Page 13 of The Sanguine Selection
Drum…
What are these things? Half human, half animal? A mutation? Or are these creatures the very reason Papa has kept me hidden all these years? To ensure my safety from monsters.
Drum…
The pounding sounds come quicker now and a snarl erupts somewhere close. Goosebumps rise along my skin as terror itself twits within me.
I should never have come.
The padding of swift feet sounds all around me and it takes every ounce of bravery I have to force my legs to move. A whisper of my footprints still remains and I head back the way I came but think twice. If these are the creatures that bit father, then perhaps they might have followed me here, walking along the very prints I’m retracing.
Forging a new path, I dart through the bare trees, racing towards where I hope my home is. Here, my pathway isn’t marked and everything starts to look the same as if I’m moving in circles. A black bird leaps from a low branch, its caw heightening my fear. The snow deepens, my legs sinking to my knees with each excruciating step.
I’m not going to make it.
A howl emerges from my left, closer this time. More snapping branches, a deep growl, and the clang of metal as if blades were being drawn.
Drum…
Breaths panting, causing a smokey mist to emit from my lungs, I beg and plead with my body to keep moving, to fight through this cold freezing my limbs. A shadow runs beside me, not fifty meters away, a hairy beast racing through the trees, a silhouette of a demonic being rising from the depths of hell to chase me.
Hunt me.
This is this the end, I think as I surge past the pain, eyes searching the thick woods for evidence of my home. I shift to my right, away from the huffing beast, back towards the marked path, and see a trunk nicked from my blade. My previous footsteps marking the snow have been worn over by other prints—thick-soled shoes and clawed paws. I don’t stop to look closer.
Drum…
My heart rattles in my chest, lungs aching from sucking in breathfuls of cold air. No longer am I able to feel the tips of my ears, the end of my nose, or my pinky toes. I’m suffocating under all this fur though I know to shed it would ensure my death.
Howling. Howling all around. I’m so scared. Papa was right all along. The world is no place for a girl like me.
Exhaustion claws at me, making my legs feel as if they weigh two stones a piece. I fear I won’t be able to go on and curse myself for failing Papa. After all he’s done for me to keep me safe, and I can’t even survive one single night outside alone.
And then I see it, our meager home hidden between the tall trees. A surge of energy rushes through me and I barrel towards it, desperate to outrun what’s hunting me. I yank the door open and slam it shut behind me, resting my back against the cool wood as if it could somehow save me from the terrors beyond. It has all these years. I can only hope it still will now.
Otherwise, Papa and I are both as good as dead.
7
Oxana
Safe.
I’m safe—at least I think I am after nearly half an hour of panting with my back pressed against the front door. Nothing comes barreling through nor does anything break the windows rattling in the shrieking wind, but that doesn’t stop the haunting sound of howling from ringing in my ears. It’s only the garbled cry of anguish from Papa that draws me away with reluctance. I dash into his room to find him collapsed on the floor, his clothes torn and bloody.
“Papa!”
His clothes hang in a shredded mess of rags from his limp form. He jerks as if in agonizing pain, his body contorting while he twitches. Papa’s eyes open, his mouth stretched into a silent scream, before his eyelids flutter shut again. Only occasionally does a sound come out, a keen yip one might hear from the mouth of a dog abused by its owner, and what originally drew me into his room.
He's all but naked, and I suppress the urge to cover my eyes since I’ve never seen a nude man before. Papa always took care to make sure that he was covered properly as I was, too, but there's no time for modesty right now. Rushing to his side, I link his arm over my shoulder, sitting him upright. He’s boiling hot, his skin slick against mine. He groans, the motion crunching his wound together as blood and puss seep out.
I know I'm only adding to his pain, but I must get him off the cold and drafty floor and back into the bed where he can be elevated and more easily taken care of. “Papa!” I scream his name and shake his shoulders, hoping to rouse him, but it's like he's in another world and not able to hear anything I'm saying. He's semi-awake, but definitely not lucid, and trying to get him back into his bed is a nearly insurmountable task on my part.
When I finally succeed after nearly an hour of fruitless attempts, Papa promptly rolls back off the bed, and I howl in frustration. The sound reminds me of what chased me earlier, and I freeze, having forgotten about my escapade outside the house. I glance over my shoulder, my hands shaking in remembrance, but the only noise I hear comes from the living area. It’s the crackling embers of the dying fire.
Shadows dance along the narrow hall beyond Papa’s room, but none belong to the monster I’ve attributed the howling to. Sighing in relief, I turn back to Papa and steel my spine for the task ahead. If I got him into the bed once, I can do it again. It’s just a matter of perseverance, but my strength is waning fast. My limbs tremble in exhaustion, the task is no easy feat, and it takes two more tries before I get him in the center of the bed so that he doesn't fall right back off.
Briefly, I wonder if perhaps he's drawn to the cool floor in his feverish state, an unconscious attempt to quell the raging fire burning in his body. I leave Papa to grab some rags while checking the meager amount of water we have left. It's tepid from sitting near the fire and not nearly cold enough for what I need. The smart thing would be to grab a bucket of snow, but I'm too afraid to even open the door to scoop some up.
