DISCLAIMER HERE IT COMES OH SHI- I own nothing. Neither do you.
Jenova 7 – Dark Water Jazz
The woods are lonely, dark and deep. Charlotte learned this the hard way. For the first two days she berated herself nonstop for being so stupid and irresponsible as to venture off the path. The third day it rained and she found a dry spot in the cleft of an old tree where she sat and felt sorry for herself and cried. When the rain stopped and she couldn't cry anymore, she found a few edible mushrooms and berries to hold her through the night. On the fourth day she finished off what was left in her water bottle.
It started out as a simple hike, but the woods can play tricks on you and when they do you won't know it until it's too late.
On the fourth night Charlotte stumbled upon a decrepit barn that looked like it was being absorbed by the forest. It was surrounded by the stench of rot and rain but Charlotte couldn't care less. She found a patch of old hay to sleep on, deciding that if she just kept heading north she would find a town, any town soon enough. All she needed to do was stay in one direction. She was about to go to sleep when she heard howling outside, terrifying her into alertness. She scrambled around the barn for a weapon, which she found in the form of a rusty hammer. Then she stood perfectly still and listened to the noises outside. They were getting closer.
There was barking and snarling and slow, padded steps. Something had smelled her. She would have barricaded the door if it had been in any shape to still be called a door. And then she saw it.
A wolf with shiny silver fur and black eyes came prowling into view. It's teeth were barred in hunger, anticipation for the hunt was writ in its step. Charlotte had never felt fear like this before in her life. Slowly, she raised the hammer above her head, ready to strike at a moment's notice, hoping that she had enough strength left in her not to die in the jaws of an animal. She barred her teeth in a snarl, trying to look as threatening as possible, wrapping and rewrapping her fingers around the hammer. The wolf laid its eyes on her as saliva dribbled messily down its chops.
For the first time since her early childhood, Charlotte prayed.
The wolf advanced slowly at first, its shoulders level, then it charged and Charlotte brought the hammer down. It made a flat, squishy sound against its flank, like dropping a rock in mud. The animal shook off the blow and before she could aim again it yowled and bit her calf. She screamed as she felt each individual tooth pierce muscle and the blood and saliva ran together down her leg. She began swinging furiously at the wolf's skull, uncaring if she hammered its teeth into her bones, she was determined to kill this wolf.
She managed to beat it over the head enough to confuse it; it released her leg and stumbled left. Her vision clouded with tears, Charlotte raised the bloody hammer over her head a final time, ready. The wolf growled haltingly and shook its head from side to side. It opened its mouth to bite again but before it got close enough Charlotte brought the hammer down. It's skull cracked with an ugly noise and it fell before her, skidding to a halt. Charlotte began crying in earnest, dropping the hammer before falling to the floor herself, mumbling apologies to nothing in particular.
Her leg couldn't be broken, but she was in excruciating pain that she hadn't noticed until now. The khaki cargo pants she was wearing were torn to shreds and bloody, the mere sight of it made her feel nauseous. Spastic in her hysteria, she tore off the bloody pieces and a strip from the other leg to use as a bandage. Then she sat right where she was and cried, eventually dragging herself over to the bed of hay where she slept like a rock until early morning.
When she woke up, light headed from hunger, she debated picking the wolf clean, but this idea disgusted her. And upon closer inspection the wolf had very little meat on him. He was old and hungry, probably exiled by his pack. There was no food or water in the barn either, so she relied on berries and a few nuts to keep her going. She found a walking stick that she relied heavily on the entire day. By nightfall, she still had not found a road, she still had not found any water or any substantial food, and she felt hopeless.
She was exhausted in every physical form, yet she still found the frustration and anger enough to throw her walking stick to the ground and beat her fists against a tree. Her strength, both mental and physical, was completely diminished, she felt demoralized and this forest was never-ending. She forced herself not to cry again and dehydrate herself further. She also tried not to think about a tall, cool glass of water, because she was dangerously close to forgetting all dignity and drinking her own pee. She hoped with every ounce of stubbornness she had that she wouldn't have to do that.
Her mouth had never felt so dry, she couldn't even lick her lips without them cracking and bleeding. There was a layer of grime coating her aching skin and she had probably lost weight. Without a doubt, actually, because her pants were just barely hanging on her hip bones when they had fit quite snugly when she put them on. She wouldn't allow herself to think once of a shower.
Charlotte gradually began to sense that she was not alone. Her companion in the dark did not share the hunger and desperation of the wolf, it didn't make any noise at all. Every living being makes noise. Charlotte thought she knew what terror was, but she was mistaken. She had a very real fear of death when she chanced a look around.
