Danger Forest

HE CAME INTO MY ROOM THE NIGHT BEFORE. HE FINALY DID WHAT HE�D been threatening to do for years. There is no denying it, no going back. I have to face what he did head on and go to the police.
I laugh at my own foolishness.
I can already see the headlines! I thought. Father rapes seventeen-year-old daughter and imprisons her in her own home for her whole life�read all about it! I laugh harder and those chuckles turn into broken sobs of despair. Why would he do this? What did I do wrong? Did I encourage him in some way? Did I do something to tempt him?
No! I have to remember I did nothing wrong. I have to remember that no matter what happens, and no matter what people might say, I did nothing. Nothing! This was all him, and he�s not going to get away with it.
I stare at the phone next to my bed. He�s gone for the whole day�work or at the bar. I could call now and when he gets off of work (wherever that is) the police will be waiting here to throw him in jail, and I would never have to hear form him again. But could I do it�did I even know how? I don�t even know where the hell I am�how am I supposed to just assume theirs a police station somewhere out in this snowy wonderland? And even if there was, and I did know where I was, could I make the call? He was still my father�my only family except my bird, Antenna, who sleeps peacefully above my bed, her yellow face buried in her brightly colored feathers.
I look out the window. The snow falls hard; the wind blowing everywhere, sputtering powdery snow left and right, the frigid air finding it�s way in the house making me shiver under all the blankets covering me.
I wonder if I could run. I could leave, and never come back. I doubt he would care. It�s not like anyone even knows I exist, so he probably wouldn�t call the police. Yes, my daughter is missing, but don�t bother looking her up in that computer of yours. She wasn�t born in the hospital, has never been outside before, and no one even really knows she exists. Oh yeah, that will definitely fly with the police.
I�ve never been out of this house, never been to school, never been to a mall, anything. It�s like I�ve been his prisoner these seventeen years. My father is the only other human I know. I�ve never met anyone else in all the seventeen years I�ve been alive, if you could call this living.
I look in the mirror. I must have been pretty at some point in my life, must have acquired some of my moms natural beauty. My hair has gone form the golden brown my mother practically worshiped to an ugly dishwater color, and my once pretty green eyes have gotten tired and lifeless like a dolls eyes. My legs and arms were a bit tan due to the fact that my mother was Mexican witch keeps me from becoming too pale in the always gray sky. I�m short witch makes me just a bit pudgy around the stomach and legs. My lips are cracked and dry. I put the last bit of lip bomb I have on them but it still doesn�t help. Nothing can help me anymore.
I sigh and go back to my bed, then turn away. I can�t sit on it any longer. I feel dirty when I sit on it; like I need a shower even thought I�ve already taken ten since that night. No matter what I do I can�t seem to erase the feel of his hands on my body, the sticky feeling of his fishy breath on my neck and places left unnamed.
A tear escapes my eyes and I wipe it away with a vengeance. What am I going to do?
I see a note on the fridge in our cramped kitchen.

