To 707: I often see Francine as one of those friends who is pretty good at sincerely helping others but horrible at handling herself. She's been a good friend before, both in the show and in ADPOV, most recently with recruiting Ladonna to talk to Buster about his parents (knowing she was too blunt for the job at the moment) and helping George forget Fern and enjoy the Autumn Ball. But when it comes to identifying her own problems and addressing them in a responsible manner? Fuggeddaboudit! The question is: Will she learn to handle herself before she does too much damage? Thanks for the review!

WARNING: This chapter contains dark description of extreme peril. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 32

The Twelve Most Important Steps of Your Life

All sensations are temporary…all sensations are temporary…all sensations are temporary….

Sue Ellen had once told Fern that this was her favorite mantra to use when she meditated. "I used to get distracted pretty easily," she explained. "I'd get an itchy nose or my arms would be sore from overuse, but I couldn't exactly block those feelings from distracting me because the effort in doing so was a distraction. You see? Now when I meditate, I acknowledge the annoyances, admit there's nothing I can do about them and that they'll eventually go away, and I move on. It's amazingly effective."

Sitting on the cold refrigerator in the farmhouse basement, Fern wondered if she could apply Sue Ellen's technique to her situation and use it to work through the pain that wracked her body long enough to make it up the stairs to her phone. Granted, her situation extended far beyond annoying. There was a huge difference between ignoring an itchy nose while sitting quietly on a bolster and trying to hobble up a flight of stairs on one good foot, but Fern was willing to try it if it helped even the slightest. Really, she was. Even so, she had been repeating the mantra for what must have been a couple of minutes, unable to summon the courage to put those words to the test. Her foot throbbed and her ribs ached incessantly, no matter how little she moved, no matter how shallowly she breathed. Regardless of the words she employed to help her plod along, this was going to hurt.

"All sensations are temporary," she whispered resolutely to herself as she tried to stand, only to yowl and sit back down heavily.

You called it, she thought, unable to stop a fresh wave of sobs. The pain she was in was not a sensation, nor was it temporary. It just…was. It was a part of her until she died, which would not be long from now. She looked up at the hole in the basement roof. The death slide, the portion of the floor that had given way and sealed her fate, dangled like a pale-yellow tongue. It was as if the house were blowing a raspberry at her—"Na-na na-na boo-boo! No one's gonna save you!"

Fern knew that. Had she written this tale, placed Kelly in this exact dire predicament, she would have thought of a half dozen ways for her protagonist to escape. Perhaps a fellow explorer would just happen to pass the farmhouse in time to hear Kelly's desperate cries for help. On second thought, that was too deus ex machina for Fern's taste. Better, Kelly would be saved by the wannabe Satanists. Their presence had previously been established, and leaving their food behind foreshadowed their return, only she would need to nix the eventual snowfall in the second draft in order to make their return more likely. The hooligans would become heroes when they called an ambulance for Kelly. A nice set-up, but it lacked a proactive lead and gave glory to characters the reader did not even know. Best of all, maybe Kelly would have been smart enough to leave behind a coded message containing her whereabouts, and her best friend would decipher it in the nick of time, coming to her rescue minutes ahead of the emergency vehicles. That was what Fern wished she had done, considered the absolute worst scenario and prepared for it instead of being overconfident and foolhardy. She heaved a painfilled sigh. There was no use in lamenting over keeping her mission a secret, over not letting Buster or George accompany her, over not even leaving a note behind in her room in case her plans went awry. What was done was done, no rewrites. The light streaming through the hole was growing dimmer. The sun would soon set, the snow would fall, and she would be alone in the freezing darkness. The best Fern could hope for was to somehow drift into unconsciousness before then and die peacefully in her sleep.

"I don't want to die at all!" was her tearful whimper.

She would die whether she wanted to or not unless she made it to her phone. Fern wept as she wondered what would happen. Would she become a missing person case? Would there be media coverage? A search party? A candlelight vigil? What would her parents think when they discovered she was missing? What would they think once her body was recovered? Would her body ever be recovered? Would she simply continue to lie down here, decomposing, a carrion feast for insects and wildlife? Would coyotes fight over her bones? Would a snake coil up in the hollow of her skull? New panic rose in her chest upon realizing these were questions to which she would never know the answers. It was almost like falling down the hole again, the feeling of certain doom weighing on her.

"I want to leave!" she cried, briefly taken by the strange sense of comfort brought on by the resulting stab in her side. "I WANT OUT OF HERE!"

You can get out of here, a voice inside her spoke with surety. You know what you have to do.

