Veracity (The Seven Cities Book 1) (2 page)

He disappears into the woods, hesitating several times before shaking his head and continuing on, his hands balled into fists. My lips burn from his soft kiss, and my eyes haunt his steps long after he becomes a speck in the distance.

Even now there is no panic, no feeling of urgency. My body grows still in the quiet of his absence, with no real desire to move again. How long could I sit here, my eyes glued to the trees in the distance? Would I devolve into the forest around me? Would my legs merge with the rotting wood? If I stayed here forever, would anyone miss me? Would anyone know?

Something tickles the back of my hand, and my sluggish attention finally drifts away from the empty path. With mild interest I watch a black spider scuttle across my skin, moving over my fingers before plunging into a hole in the log.

Brushing the back of my hand against my jeans, I stand up, inspired by the spider's haste.

Kneeling down in the soft grass, I unzip the suitcase and empty it onto the ground. Laying each item out, I create a mental catalog: clothing, toiletries, and the roll of green money. I also find water, re-sealable plastic bags, a small knife, and a box of matches. He has also left me our tent, folded neatly into a bag I can sling over my shoulder. Taking two of the re-sealable bags, I fill them with the tart blackberries and carefully place them in the suitcase.

After stowing away the rest of my gear, I march up the hill toward the house, weaving in and out of vines along the way. Without a clear path, my trek through the twisted garden is excruciatingly slow. Slipping and sliding on the mushy balls of moldy fruit, I gag on the overpowering smell of sweet decay. The rotten fruit clings to my shoes, making each step a little more perilous than the last. Fighting back a fierce wave of nausea, I bury my nose in my shirt and continue on to the ramshackle house.

Pausing at the edge of the organic minefield, I am struck by an intense feeling of loneliness. It is as if the dilapidated house itself is leeching the emotion into the atmosphere. It stands alone on this hill, quietly deteriorating without as much as a witness. It speaks to me of great sadness; the sagging porch and roof a mournful face, begging for understanding. See me, it says.
Know me for what I was. There is more to me than this
. The broken windows are pleading eyes, staring back at me with their sharp, jagged glass.
Show me I've not been forgotten . . .

Beckoned by its mournful call, I climb up to the warped and corroded porch, the steps groaning loudly with protest under my weight. Creaking as I push it open, the door echoes its cry through the vacant hallway beyond. Soft light filters through the holes in the roof, illuminating the small room. The far end has caved in, only leaving access to two bedrooms and a small bathroom.

The first bedroom is empty except for an ancient bed frame and a large pile of animal waste. Sidestepping the mess, I cross the room, glass crunching under my shoes as I walk. Pausing at the shattered window, I look out across the clearing. This small oasis in the woods is the only part of the world I can remember. This is the only sense of myself that I have. This is my garden of rotten fruit, my haven of ruin, and my sanctuary from the mysteries of the outside world. Past those trees, and beyond the campsite, lies a world far more complicated than I am ready for. 

Laying my hand on the iron bed frame, I close my eyes as the metal's chill seeps into my skin. Who slept in this bed, I wonder, and where they are now?  The image of a young couple flashes in my mind, laughing and kissing as they share secrets and plan for their future. The scene morphs into a mother holding her baby against her, kissing his soft forehead as he sleeps. My hand drops and I move away from the bed, suddenly afraid of what memories it would share if it could.

A rotting mattress dominates the second bedroom, though it's much too big to belong to the iron bed. Bits and pieces of its cotton-like filler are strewn across the floor, and I wrinkle my nose against the musty smell. With a squeak of terror, a mouse runs across my shoe. It buries itself deep in the mattress as an angry screech rattles through the room. A fierce looking bird is perched in the gutted window, tilting its head to the side and eyeing me warily. He makes no move to leave, but snaps his beak and ruffles his feathers in a show of agitation. This is his home and I am invading it, costing him his dinner in the process.

