Page 9 of Traithorn

Yet, if I allow myself to forget, my mind will associate that with safety. A calming breath here, less adrenaline fueling my veins like an addiction there—shoulders sagging in relief, mind shutting off, if just for a second. I can never allow the season of decay to bleed out of me, constantly needing that steadily, silently, disturbingly heavy pulse to keep me tethered to this heartache.

I can never be safe.

Not as long astheyare alive.

Forgetting is a part of life. A gradual process in which old memories are silently replaced by new ones, the past left behind like storage boxes gathering dust in the attic. It’s natural, even when what we forget is a kind of inherited trauma.

Trauma doesn’t forget us. It clings, jarring and relentless, never once letting its grip go.

I’m the epitome of that truth; my past haunts me even when I’m wide awake.

A ding comes through on my phone, startling me out of my reverie as the crisp morning air bites my cheeks. Fresh wooden scent filters through my nostrils, the bitter cold blowing frighteningly in my house, whistling and howling as if sending a warning.

CASPER:

Good morning, beautiful.

I pocket my phone again, not in the mood to talk to him. I haven’t been since he basically accused me capable of murder thirty hours ago. My phone has been blowing up with messages from him since. Each one coaxing me to him, as if what occurred at the police station never happened.

Ignoring another message coming through, I keep my pace, running my usual route. There’s something in the way my soul connects to the forest, the scent of pine trees, and the coldness that just heals something inside me. My thoughts are bustling in the chaos of my mind, not fully understanding what it is I’m doing with my life.

I’ve lived on autopilot for so very long, it’s as if I don’t know who I am anymore.

My life ended before it had even begun when my parents died, and since then, I’ve become a shell of who I used to be.

I used to be soalive.

Not anymore.

Breathing heavily, I pick up my pace as I run, the trees rushing past me in a breeze as I work my way forward. I’m panting, sweat beading on my forehead, muscles screaming for rest, but I can’t get myself to stop—I need this to feel something.

Otherwise, I might just go under.

Listening to the gothic-like instruments in my ears, the music blends seamlessly with the barren branches rustling, sounding almost comfortingly eerie.

I come to a sudden halt…pause the music.

The branches keep swishing, and it’s not the wind this time. Then, that prickling sense of awareness fills me, as if someone is looking straight at me—their eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me shudder, and my breath stutters.

Looking around, I see no one. The woods are silent, uncannily so. That sensation of being watched filters through my body with a harshness that makes it hard to focus.

What is going on?

Gripping my phone tightly, I allow it to ground me to the present. Casper is still my emergency number. He’ll have my back if anything happens.

Right at that moment, the vibration comes from an incoming call. It should make me annoyed with his incessant attempts at reaching me, but only a whoosh of relief escapes me.

I pick up. “Hello?”

“You need to get home.”

A frown mars my eyebrows. “What are you doing at my apartment?”

“It doesn’t matter. You need to get here.”

There’s something urgent in his tone; I notice it in the way his voice becomes just a little higher.

“Why, Casper?” I ask, knowing he hates it when I use his real name, preferring I call him ‘baby’ or some other nickname.

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