place to be, too loud. She knew she needed to hear him, give her some idea of where he was, how close. Suppressing a gasp at the icy touch, she waded across the river, barely waist high, and started to climb the other side.

An hour later she knew she couldn't run any more. The ravine lay behind them. She'd struggled up a steep slope, come out on a long, narrow plateau and halted. She could hear him crashing about, no more than a few feet to her left. Backing up, desperate to prevent him finding her, she almost toppled, her feet half into empty air, body rocking. He emerged onto the plateau. Two things blazed in her mind.

Somewhere along the way he'd lost the shotgun, and she had the means to defeat him.

Bellowing, he didn't falter. He ran at her, an attempt to tackle her, bring her down. Her body tensed, her mind stilled and she watched him. So many times he'd come at her, so many times that it was imprinted in her memory, in her muscles. She knew how to react. He was coming with that slight limp in his left leg, barely noticeable... unless you'd sensed it tear at you for three years. He always went right, to his stronger side. As he closed, arms out, hands convulsively clutching, she faked right, saw him grin, felt the tips of his fingers whisper over her skin and then threw herself left.

In her mind, it happened in slow motion. She saw his eyes widen, his mouth move from stretched banana grin to perfect sphere O. She heard the long whistle of breath escaping, watched his arms pinwheeling in an attempt to slow his motion. She gazed fixedly at his feet as the toes tried to dig through his trainers, bury themselves in the ground, which crumbled slowly, inexorably. In the final seconds, time returned. He screamed his disbelief into the green silence, snatched a final time at an overhanging branch and slid over the edge.

For five hours she stood, perfectly still, listening. Every rustle of timorous beasts and twitter of night flyers brought her sharply to life, every sense ready to aid her. She expected him to reappear, shovel-nailed hands gripping the crumbled edge of the cliff, murder in his eyes. She couldn't move, couldn't leave the spot until she knew for sure. She had no strength left to run, to fight him. He had to be injured beyond ability to follow or, and her heart sang in vengeful joy at the thought, dead a hundred feet below.

Her only concession had been to turn, infinitely slowly, to face over the drop. She wanted to see him coming, if he did. Now, the sun rising slowly at her back, the scene below was gradually revealed. A long broken trail of scrub and tree led down the cliff. She exulted at the two large, sharp rocks which stuck up in the centre of the drop. Finally it was light enough for her to squint to the bottom.

He lay, strangely elegant, hands neatly at his sides, head turned to look at the small stream flowing by. A crow perched on his thigh. He made no move to shoo it, but she wasn't going to be fooled. Yes, the other leg had a broken, battered look, unnaturally bent at knee and ankle, but that was no reassurance. His other leg looked fine. Even as she pondered there was the faintest flutter in his chest, a minute flicker of his eyelids. He was alive, her gut told her so.

He sat up, so fast she almost stepped away, almost dropped the object in her hand. He was on his feet in seconds, dragging his shattered leg with a speed which showed no regard for, no recognition of pain. She almost let disbelief take her, watching him begin to clamber up the slope. Instinct, finally on her side, kicked in and she let him come. She allowed his screamed threats to flow over her, keeping her mind still, her body ready.

He actually smiled, convinced she was too terrified, too worn down to move. She let him get closer, trusting to instinct to tell her when the moment was right. She spoke no word, only looked into his eyes and let fly the branch she'd honed to a point during her long wait, hacking with a sharp stone until the point was piercing. She saw it fly, saw his final moment of complete incomprehension, and watched calmly as it hit him high, probably entering through his right eye. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as he sailed out, back, over, down.

She turned, walking into the unbearable sunlight, only quickening her pace when a dull, heavy, broken thud drifted up from below.

Back to normal *wink* 

Bright Blessings

Mojo