Not wanting to be a substitute for the mouse, I back out of the room slowly, never taking my eyes off the hefty bird. The moment I am out of the room there is a great ruckus of squawks and squeals. I guess I didn't cost him his dinner after all.

Walking into the bathroom, the broken mirror above the sink immediately catches, and then repulses, my eye. Although curious, I am hesitant to look into the glass. The young man had told me I was beautiful, but what if I wasn't? Would that really matter? Should it matter? Would seeing my appearance change what little concept I have of myself? I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and side step in front of the shattered glass.

Oh . . .

My apparent vanity is relieved that I'm not unattractive, but I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm beautiful. Staring at me through the glass is a round face with arched eyebrows, a small upturned nose, and a plain mouth with a pronounced cupid's bow. Brown, almond shaped eyes with short but dark lashes meet my gaze, revealing a mostly unremarkable face. Taking in consideration that I can't recall any other female face at the moment, I decide I am on the pretty side of average. I eye the stranger in the mirror, finding it difficult to truly connect with the image in front of me. Waving my hand, I watch as my reflection does the same. It's disconcerting to feel so divided from my own appearance.

Disappointed in my discoveries, or lack thereof, I abandon my exploration of the house. Let the birds and mice keep it; this isn't a place for humans anymore. Shielding my eyes as I walk outside, I grab my things and walk toward the dirt path across the clearing. As I reach the tree line, I turn back, taking one last look around. From this point on, nothing will be familiar.

Feeling a slight tingle of nervousness in the pit of my stomach, I am suddenly thankful for the calming effect of the drug. Without it, I would be hysterical right now. Picturing the young man as he paced the clearing, I am struck with a longing I can't explain or even name. I don't know him in any sense, but I miss him. It could be some deep seeded memory of love, or it could just be the fact that no one would want to take this journey alone.

A journey
. That sounds so majestic. It might be too strong a word for wandering down a dirt path until I find somewhere to be, but I like it.

One foot in front of the other, a tent slung over my back and a suitcase in hand, I start to walk. The dirt path soon widens into a gravel road that grows into a larger highway. The pavement feels solid beneath my feet and I like having a more substantial path in front of me. Head north. For this moment in time, that is my sole responsibility in life. There is nothing else. Not the mysterious young man, and certainly not the brunette in the mirror. This is who I am. I am this stretch of road heading for a future I can't imagine. Katherine is heading north.

It's amazing how something as simple as a road can inspire so many questions. The concept of a road is familiar, but something about this one is just a little . . . off. Maybe it's the perforated yellow lines running down the middle, or the sheer size of it that puts me on edge, but something about it isn't right. I bend down and touch the rough surface, begging it to trigger something in me. I close my eyes and a strip of bright white flashes through my mind, the briefest glimpse of a long, white road stretching off in the distance.

Was that a memory?

I try to explore the idea, but the headache begins to build, and I cowardly back down, unwilling to challenge the raging bull guarding my thoughts. If I still had memories tucked behind the pain, they remained safely hidden, waiting for the moment I was strong enough to rescue them. 

The road is nice, all things considered, with deep ditches filled with tall grass and sunset colored flowers. Beyond the ditches are pasturelands and tall pines encased in barbed-wire fences.

The pavement itself is in decent condition, with only a handful of places showing erosion and disrepair. Over the course of the day, I have to skirt around several large holes filled with murky water. I lean over each one, trying to catch my reflection in its surface, but I am only ever able to see bits and pieces, an eye here or a nose there. In a way, it is more fitting to see myself like this.

In the afternoon, the heat becomes intolerable. As the humidity rises, my hair sticks to my forehead and the back of my neck in damp curls. My clothes cling to my body uncomfortably, and I am dripping with sweat. I drain one of the bottles of water and tuck it back into the suitcase, which is getting heavier with every step.

The sun finally starts to dip behind the tree line, bringing instant relief from the hot day, but also mosquitos the size of my thumbnail. They fly in great swarms, filling the dusky sky before turning their attention to me. I tuck my hair into the collar of my shirt, trying to spare the tender flesh of my neck and shoulders from their assault. They bite every inch of exposed skin, even finding the space between my blue jeans and socks.

