a/n: Sorry for my absence everyone... things have been hectic to say the least. This is a one shot that wouldn't get out of my head, so I had to share it with you. It's quite a bit darker than what I normally write, but, I had to explore what I thought happened that one night in the woods. I hope you all enjoy! For those of you patiently awaiting other story updates, they are coming, I promise! Thanks for sticking with me. And special thanks to burningxredxcaskett for being my crosscountrybff and for the many read throughs she always does for me. Love ya!
The blood is pounding in his veins so viciously, it's a wonder he can even breathe. He races through the trees, ducking under a low hanging branch, narrowly avoiding another. He spares half a glance behind him, and that's all it takes. He trips over a large root that has been concealed by the dark of night and crashes to the ground. There isn't time to assess his injuries as he scrambles up and continues to run.
He feels something warm and sticky sliding down his face. As he swipes it away, he sees blood. He hit his head? He didn't even notice.
A branch snaps in the distance and his head flies around, frantically searching for the source of the sound.
But there's nothing. Nothing but the darkness of night, surrounding him, making him feel as though he's the last person left on Earth.
He might as well be with all of the help that's come for him.
His screams wouldn't do any good anyway. Hers didn't.
He chokes on a sob as the memories of what happened only minutes before flood his mind, blinding him, keeping him unknowingly rooted to the spot.
The boys had run him out of school again. Third time this week. Not that it'd mattered. He'd be gone soon. Another boarding school, more boys to pick on him.
You would think he would find a friend eventually, but no. He hasn't.
He's the weirdo. The comic book nerd who would rather stay up at night with a flashlight under his blanket than go wander the grounds causing mayhem.
Their latest "joke" was to grab him out of bed and smuggle him into the middle of the woods where he had to find his way back up to school. The first two nights he found his way back quickly. Tonight? Tonight he hadn't been so lucky.
He'd been wandering for about thirty minutes when he'd heard the scream. The blood-curdling, stomach dropping, spine tingling scream that had chilled him straight to the bone.
"Very funny, guys," he had called out, as he looked cautiously around.
The boys didn't appear.
He wandered on, trudging through the forest, with only the light of the moon. The blood red moon. He had been excited about the lunar eclipse, but now all it did was intensify the overall creepy factor of the night. But he put on his brave face. Ricky Rodgers wasn't afraid of anything.
Well, almost anything.
Okay. Who was he kidding? He was one big, scrawny, chicken.
He had no idea if he was going in the right direction, so he kept his course, pausing here and there to duck under low hanging branches or to jump over large tree roots.
He heard something in the distance, the rise and fall of something heavy, thudding to the ground.
His heart leapt to his throat and his stomach plummeted. And yet, he found himself moving towards the sound.
Closer and closer until the noise was so loud it could only be through the trees in front of him.
The rush of the wind, the dull thud. It sounded like an ax hitting a tree. As much as he wished the sound had such a simple explanation, his gut told him otherwise.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He stood rooted to the spot. He couldn't propel himself forward, and he couldn't turn tail and run.
He was stuck.
The sound of his beating heart interrupted the silence and swish and thud stopped. He willed his heart to quiet.
But it wouldn't listen.
He prayed as hard as he could that whoever was on the other side of the trees wouldn't hear him. And he waited.
And waited.
Relief washed over him as the swish and thud began again.
He silently thanked whoever it was that had heard his prayers, then somehow found himself moving forward.
A panicked voice in his head urged him to stop, to turn around and try to find his way back to school. But his feet didn't listen.
He reached the edge of the clump of trees, took a deep breath and peered through.
His hands flew to cover his mouth so a scream wouldn't escape. He stumbled backwards and stepped into a hole, twisted his ankle and crashed to the ground. The noise from the other side of the tree stopped.
Footsteps crunched through the leaves and twigs, coming ever closer. Rick tried to jump up but was slowed by his throbbing ankle.
A man appeared at the trees and under the glow of the blood red moon, Rick saw his face. Heavily scarred, with long, knotted hair, the man looked right into his eyes.
Rick turned and ran.
Now he races as fast as his legs will carry him, the pain in his ankle forgotten. He hears the man following, clomping towards him through the trees.
There's stitch in his side so painful he thinks for sure he will vomit, but he doesn't slow. His vision blackens around him as he fights to remain conscious. He has to get back to school.
He blinks and blood is all he can see. So. Much. Blood. The moon above him, the body behind him. Blood.
He bursts through the trees into the clearing that leads up to the school. There are teachers making their way towards him with flashlights.
Someone must have realized he was missing.
When he finally turns his head to look behind him, there's no one there. No one.
The teachers reach him and he opens his mouth to speak, but instead passes out at their feet.
When he wakes, his mother is there. She tells him the other boys had taken him into the woods. She tells him they'd left him there and that he had somehow fallen and hit his head. He has a concussion.
She is pulling him out of school. They are going to move. Again.
He closes his eyes wearily and sees blood. He sees the man with the scarred face leering over him and he sees the woman.
He doesn't know her name, but the sight of her, hacked to bits in the small clearing, will remain etched in his brain forever.
He tells himself if he hears of any kidnappings or missing persons he will speak up. He will go to the police and tell them what he had seen.
Days turned into months and there were no news stories. He worried that if he spoke up, if he went to the authorities, the man would find out. The man would come after him. The man would hack him into pieces in the woods where no one would ever find him.
He wasn't proud of himself for the secret he kept, but the crippling fear of the body lying in pieces in the grass, surrounded by blood, pools and pools of blood, kept him quiet.
Time went on and he couldn't tell. He couldn't admit what he'd seen. He couldn't admit he'd left her there, alone. Dead. In a pool of her own blood.
He never told anyone. But he didn't forget. It was years before he could close his eyes without seeing her. But the nightmares never stopped. They didn't happen often, but when they did, he saw the way her eyes were opened wide in shock, the reflection of the blood red moon apparent even from the trees. He saw the pieces of her body scattered around the clearing. He saw blood. So. Much. Blood.
And he knew. He knew the man must have gotten away with it. So, he wrote. He wrote stories where there was justice. Where good triumphed over evil and the endings were happy. He wrote for her and for the life she never was able to lead.
It was all because of her.