April Henry: The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

I’m going to die and I don’t know why.

I don’t even know who I am.

I wonder if he’ll bother to bury me. Or maybe he’ll just leave my body for whatever lives in these woods.

No! The thought is so fierce I have to clamp my lips together to keep from shouting it. I can’t wait for him to choose what happens to me. I can’t just wait for him to kill me.

He’s dragging me past a small tree. I stick out one leg and hook my foot around the trunk. We jerk to a stop.

“Come on now.” He sighs. “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

He lifts me to reposition his grip. I manage to get my feet under me. He’s so close his breath stirs the hair on the nape of my neck.

I don’t know what I’m going to do until suddenly I’m doing it. My right elbow drives back like a piston, landing square in his belly. He grunts in an explosion of air and starts to fold up. The bottom of my right fist is already swinging down to hammer his groin. And then I swing my hand up, twisting it until the back of my fist hits him square in the face. Hard. And made even harder by the rock I hold in my hand. Under my knuckles, I feel the bridge of his nose crack.

I spin around to face him. His eyes are half closed in pain. Blood runs from his nose, red as paint. His right hand reaches out to grab me. My left hand rises, bent at the wrist like the neck of a crane, and knocks his hand away. Then my hand snaps back and claws down, fingers spread, my remaining fingernails digging into his cheeks, leaving furrows that immediately fill with blood. He cries out and puts his hands to his face.

Leaving his throat unprotected. I draw back my hand, my fingers close together and bent at the second knuckle. And I drive them into his throat as hard as I can.

And then he’s lying flat on his back, not moving.

I’m not sure he’s even breathing.

All my moves were automatic. I didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to remember anything.

Whoever I am, I already know how to do this.

The guy who was going to kill me is lying on the ground, silent and still.

Now what do I do?

My first instinct is to run.

But I’m pretty sure he has a gun. What if he wakes up? He could shoot me before I even make it back to the cabin.

I nudge his shoulder with my foot, ready to jump back if he moves. But he doesn’t. He’s a white guy, maybe thirty or a little older, slender and on the short side, with thick black hair cut very short. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black soft-shell jacket with a hood. His eyes are half open, his mouth slack.

Is he dead?

I kick him in the side about the same way he kicked me. Without a lot of conviction.

He still doesn’t move. But he’s definitely breathing.

Although it’s not exactly breathing. It’s more like gasping. Ragged and uneven.

But at least he’s not dead.

I lean over him, my heart racing. I can feel every beat in my ears, in the hollow of my throat, in my mangled fingertips. I’m so afraid he’s going to sit up and grab me.

I have to find his gun. But what if I’m wrong about what he was going to do? What if he doesn’t even have a gun? Because I think I’ve really hurt him. Maybe I didn’t understand what I heard. Maybe I didn’t understand what I saw. Maybe there is a different explanation for what was happening, and it doesn’t involve him killing me.

Maybe.

I drop the rock and pull up his jacket, cringing, still worried that he might twist around and grab me. And there it is, in a leather holster threaded through his belt. The gun seems to be made of black plastic, but it looks nothing like a toy.

I don’t want to take it. But I know I have to. So that I can shoot him if I need to. I remind myself that this is certainly what he was going to do to me.

But what if I miss? Is it loaded? Does it have a safety? With shaking hands, I slide it out. The whole time I half expect his hand to close over my wrist, but he doesn’t stir.

It’s a lot heavier than I expected. It weighs at least a couple of pounds. I check the sides and the top, but I don’t see anything that looks like a safety. I don’t really have a pocket that I can put it in. Even though it can’t be much above freezing, I’m not wearing a coat, just Nikes and jeans and a chunky red sweater with no pockets. I stick the gun down the back of my waistband and hope I don’t end up shooting myself in the butt.

I have to figure out some way to slow him down once he regains consciousness. Because despite how his breathing sounds, sooner or later he will, right? Maybe I can tie him up with his belt. With shaking fingers, I unbuckle his brown belt and start to tug it free. Even as his body rocks back and forth, he stays completely limp. I’m torn between fear that he’ll move and fear that he’ll stop breathing altogether. Finally, the belt slides free from the last loop. His gun holster falls to the ground.

Nothing changes. His body is still slack. His breathing still hitches. His eyes are still half open. It’s only now that I notice where his head landed when he fell. Right on a rock. It’s not much bigger than the one I was holding, but it’s smeared with blood.

Bitter acid fills my mouth. Did I break his skull? Is he going to die? Did I kill him?

But I had to do what I did. I had to.

And if he comes to, I have to make sure he can’t kill me. Grunting, I push him onto one side. It takes all my strength. This must be what they mean when they talk about dead weight. In his back pocket, there’s the square outline of his wallet. I pull it out and put it in my own back pocket. Then I make a loop out of the belt. One of his hands is pinned under his body and I tug it free. His breathing pauses, but he never stiffens, never even moans. I slide the loop around his wrists, tighten it, and then wind the belt to make a sort of knot. But I don’t think it will hold very long if he tries to get loose.

I push him onto his back, onto his bound hands, and hope it will at least slow him down a little. I feel something in one of his front pockets, a rectangular shape that has to be a cell phone.

Gingerly, I fish out the phone, and then a set of keys. On the ring is a flat black plastic triangle with two buttons. A fob, the kind that opens a car. I know that much. What I don’t is if I know how to drive a car. Or if there is even a car back at the cabin for me to drive.

I have a feeling I’m going to figure things out in a couple of minutes.

I sure hope the answer to both questions is yes.

I run back to the cabin, following the path and the two faint ruts my heels left. I’m holding the gun. I just hope I can pull the trigger if I have to.

The cabin door is still ajar. I don’t hear or see anyone. I step across the sill. It’s as cold inside as it is out.

When I take two more steps inside, I see a face. Staring back at me.

I jerk to a stop, my heart leaping in my chest.

It’s a girl. Her mouth opens as if to sound the alarm that I am free. That I am alive. When I am supposed to be neither of these things. I scream and raise the gun, holding it with both hands.

The girl facing me does the same.

It’s a mirror, of course. A mirror with coat hooks hanging above it. One of them holds a coat that covers most of the frame. I kick through the mess on the floor, push the coat aside, and stare at myself. At me. At who I must be.

Only it’s a face I don’t recognize.

Snarled blond hair that falls to the shoulders. To my shoulders. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen? Wide blue eyes. Straight nose with a bit of a bump at the bridge. Lips that look swollen. Skin so pale that the freckles on my cheeks stand out like flecks spattered from a paintbrush. Am I always this pale, or is it from shock and blood loss? What I think is the beginning of a bruise shadows my jaw. My heart pounds in my throat and bloody fingertips. I want to throw up.