From the stories, from the legends, from the tragedy fifty years past, Jason watched her from a very short distance away. She had never heard him coming and if he had not stopped to watch her little outburst she wouldn't have even been aware when he sliced her throat. She wouldn't even have known that she died. But she did not die; a hope which she did not bother to cling to.
Her mind was utterly silent when she took in his intimidating stance. His machete was gripped firmly in his hand, tilted to the ground, but this was not the most alarming aspect about him, surprisingly enough. His clothes were tattered and dirt encrusted, holes torn through in several places, some outlined in old, stale, black blood. Very little of his skin was exposed, only his powerful hands, one of which was clasped tightly around the handle of the abused machete, his neck corded with thick ropes of uneven muscle, and the patches of skin showing through the holes in his clothes. And the back of his misshapen skull, the front of which was sealed away behind a battered hockey mask.
The presence before her didn't have to do a single thing to better communicate that she was not welcome. It was a rather cut and dry situation to any objective observer, but she did not beat a wolf to death with a hammer only to be disemboweled by a machete-wielding killer simply for following her survival instinct. Charlotte had no idea that she was already well into Camp Blood territory, she was only trying to get to the road. And now she was going to die for it unless he moved on to other prey, though it was doubtful he would find anyone else at such a huge disadvantage. Her only morbid hope was that he would find her to be too little of a challenge and leave her to hobble through the forest in peace.
He had not moved and neither had she. He could see that she was badly hurt and of no threat to him what so ever, and the mixture of regret and fear pouring from her expressive eyes told him that she was not here on purpose. Still, her very being here was as unwelcome an invasion as any. He waited.
She leaned on the tree with her foot in the air behind her so she could raise her hands in the global gesture of surrender. "I'm so sorry," she began thickly, swallowing as much terror away as she could, what with her blood flushing her system with adrenaline at such an unhelpful rate. "I live in town and I know – I know – I shouldn't be here. I never would have come here on purpose, but I've been lost in the woods for a week and I was only trying to find the road..." She lowered one hand to wipe away a stray tear and steady herself on the tree. "I – I would never trespass if I had a choice, even if I had known where I was I would have found another way back to town. If you'll just let me pass through, just this once... please... I'm so close and I just want to go home..." The minutes tick past, spurring Charlotte's pleas with the lack of reaction. He seemed to be soaking everything up, like a sponge, listening until it's time to decide.
She released a breath with disturbing finality, as if she were accepting her death before it was even decided upon. Jason holstered his machete and she whimpered, fearing the last sound she would hear was some scream of metal before her neck snapped like a twig in a wet towel. Eternities later, when she was still very much alive she gingerly opened an eye to see that Jason wasn't threatening her with imminent death anymore. He was letting her pass, standing like a statue to let her know that.
Her jaw dropped involuntarily; when this registered in her stunned brain she quickly snapped her teeth together. Without looking away from his masked face, she groped around on the forest floor for her walking stick. As if she wasn't already flooded with uncertain terror, she couldn't draw her eyes from the masked figure of local legend and she also couldn't find her walking stick by groping blindly for it. If she had the energy to scream she would have when Jason suddenly picked up his feet and stomped towards her. She froze, numb with fear.
Jason wanted her out of his territory as fast as possible. She wasn't a threat, she wasn't here to mock him or his mother, and she wanted to leave and never come back. That sounded perfectly fine to him, perfectly agreeable terms which he would gladly accept. But she was too slow. So Jason's boots thudded over the mulchy ground and picked up the stick and held it out for her. She looked at it in numb shock, then looked at Jason, then back to the stick. He shook it a little to make it clear he was giving it to her. She grasped it like she was afraid he would pull it away and watch her fall. "T-thank you," she stuttered. Jason blinked as she adjusted her weight on the stick and hobbled past him, sparing terrified glances his way at times.
Unfortunately, she was headed in the wrong direction. Jason knew this, but Charlotte was so panic-stricken that she no longer cared which direction she went in. However this would only succeed in getting her more lost, and then she would surely die here. So Jason took her by the arm and pointed with his free hand in the right direction. Charlotte was past the point of speech, so she gaped blankly at him, doe-eyed and confused. His grip may have been a little tight, but he wasn't holding her by the throat, so everything was alright. He helped her hop through the trees down an invisible path. His steps were huge, but he kept a slow pace so Charlotte wouldn't drag behind.
