Kristen Simmons - Article 5

“I’m sorry,” I managed weakly.

“Wait. I didn’t…” Kneeling, he reached to grasp my shoulders but drew back at the last second, not trusting himself to touch me. I put one hand over my mouth, hugging my elbow with the other. My eyes squeezed shut.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice was strained.

I said nothing, only shook my head quickly. I wouldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t stand to see the soldier when I’d allowed myself to lay with someone else.

“I’m so sorry. I… I didn’t know. It was a dream.” The words rushed out, and I could hear in them the precarious balance between fear and self-loathing.

His hands were so close to my body I could feel the heat from them. Very slowly, his fingertips skimmed over my damp cheek. Reflexively, I shrunk from his touch, however gentle it may have been.

He shuddered. Then, without another word, he shoved on his boots, grabbed his jacket, and went outside.

I SPENTthe hours staring into the darkness, confused, at times afraid, while Chase paced outside the tent. I thought of running again, but I knew I would certainly end up lost in the forest in the middle of the night.

After a while, I became aware of the quiet that had replaced his footsteps. The sudden fear struck me that he had left. I couldn’t let that happen. Despite how much I didn’t care to admit it, I was now relying on him to help me find my mother. I needed him.

I clambered out of the sleeping bag and crawled to the exit. My frozen fingers fumbled with the zipper before I pulled away the nylon barrier.

The darkness had lifted some, but it wasn’t yet dawn. Chase was sitting against a tree, ten feet away, keeping watch. I sat back onto my heels, relieved that he was still there.

The temperature had plummeted; the pine needles on the ground were glimmering with iced dew. By the time I made it outside he was standing. Like an old man, he stretched his back, stiff and half frozen. A rush of irritation inflamed me. Why had he not just come back into the tent? I would have given him space. Our discomfort with one another was a lot better than him dying of hypothermia.

But as I got closer, my irritation warped into concern. Bright red patches of skin lit his cheeks, and his lips were chapped and nearly blue. Though he wore a coat, it had done little to shield him from the elements, and it crinkled loudly with each violent shiver. His breath did not fog in front of his face as mine did. There was no warmth left within him.

I ran back to the tent and returned with the sleeping bag. He didn’t object when I threw it over his shoulders, but when he tried to grasp the material, it slipped from his numb fingers. That was when I saw that the knuckles of his right hand were swollen and bruised. A line of blood stained his fingers down around to his palm.

“Your hand!” I exclaimed.

He stared at the ground, intentionally avoiding my scolding glare, like a child who’d been caught stealing.

“I’m f-f-fine. You can g-get some more sleep.” Even his throat sounded as if it were glazed with ice.

I crossed my arms over my chest and raised my brows expectantly.

He stretched the fingers with a wince.

“I got in a fight,” he said with a small smile. “With a tree,” he added when he saw my distress.

My eyes widened. “I guess you lost.”

“You sh-should have seen the tree.”

I laughed in spite of myself, now feeling the cold penetrate my clothing. How had he managed out here without moving?

He began stomping his feet as his blood warmed. This was mildly reassuring.

“I’m s-sorry, Ember.”

I was taken aback by his use of my name. He’d said it when giving me orders, or in anger, even in surprise, since he’d come back. But the broken way he spoke it now made my chest hurt.

“And I’m sorry about yesterday, w-what I said. I didn’t-t mean it. And everything else, too. Reform school… and everything. I never thought… God, look at your hands. And I know worse stuff has happened to you. I can see it. I wish… I’m so sorry.” He kicked the ground, then winced as though he’d broken a toe.

I’d known he had noticed the scars from Brock’s whip, and my unease around his gun, but I was surprised at how they plagued him. He hadn’t mentioned anything earlier.

Unable to stand it any longer, I moved closer, not retreating when he backed away. I rubbed his arms, carefully avoiding his wound. I wasn’t sure what to say. His apology had caught me completely off guard, and I didn’t know if I could trust it.

“Don’t.” His tone lacked conviction. “You shouldn’t…”

“Touch you? Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone,” I said, stung.

“I’m not who I was,” he said. “Don’t be nice to me.”

I wondered what he’d done that had been so terrible that he wouldn’t accept even an ounce of kindness from another person. It seemed impossible just then that I could ever hate him more than he hated himself.

Very gently, as though I were made of glass, he pushed me away. I knew he was scared to hurt me again, but all the same, I felt the bite of rejection.

“I would have let you come back inside,” I said.

“I know.”

I looked up at him. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“So why…”

“I promised I’d never hurt you.”

I felt my neck. There were no reminders of his grip; he’d detached his hand too quickly. I’d been scared but not hurt.

As if his guilt and embarrassment hadn’t been enough, he’d sought punishment by the elements and his own strength, accepting pain with the twisted logic that he deserved it—something I knew he’d picked up in the MM. I found myself wishing I could muster the anger to berate him for it, but found none. What I did feel—sympathy—I could not share, because I knew he would only use it to fuel his shame. So when I felt the renewed desire to wrap my arms around him, I held back. I settled for standing close while he slowly defrosted, hoping he knew by my presence that his penitence was over.

THEday warmed, though not much. The freezing temperatures made our path slippery and the fog obscured our way; it mandated we travel at maybe half of the previous day’s pace. Each step took double the concentration and effort.

Two days passed, and in them we ate, slept, and talked little. Time was dwindling down. By the time the sun rose on Monday, a strained urgency had taken us. We had less than a day to find the checkpoint.

That wasn’t our only problem. We’d rationed what we had, but still run out of food in the early morning and hadn’t come across a stream to refill the canteens since the previous day. My stomach felt empty.

As we got closer to civilization, the trash littering the ground returned with increasing volume. Chase kicked through the scraps, cans, and faded Horizons-brand refuse for supplies we might use. The prospect of eating garbage didn’t seem as revolting as it had in the past.

It was late in the afternoon before we heard it: tires on asphalt. A single car had driven by, somewhere near.

“Did we pass the state line?” I asked, pushing by him in an effort to see evidence of our progress. As much as I hated to reenter the roaming spotlight of the military, I knew we had no choice.

The woods gave way to a thicket of gray-green brush, which crept wildly onto an empty dirt road. Beyond it stretched an open field, surrounded by barbed wire and edged by trees. A cockeyed red mailbox announced a twisting dirt road a half mile down the way. The car, wherever it had come from, was gone.

Chase hauled me back into the bushes and went out to scout the way. From my hiding place I saw him retrieve the map from his pack and look up the road. Then down. Then up at the sky.