Those Things Unsaid
A mosquito zipped around Jenna's face and landed on the back of her neck. She slapped it away, panting slightly from the effort it took to keep up with Clay's long-legged strides. The woods were unbearably muggy, sunlight piercing through the canopy of evergreen in dirty-looking shafts.
Clay turned around. "Do you need a break?"
Jenna could feel the beads of sweat trickle down her nose. "No," she wheezed.
A few minutes later the trees gave way to a clearing. A large sign marked the clearing as Camp Chrystal Lake. Beyond it lay a scattered handful of decrepit cabins and ratty sports equipment. Jenna wrinkled her nose in distaste and glanced up at Clay, who was looking intently at what lay before them, as though his sister would come walking out of one of the cabins if he stared long enough.
She touched his forearm, startling him.
"Let's go look in the cabins," she suggested.
The first one they went into yielded no answers. They pawed through moth-eaten blankets and crumbling bunks, opening and closing termite-infested drawers. Jenna was not usually the type of girl who liked getting her hands dirty, but she felt she could make an exception in helping Clay find his sister.
The second cabin was not helpful. Neither was the third.
Or the fourth.
Or the fifth.
Clay was about ready to give up when Jenna spied the last cabin, nestled farther back in the woods than the others. "Look. There's another."
Clay nodded, tiredly rubbing at the back of his neck. Jenna could plainly see he was exhausted, whether emotionally or physically, she did not know.
"You lead the way," he murmured. She smiled uncertainly and walked up to the door, giving it a hard push. After a moment of protest, it creaked open.
The cabin was like all the others, dim and musty and unused. The only difference was that this cabin was designed for everyday use, not just for sleeping. A tiny kitchenette and a cobwebbed bathroom completed it.
Jenna walked to the farthest edge of the cabin, where a child's bed sat against the wall. She perched at the edge of the mattress, praying no mice or cockroaches would come scurrying out. Clay sank down next to her.
She noticed something sitting next to the pillow. It was an old porcelain doll with real hair, auburn curls still shining in the little light that came in through the chinks in the cabin wall. She touched the side of its cold face. A tiny crack marred its otherwise smooth cheek.
"How quaint," she joked, but in a whisper. Somehow, in these strange, empty cabins, she felt an odd sort of reverence, as though these weren't things that were supposed to be disturbed.
Clay reached out to finger a lock of the doll's hair, and their hands met. His was rough and warm, calloused from clutching the handles of his bike.
Carefully, his hand closed around the doll. He set her back down next to the pillow. His back was turned to Jenna, but she noticed the slight quiver in his shoulders.
"Clay?"
He didn't turn, didn't answer her. She placed her hand on his back, felt the muscles beneath his shirt, the curve of his spine.
"What if I…" his voice cracked and he took a deep breath to steady it before continuing. "What if I never find her?"
"Clay…"
"She's all I've got left now." It was not a disparaging wail, nor was it a self-pitying whine. It was a statement, heavily laden with a sadness he could barely conceal.
Jenna could feel tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She slid her arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly, and pressed her face against his shoulder. Tears moistened the fabric of his shirt, but he didn't shrug her off.
She breathed in the smell of his skin, pine and leather and sweat. It was such a real, masculine scent. Not like the cologne Trent dabbed on by the bottleful.
No, Trent and Clay were altogether two very different sorts of boys.
Jenna kissed the side of Clay's neck.
She did it because he was cute and kind and tragic, and spoke to her in a deep, soft voice. She did it because of his junky old bike and how much he cared about his sister. She did it because he didn't stare at her hungrily, the way Trent and his friends tended to do.
She did it because she wanted to.
Clay turned to the side, eyelids lowered to the point of his eyes almost being closed, and his mouth sought hers.
Their lips met. Jenna tasted coffee and spearmint gum. She straddled his lap as they kissed, squeezing his thighs between hers. His hand caressed the back of her thigh and she ran her hands over his chest.
Hastily, in a way that was rushed and almost panicked, he flipped her onto her back. She felt the bunk's scratchy covers tickle her skin and tried to ignore how dusty and frayed they were, and how many bugs probably lurked inside.
It was easy to forget when Clay's large, strong hands were sliding under her skirt and rucking it up around her waist.
They had hushed, mostly-clothed, thrashing sex on the creaky cabin bed. Their limbs twisted and battled, struggling to touch more of each other's skin. Jenna bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from moaning, because there was still the feeling of having to be quiet and solemn in this cabin.
The way Clay looked down at her, it was as though looking at her hurt him. He would pass his eyes over her face for a few moments, and then they would dart toward something else. Jenna knew he probably felt ashamed, doing this while Whitney was still lost somewhere out there, but his fingertips sank into the soft flesh of her hips, and he didn't want to let her go.
Clay's breathing was quick and heavy, his thrusts lightning fast and hard–Jenna knew she'd be sore afterwards–but she didn't want him to stop. She knew that when they stopped, she would have to face reality, to accept consequences.
She had a boyfriend.
She barely even knew this boy.
They were in the middle of the woods–the God-Knows-Where, East-Bumfuck-Nowhere woods.
When they were done, he rolled off of her and flopped down onto the bed.
"Clay," she whispered, voice cracked and dry from so much heavy breathing.
He turned to her, eyed lidded.
She worked to find the words she was feeling. "I just…"
Looking into his eyes, she somehow couldn't finish the sentence.
…
Hours later, as Clay and Whitney hurried into the tiny tunnel they had found, Jenna stood rear and waited her turn, heart beating cacophonously in her chest.
There was the tiniest rustle of movement coming from behind her, and a blade burst through her chest.
Jenna felt the pain. It would be impossible not to, with a pain that intense. She dropped to her knees.
In front of her, Clay was screaming, the most upset she'd seen him. She looked up and tried to smile at him.
See, Clay. It's okay. You found your sister.
The smile wouldn't come. It turned instead to a grimace, as the agony tore through her. She felt warm blood seeping through her shirt, and something hot and wet on her cheeks.
Blood? No, tears.
This is kind of sad, after all, she thought lazily, feeling extremely disconnected from the scene unfolding before her. I mean, I'm twenty. I thought I had a bit more living in me.
Her vision was tunneling, blackness eating everything in sight. Still she fished for what she had been trying to say to Clay earlier, the sentence she hadn't been able to finish.
The words wouldn't come.
Jenna quietly sank into death, the pain of those unsaid words even sharper than the knife in her chest.
A/N: Okay, first oneshot I've ever done in my life. When I watched Friday the 13th, I was like 'okay, when the f*ck are they gonna hook up?' and was DAMN disappointed when they didn't. So here's me inventing a little interlude. Hope you liked it! R&R please!