Emerald, be back around eight thirty. Have dinner ready.
Dad

Oh, I�ll have dinner ready, I thought darkly. I imagined myself putting a gallon of toilet water in his soup, or putting crushed up sleeping pills in his coffee then sending him on a long drive. I could already see him dieing. It brought a smile to my face.
I ripped up the note, and threw it in the trash. I began to cook since there was nothing else to do, and saw that it was already eight fifteen. I must have fallen asleep sometime today.
I grabbed a pot, a pan, noodles, and canned tomato sauce. I put the noodles to a boil as well as the sauce, and had an idea. I went into the laundry room and took a small bottle of bleach out from the cabinet. I walked back to the kitchen and pored five or fifteen cap�s full of bleach into the sauce. I didn�t have to worry about eating it since I was allergic to tomatoes.
He came through the door five minutes later, keys in hand and a half bottle of beer in the other. He was covered in snow and I could smell the alcohol clinging to his body all the way from over here. �Hey, baby girl.� He greeted, slurring his words slightly. I frowned. He was drunk again. I went on with making my pasta, praying to God he would just go sleep it off and leave me alone.
I felt his breath on my neck as he looked over my shoulder to see what I was cooking. He made a grunting sound that said he approved, moved to go away, them came back. I felt the tears swelling up I in my eyes as he kissed my neck.
�Daddy, please don�t.� He whimpered. He still didn�t stop and I felt his hands moving to my hips. �No!� I screamed. I tried pushed him away but he held me in place. Patrick Lenox didn�t like being told what to do, especially when he was drunk. He was a branny man, with hands the size of my head and muscles to match. He towered over me by many inches, and his thick brows pushed together in anger.
He took a carving knife form the block and stuck it under my neck. �Shut up Emma.� He said, using my nickname. I always hated that name. My name was Emerald Lenox, not Emma. �One word out of you, and your dead.� He murmured. �Now take off your fucking cloths.�
I blinked. I couldn�t hold the tears in much longer. �N-no.� I whispered, half numb with terror, half ready for a fight. My heart was pounding in my chest so fast I couldn�t breath. He pushed the knife into my neck making a trickle of blood fall down my throat when the skin broke. The sick bastard licked it away and I couldn�t hold back the tears any longer.
But that didn�t stop me form fighting back. I�d be damned if I was going to let this happen a second time, and I looked for anything I could use as a weapon. I reached for the hot skillet full of boiling pasta and threw it at his head. He staggered back, the knife tumbling to my feet, and screamed as he tried to wipe the spicy sauce form his eyes. I just remembered that I had put bleach in the mix.
I grabbed the knife and ran for the door. I needed to get out, and get out fast. The sudden blow of freezing wind pushing the air out of my lungs, and I braced myself for the first few steps outside. I felt my breath catch and release with every hurried step, and soon I was in a dead run.
�Get back her you bitch!� I heard a gun shot and felt a horrible pain pierce my upper shoulder. I cried out, but forced myself to keep running. The pain was becoming unbearable, but I wouldn�t allow myself to stop�not even for a moment!
His infernal shouting soon minimized into whispers of the night as I ran faster and faster from the hell I had called a home. Their were no road's that I could see, not paths I could follow. Only trees, snow, and more trees. In a small snow covered clearing I recognized the sliver glow of our snowmobile. It was still warm, probably just been used, and the spar key was still under the seat.
Since I�ve never really ridden this thing I did exactly what I�ve seen dad do. I slid the key in the ignition and squeeze the gas gently, and the motor became a mind of it�s own. I weaved in and out of trees, the wind beating down on my face. I could barely feel my hands or feet anymore.
I nearly crashed into a tree and sent to snowmobile on a hard left turn to avoid it, only to end up really crashing into a snow pile. It still worked, but it was slower now. I needed to find shelter now or I would freeze to death. All I had on was a pair of socks, cotton sweats, and a t-shirt�hardly below freezing attire!
With the help of the light of the moon seeping through the pine trees I could almost make out the shape of a cave about a half a mile ahead. The snowmobile wined and groaned as I tried to make it go faster, and soon completely stopped. I screamed in frustration and got off. Every step in the snow was like stepping in quicksand, only worse. The snow was up to my hips now and I felt the blood in my feet and legs leaving. My hands were numb and cold, but not black or blue yet, witch meant they haven�t caught frost bit�yet.
When I reached the cave I was panting hard and realized I was crying. I sank to the hard rocky floor, and let the tears fall form my eyes. They fell onto the floor making small smudges on the dirt-covered ground. With my vision blurry I looked around. There was a small fire pit in the back of the cave that I made to get down on my hands and knees to get to. I could barely sit up form where I was, and looked for something I could use for firewood. Their was a small�only four peaces�of fire wood on the side of the cave and a lighter on it�s last light. I wonder who the hell would be stupid enough to want to sleep out here for their was a blanket in the corner gone gray with dirt.
Then I remembered where I was, and that I was the stupid one.
I sighed with relief as the fire burned the wood and I pulled the blanket around me. It did very little. I could see my breath before me, and my feet were tuning on odd purplish color. I put them by the fire to try and heart them up, but it didn�t seem to be helping.
My back hurt like a bitch and I understood I must have been shot. I didn�t have a way of treating the wound, and I lay on my stomach so no dirt could get in the open wound. I ground my teeth together�the pain was getting worse by the second.
As I tossed my very last log in the fire I closed my eyes. I wasn�t in the least but tired, but maybe when I wake up the next morning I can be in heaven.

The wind was howling like a wounded coyote outside the small cave. My back felt like it was going to burst in any moment, my hands were numb and purple, my legs were tuning an odd color as well, and my hair was turning into icicles.
I forced myself up and crawled out of the cave. The snow hade finally stopped, but the wind was blowing hard, and it made my long hair whip at my face. I rubbed my arm fiercely, trying to warm myself with friction.
I felt a drop pierce my skin. It was being to drizzle, making the snow hard and icy. I slipped at least five times, and by now my knees were wet and bleeding.
But then I saw something.
It was a cabin. I was too far away to tell if it was my own or someone else�s, and at this point I didn�t give a damn. I was on the brink of dieing. Would it really matter if I were shot again? Dad would just be putting me out of my misery.
I saw a light being turned on, and a moment later someone stepped on the porch. They were shouting something I couldn�t understand. Before I fell to the ground I heard my mothers last dieing words ring in my ears. I love you. Never give up on yourself. Giving up is only for the weak.

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Rating: 8.2 out of 18 votes cast