She wasn't struggling to keep pace, although moving at anything more than a crawl was taking its toll on her, she wasn't making a fuss. In fact, her blood was pumping with fresh adrenaline, allowing herself to believe that she would make it out of this forest alive. She couldn't wait to see a sky that wasn't cluttered with treetops. She wanted to feel concrete and smell something artificial, anything. She wanted to hear another human voice most of all, though she seriously doubted she would get that from Jason. As soon as the name popped into her head and she became aware of exactly what was happening, she chanced a look at him. He was huge, around a foot taller than her 5'8, which was terrifying in itself. It was difficult to make him out in the dark, but she got a pretty good idea of his dimensions. One of his massive forearms would be the same width as her thigh, probably bigger because she hadn't had half a meal in a week.
All muscle, all bulk and just enough sympathy to take pity on her. She had not seen this coming.
She was led like this for the better part of an hour. When she caught sight of the road through the trees she whimpered in gratitude, almost melting in relief. She wanted to fall to the ground and kiss the cracked concrete. Unable to stop herself, she threw a look of giddy excitement to Jason with a million thank-yous on her lips before she could stop and think. She had a feeling that his actual expression would be just as impassive as the mask. As long as he wasn't feeding her false hope, although it didn't seem like he was. If he wanted to kill her Charlotte had no doubt that he wouldn't have bothered to listen to her explanation. Maybe that was why he hadn't killed her. She wondered vaguely if any of his victims had ever tried talking to him. Apparently he was a reasonable man, not a mindless psychopathic slaughter machine. At least, not when he didn't want to be. This was as reassuring as it was profoundly confusing, but Charlotte forced herself to focus on the thought of getting to a hospital.
At the road, Jason let her arm go abruptly. She felt the blood rush back to her fingers as she flexed them experimentally. His eyes were heavily shadowed by the mask and the darkness, but she knew he was telling her to leave. This was exactly what she wanted to do. Hastily she readjusted her weight fully on the walking stick and offered Jason a grateful smile that quaked slightly on her lips. He stood stock still to watch her leave. She was about to offer another weak word of thanks as she hobbled away, but Jason raised an arm and pointed in the opposite direction.
She was about to walk off in the wrong direction again. But she was too weak to feel like an idiot so she took Jason's silent advice. "Thank you Jason."
She could have sworn his head tilted when he heard his name, as if he had forgotten what it was, but Charlotte wasn't far from hallucinating by now so she brushed it off. She gave him a final weak smile as she turned to walk in the direction he pointed her in. She walked for another half hour before she saw a car. She didn't even have to flag them down.
"Jesus, are you okay lady?" the burly driver asked in disbelief at her condition. One leg elevated and wrapped in a pathetic bloody bandage, her entire body swathed in dirt and sweat, her hair knotted with forest debris. Believe it or not, Charlotte has looked better.
"Can you take me to a hospital?" He shot out of the car to open the door for her and help her in. The shock of sitting in a warm sedan on a cushioned seat was to much and she passed out in bliss. The driver gently woke her in front of the hospital.
"You're gonna be alright," he kept saying, and the nurses and the doctor did too. Charlotte was getting a little sick of hearing it after a few days. The wolf had severed her Achilles tendon, but it wasn't too badly infected. It could be treated with a shot of penicillin. She would have to stay off the leg completely for six weeks and possibly do some physiotherapy afterwards. She was dehydrated, as expected, but not gravely malnourished. Charlotte was thrilled to eat hospital food.
The first thing she did when she left the Fairfield hospital was taking a cab to the parking lot where she left her truck. When she shut the door of the tiny cabin she almost cried, thinking in abstract terror. Her head fell numbly to the steering wheel, accidentally beeping the horn and scaring the daylights out of herself. She finally pulled herself together, rubbed her face for clarity and drove home.
Getting into the truck was easy enough, but getting out, she realized, was an epic struggle. Getting the crutches out ahead of her at such an angle to be able to use them for support both while getting out and then walking was exceedingly difficult to manoeuvre. But as soon as the sound of gravel crunching under her feet reaches her ears she was immediately soothed, realizing for a split second how exhausted she was. The hospital may not be the most restful place. What is a restful place, however, is a Muskoka chair sitting on her deck which she gravitated to like her butt was magnetized to it.
She realized that she had fallen asleep. It was still light outside, so it couldn't have been too long, she reasoned. Sighing heavily, Charlotte forced herself inside. In her bedroom closet she found her emergency cigarettes. This pack was old because she hadn't had a smoke-worthy crisis in years. But this she considered to be worth the carcinogens. She could always beat the tumour away with a hammer. She laughed weakly at her own dark joke. She flopped down on her bed after opening the window and sucked back on the cigarette, savouring the headrush, unable to stop replaying the events of the last two weeks in her mind.
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