A burned out shell of a building is growing on the horizon and I sigh in relief at the sight. To my great disappointment, the building is too damaged to explore, but the paved area around it is clean and will make a solid foundation for my tent. Despite his warning not to fear the road, I set up the tent behind what's left of the building. Picking a corner of the lot where it butts against a patch of trees, I pitch the tent, hoping I am well hidden from the highway.

It takes me a good while to figure out how to set it up, and I am exhausted by the time I crawl inside. Curling up in a ball on the floor, I try to distract myself with thoughts of the young man. I picture the sadness of his eyes as he left, and I imagine myself taking his hand. He may be the only person I can remember, but I still feel silly for thinking about him after all he has done. I drift off to sleep reassuring myself I am better without him, the man who took everything and left nothing in return.

The dream comes as he said it would. At first it is just brief flashes of jumbled imagery and emotions bouncing around incoherently, but then there is the vivid sensation of running; the feeling of crashing through the trees as fast as I can, arms pumping at my sides. My chest heaves with effort as I jump over logs and duck under low hanging trees.

The image of the young man flashes next, his endearing half-grin plastered across his face. The image dims and brightens, as if caught in a roaming light in the darkness. His laughter rings out into the night, cool and crisp against a backdrop of angry shouts and baying hounds.

I feel his arms slip around me, the frantic beat of his heart banging against my own chest. He is no longer laughing, but frightened, pulling me as close to him as possible. We are being hunted, the smell of honeysuckle and pine thick in the air. The sound of approaching boots rise up impossibly loud, sending waves of panic through me. The sound grows closer, and louder, until it is right on top of us and so piercing, it no longer resembles the sound of boots but rather an angry demon screaming from somewhere deep and dark.

The screeching cuts off sharply, the absence more frightening, more surreal. The young man's face is close to mine, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers to me.

"I will always keep you safe Katherine. Always."

My eyes fly open. Where am I? Why is it so dark? What's going on . . . and what just touched my leg? Freezing in place as fear rolls up and down my spine, I listen for any sign of the intruder. A scaly body moves against my thigh and pure, raw panic sets in.

I scream as I fly out the tent, knocking the entire thing down in the process. Grabbing my suitcase, I slam it over and over onto the tent, still screaming at the top of my lungs. It's at that moment, wild eyed and hyperventilating, that I realize that the calming effect of the pill might have worn off.

Falling to the ground, I tuck my head firmly between my knees and take several therapeutic breaths. Letting the cool air move in and out of my constricted lungs, I imagine that I'm releasing my fear and regaining control with each exhale. My hands shake as the adrenaline courses through my veins. I almost welcome the rush, even though the panic makes my heart want to explode. My body is drowning in the fear and I ride the wave as it ties my insides into knots.

Slowly, I bring myself back under control. My pulse slows to a normal pace, and my breathing regulates as the last traces of terror leave me.

Just to be sure that the snake is good and dead, I cautiously walk to the tent, pulling back the mangled flap to reveal the body underneath. I poke it a few times with a deformed tent pole, and when it doesn't move, I pick the snake up by the tail and throw it into the woods.

The battered snake left an abhorrent mess in the broken tent, so I abandon it, mentally kicking myself for destroying my only shelter. Back on the road, my newfound sense of worry and panic fuel my progress and by the time the sun begins its ascent, filling the world with optimistic pinks and yellows, I am far from the campsite. I stop then, sitting on an old stump to dig through my bag to see what damage I may have caused. Suitcases are, after all, not designed for use as a weapon. I am relieved to see that although thoroughly smashed, the berries remain in their bags. My toiletries are similarly locked safely away, however, the bag is now full of what smells like shampoo. Relieved my attack didn't cause more damage, I repack my things and start doing what I do best. Walking.