The Goth and His Psycho.

The Goth and His Psycho: [Chapter Six]

  “Bree!” Alex yelled desperately, he couldn’t see her anywhere, surely she wouldn’t just leave. But Alex knew without a doubt that she definitely could. Bree had practically lived in these woods as a child. It was where she would retreat to when her parents went on a bender and threw her out to spend the night in the cold. Often Alex found himself being dragged down an unmarked path, Bree telling him excitedly about a new discovery she so desperately needed him to see. 

  Alex knew the girl could survive out here in the woods, it was fine for her, she’d spent so much time in the woods when she was younger she knew the foreboding place like the back of her small pale hands. She knew how to find food and water and shelter. Alex had had no use for those skills when he was younger, and assumed he’d never need the skills in later life, of course, he kind of needed them now. 

  Not only was he faced with the possibility of dying of starvation or hunger, but he was now hopelessly lost. When Bree had slammed his head down, she’d done it just hard enough to disorientate him, and when he’d stood he’d stumbled in all kinds of directions, and now he had no way of knowing which way they had been heading or which way they’d come from. 

  So now the goth was lost, he was cold and hungry, he had no way of finding his way home, and a psychopath was angry at him. 

  Alex drew in a few quick breaths and pressed a trembling hand to the back of his head to confirm it was bleeding slowly. Well, maybe he’d been giving brain damage and die from that instead of slowly rotting in the woods. He gave a small growl of frustration and thought about kicking the tree, maybe punching it, but his whole body was aching, he didn’t need a broken toe or knuckle on his list of fuck ups right now. 

  So the boy picked a direction and lurched into an unsteady quick walk. If he wanted to get out of the woods today, or any day soon for that matter, he’d have to move, and standing feeling sorry for himself definitely wouldn’t help. 

  So he walked, and walked. 

  He was sure he was walking in the right direction, the direction they had been heading, he didn’t recognize anything familiar about the path. And there was a path, very faint, but it was there, so he kept walking in a straight line. His head getting steadily worse the further he walked; the injury made him clumsy. 

  He fell several times, crashing into the hard ground and scraping his hands. He swore loudly when the knees of his jeans tore when he tripped over an unseen rock, and then he thought bitterly about how his hands would probably become injected with all the mud buried in the wounds. No doubt with his luck his hands would fucking fall off. 

  Alex started to panic around the time the sky started to darken. It had to be about seven at night, but still, it was the end of summer, and the nights were starting to get darker and colder quicker than usual, no doubt as a result of Alex’s terrible luck. 

  He spent most of his time looking worriedly behind him. Even though the colour of the sky bothered him, it couldn’t wrap its hands around his throat and throttle him. Unlike Bree. 

  Maybe she wouldn’t remember who he was, did she have amnesia? She hadn’t recognized him the first time, but then Alex had changed a lot since the last time they had seen each other. Would she recognize him again? But then even if she did know who he was, would she care? What if she’d decided that she didn’t trust him? What if she was still angry at him pushing her? Maybe she’d decided to get rid of him, silence him before he could talk, not that Alex ever would. 

  The goth fell for what felt like the hundredth time. His foot tangling in a pit of reaching nettles and pulling him painfully to the floor. He hit the ground with a grunt and found it hard gathering the energy to stand again. He crouched on his hands and kneels, breathing hard, his head throbbing and painful tears filling his eyes.