Page 110 of Existential
FORTY-FOUR
Dagne
Every shiver that rips through my body imbeds the splinters a little further. The more I try not to shake, the harder the convulsions are when they finally break free. The official start of fall isn’t that far away, so even though the days are still relatively warm, the nights are cold.
Even more so when your clothes are two feet from your body.
I want to believe that by some miracle I’ll be okay. That in ten, twenty, however many years, I’ll look back on this as some sad anecdote of my life. But the thin thread of hope I held onto frayed and floated away on the dying breeze a long time ago.
I don’t know how long it’s been. Hours, I’m guessing. But how many more until I can’t take the exposure any longer? I wish I’d paid more attention in science class. The body can last weeks without food, but I know without water or adequate cover the time is drastically reduced.
Surely the farmer would come by daily? Right? But what if that’s not soon enough?
I shudder against the pole again, trying my best to ignore the tickle on my shoulder that indicates something pretty damn big crawls over my skin. Ugh. How ridiculous is it? I’m tied up, abused, and I’m still repulsed by a bug.
I laugh at the ludicrousness of it all, my mad chuckle drifting far on the still night air.
Closing my eyes and praying for sleep to ease my pain, I frown when something answers my earlier laugh. Maybe? I snap my eyes open again, straining them in the dark to pick up a trace of something, anything.
What if it’s Digits returned? A new kind of shudder rips through my body.
There. Again, I catch the faint drift of a voice, possibly movement. My hair falls into my face as I twist my head around the pole to look in the opposite direction. I’ve about given up hope, written myself off as delirious, when the definite flash of orange peeks through the corn.
Footfalls. Conversation.
There’s people.
“Over here,” I try to yell, but all that emerges from my dry throat is a scratchy bark.
The footfalls quicken, the voices louder.
I do my best to call out again, but nothing comes. Instead, the words lodge in my arid throat, sending me into a fit of coughing.
One person breaks through the corn, then two, and then several more before the second ushers them back for privacy. The torchlight slashes over my naked and bruised body, the words uttered ones I recognize well.
“I’m sorry, Dee.”
His hands are on my face while somebody else cuts the ropes in rough sawing motions, yet none of it seems real.
I’ve passed out. Gone under and started to dream. How could they have found me?
“Stay with me, baby. Focus on what hurts.”
Why? I want to forget the pain. Giving in is so sweet, so soft, so easy.
My bounds severed, my body is lifted from the crouched position around the pole. The splinters in my skin, most likely red and swollen already, sting and burn as my flesh makes contact with another.
“No,” I cry, trying to get the pressure off.
Hooch sets me down, and I open my eyes to him, fully alert thanks to the pain.
“Focus on the pain.” This is why: it brings me back to him.
“Splinters,” I manage to squeak out through hoarse tones.
The flashlight returns, held by another with heavy riding boots and dark denim legs. Hooch gently lifts each arm, plucking what he can with his thick fingers. I wince and hiss, trying to lessen the ache by reminding myself it has to hurt to get better.
If only that was what hurt the most.