"I can't do it—I've tried!"

It was too painful.

Ah, but as long as you're feeling pain, you're still alive. When the pain stops, you won't know it. In fact, you won't know anything anymore.

What was she thinking? Could she make it up twelve steps in this condition? The attempt might kill her.

Maybe not. Either way, they are the twelve most important steps of your life. Down here, death is a guarantee. What's a few painful moments when stacked against your freedom?

Sue Ellen had been correct. All sensations, even the terrible ones, were temporary. Death, however, was permanent. She was running out of natural light and needed to act quickly if she intended to act at all.

"This is going to hurt so much," said Fern, "God help me."

She took a deep breath, providing a preamble to her ribs for what was to come, and she gritted her teeth against the way her torso protested. Bearing her weight entirely on her right foot, she rose from the fridge and stood as straight as she could manage, screaming all the way. She rested the toes of her left foot lightly against the earthy floor until she got her bearings. Once she had, she lifted her left foot off the floor and decided to test the waters with the smallest hop forward. Her left foot jostled with the motion, and Fern let loose with, "F—AAAGH!" The action had hurt a lot but not nearly as much as trying to walk on it had. Her side seared with pain that made her wish she could give up, but she was still standing. Again, Fern waited for the pain to subside before hopping again, around the mucky puddle on the floor and in the direction of the staircase. The result was the same, pain and screaming and swearing, followed by a period of rest. Fern performed these actions again and again, with the rests becoming shorter and shorter the more she grew accustomed to the pain. It hurt every time but became less of a shock to her system with each attempt. Despite the frigid temperature, she was sweating all over from exertion. The tears welling in her eyes made everything blurry, but she kept going, a new mantra forming in her mind: What's my motivation? I don't want to die.

Fern knew crawling up the stairs was her only option. Even if she could hop up them, she doubted she could clear the gap made by the broken tread. The light in the basement was almost gone, and she used that fact to boost her motivation, even though bracing herself to sit down on the steps had hurt so much that she stopped to retch all over her jacket. Now her nose was running. Hot tears mixed with the sweat pooling in the hollow of her collarbone, where it cooled from the basement air, tickling as it ran down her chest toward her navel.

What's my motivation? I don't want to die.

On the upside, she was already three steps up.

Fern continued her ascent by scooting backward up the steps, one by one, bearing her weight chiefly on her good arm and leg, thankful she was strong enough, thankful that she was light enough, though it was the most painful thing she had done yet. She climbed the stairs, encrusted with stratified dust, cobwebs, and mildew, pausing to dry heave a couple of times when she lost control and bumped her ruined foot against one of the treads. It was dark now, and Fern figured it must be about half past five as she spat into the dark void, catching her breath after a particularly nasty heaving jag. What's my motivation? she thought as she continued her climb, only to touch something solid when she reached for the next step. It must be the door. She had long given up on counting steps once her agony and focus had melded in the black, dank room. Aside from the sharp spikes that turned her stomach, it was almost as if she had become one with the pain. It just…was, only she could endure it. Fern pushed against the door, which was off most of its hinges. It scraped against the floor as it opened, sending another unseen animal scurrying away from the vicinity. Fern could hear its retreating steps. She must be close to where her phone had landed. She took her mini Maglite from her bag, now soaked with her vomit. Turning the flashlight on, Fern pointed it toward the floor, squinting against the sudden bright light. She scanned the area until she found her phone, screen still facing the floor, about four feet from her. The Maglite's handle went into her mouth again as she dragged herself toward it, hope threatening to take root in her chest. She grabbed her phone with her good hand which, in the glow of her flashlight, Fern could see was shaking. Upon waking, it was clear that her phone's screen now sported a Y-shaped crack, but, thank God, it still worked and had two bars. She opened the phone prog and began dialing for help. She paused. Holding her hand as steady as she could, she opened her text prog and typed a message to her father, who would be leaving to pick her up soon.

left mcm for van houten trapped hurt calling 911 now

That was good, but she needed to add one more thing, just in case she did not get the opportunity to tell him in person.

im sorry

She sent the message and immediately dialed 9-1-1. It was not long before emergency dispatch picked up, and when she spoke, Fern no longer recognized her own voice. The words that came out of her mouth sounded deep and desperate, haunted and completely fried. She explained who she was as well as her situation as clearly and calmly as possible to the woman on the other end of the line, though she had to repeat herself a few times to be understood.

"Van Houten Farms," she said for a third time. "The defunct strawberry farm? I'm inside the house. Please, tell them to be careful when they enter. The floors are quite dangerous."

To be continued…