Catharsis

THIRTY SIX

As I stand in the night, a shadow among the pines, I watch the sparks dance among the rubble. There's the sound of crunching, irregular footsteps behind me, but I can't look away.

"I could have been dead now."

"I told you almost three weeks ago: I want you to be alive and so does Sammy," Emma mumbles. Why does she have to bring Sammy into it?

"I'm not afraid to die. Maybe you are, but I'm not. This is what I'm afraid of." I lift my arm slightly, then drop it back down to my side. "Being free out here, it scares me."

She looks up at me with a shrug as if what I said doesn't matter in the least. Her face seems almost gaunt with purple smudges under her eyes that hit the flames and glow, bloodshot. Blue veins spider across her forehead. "You're being selfish. You're not thinking of what she would want," there's a bit of a pout in her voice.

"She's gone, Emma. Stop acting like you're enforcing some kind of last will of hers."

"Well, until you come to your senses, what are we supposed to do?"

I turn around on my heels and face the forest. The bright heat of the raging fire touches my cheek even from this distance. "We get you to Sherwood Avenue." There's a full moon overhead, casting pale light and shadows among the trees in the distance. Everything is in tones of black and gray; shadows seem deeper than I remember.

"Where do we go now, though?" Emma asks, her round eyes dart around frantically. Orange heat flickers glowing light on the side of her face, too. The fire continues to pop and crack, the occasional log or bit of concrete collapsing as it's eaten away.

"We should probably get to some place where we can rest until morning. It wouldn't make sense to travel through in the dark."

I go to take a step forward but she cries sharply. "Hold on! We can't, we can't go!" She grasps at her jeans that have been ripped from the knee down.

"What? What is it? What's wrong?" I squat down in front of her. With tender fingers, she pulls aside the torn denim. There's a long slice in her calf dripping blood down her leg. It's soaking her socks, snaking into her shoes. It's not exceptionally deep but it's not going to feel good to walk on. Her knees, though, are black and blue, covered in countless welts. I reach to touch, just to see how fresh the welts are, but she covers it up with the tatters of her jeans.

"What does he do to you?" I ask.

"Makes me kneel on sand. It's like glass."

"Bastard," I mutter as I swing my backpack off and pull out a towel that I had packed for cleaning myself up after the transformation. She hisses when I wrap it around her leg to sop up the blood. "You alright?"

"Yeah," she says, "Yeah, I think I can handle it." But it's obvious from her expression that it's hurting her more than she's letting on.

"Are you sure?"

She nods sleepily, legs wavering. Her skin is so pale and sickly it's nearly translucent. I tilt my head, trying not to be worried at the fact that she looks like death.

"Stop acting tough," I say and thread the straps of my backpack over her thin arms. "You'll be okay, but you need to stop pretending it doesn't hurt." I pull the nylon strap so that it fits properly on her back.

"Wha -? Am no, I'm ... am." Her knees start to bend. I crouch down, grab her good leg and hoist her onto my back before she can completely break down. The chains over my shoulder clank together as I stand. Walking through the woods while piggybacking a twelve year old and a loop of chains in my state? This isn't going to be easy.