Journal of the Survivors

Chapter Seventeen--Kyra

Chapter Seventeen—Kyra

I peek my head out of the tent and see that Trace is caught up in taking down the strings. I dive behind me and snatch the book that he always works at keeping away from me and flip it open to the first page.

It’s a picture of the back of a girl and boy. They’re standing together looking at nothing, holding hands. A light breeze blows the girl’s dress to the side and their hair billows in the wind. I turn to the next page to see a girl laughing. She’s beautiful, her hair has flawless curls, her eyes a gorgeous shape. I flip to browse at the picture after. It’s the same girl. She has a rose tucked behind her ear and her slim lips are bent into a perfect smile. I flick through the pages seeing various drawings of her. Some are accented with a bit of colour, but the majority of them are in black and white.

I flip to a page that startles me. It’s eyes without pupils. The words Empty Eyes are written in them. The pages that come after it have who I believe to be the same girl, only she’s always turned away or in the distance.

I get to a page that, for some reason, causes me to stop. It’s a simple drawing of two hands, one of which is handing a rose to the other. There’s nothing marvellous about it, but it just grabs my attention with its beauty. It’s captivating without being grand.

The next page causes me to do a double take. It’s me. I’m sleeping, hair sprawled around me, mouth in a tiny smile. I know it’s me, but, at the same time, I know it can’t be me. This girl seems pure and lovely whereas I am tarnished and infinitely sad. I warily turn over to the one after and see the mystery girl again. She stares out at me, her mouth shows no emotion, but there is something in her eyes.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

I must have jumped three feet in the air, my backside kills as it slams against the ground. Trace stands at the flap glaring at me. I suddenly understand the expression “if looks could kill”. 

He reaches a long arm inside and takes the book from my grasp. “This is private. It’s personal.” His voice betrays more of his accent when he’s emotional. I think he tries to sound more American when he’s around my team and me.

“And my journal isn’t?” I argue.

His eyes narrow further. “For the last time, I didn’t read your stupid journal! I looked at it. I did not flip through it going through all of your personal feelings and entries. I have a conscious, you know.”

“Well so do I!”

“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed what with your constant lashing out at people, invading the privacy of others, and being all-around bossy as hell. And that’s not even mentioning how damn annoying you are when things don’t go your way.”

“I’m annoying?! Try having to handle someone like you! You don’t tell us who you are, where we are, nothing! You call me ‘Scarlett’ and draw me in your book of freaky things. When are you ever going to explain anything?” I yell back.

“Hmm..how ‘bout never? Does never work with you?” He drops the flaps back into place. I crawl out of the tent.

“Where are you going?” I yell.

From the edge of the clearing Trace turns back to face me. “Anywhere that’s not here,” he says before disappearing into the trees.

“Trace! Wait!” I dash after him. I duck under a branch and look left and right. There’s no trace of Trace. 

...

I have never once been camping, not a single day of my life. Never have I ever had to un-pitch a tent. The bendy bars and fold-up structure of the crazy contraption are incomputable to my brain. I end up just stuffing it into Trace’s discarded pack before I set off in the direction Trace vanished in. With each step, a stray rod swings and rhythmically hits the back of my head.

“He is such an ass,” I mutter to myself. “Who just deserts someone in the middle of a forest in which they have no prior knowledge of its contents, terrains, inhab—”

I hear a rustle in the bushes next to me and jump. One hand grabs at an arrow, the other for the bow. I no longer have my death arrow which, for some reason, makes me feel more vulnerable. I hadn’t realized how important it had become to me.

A small rabbit darts past me into the cover of another shrub. I sigh at my idiocy and drop the arrow back into the quiver. My hair is stuck to my forehead with sweat, mud, and rain. The goosebumps I have on my skin seem permanent as they have not gone away since it rained two days earlier. I’ve been walking beside the stream, following the direction of the current, and it has been getting wider. I scan the area around me. Everything seems clear. I drop both Trace’s bag and my own onto the ground, digging through the first.

“C’mon, c’mon. You’ve packed just about everything else there’s got to be some...yea!” I restrain myself from shouting. In one of the small front pockets I find a box containing a bar of soap. Scanning the water, I spot no signs of life—or, rather, unlife—and deciding that it is clear, I go about sloppily setting up Trace’s tripwires before undressing. I don’t go into the water for who knows what lurks below the surface just out of my line of sight. I splash the water onto my mud-caked face, hair, and skin, using the manly smelling soap to feel clean again. From my pack, I take out one of the fluffy towels from the golden room and use it to dry off. Then I unpack some of Trace’s spare clothes: a pair of black track pants, a grey hoodie, and two pairs of socks to keep my toes from freezing in my damp shoes. I hold a sleeve up to my nose and inhale deeply, treasuring the clean scent.

The sky starts to darken, partially because of more oncoming rain and partially because of how late in the day it is. I decide that now is as good of a time as any to set up camp. I do my best to stake the tent into the ground firmly and I attempt to set up the wires like I saw Trace doing, but the end result is pitiful. I take my shoes off and enter the tent, just like Trace said to do. I sit down with a huff. After that, there is silence. Trace and I didn’t always talk, but when he was with me, even when quiet, there was something. Now that he’s gone, I’m alone and the stillness raises the hairs on my neck. There is nothing.

I reach into Trace’s backpack and take out another pack of jerky. I chew slowly, savouring the taste and trying to make the meal last longer. I can’t just keep shovelling down food. Who knows how long I’ll be out here for.

I know I should go to sleep, but I can’t. It’s been a long time since I have been on my own, and the fear is starting to claim me. I pull out my journal and write to Trace. Then I don’t feel so alone.