Page 54 of Breaking Isolde
A voice—her voice—says: “Run, Issy.”
But I’m not a kid anymore. My arms are long, my hands scabbed over, nails bitten raw. Now we’re at the edge of the old dock, night falling. There are figures on the water, shapes moving under the surface, but I can’t see faces. Casey is gone. I can’t find her.
I turn, trying to call out, but my throat is full of mud. Every sound comes out a croak.
A flash of white at the tree line—someone watching. Someone in a mask.
No, not a mask. Just a face I can’t see.
A hand grabs my shoulder, fingernails biting in. I whirl and it’s Casey again, but her eyes are wrong. Too black, too big. Her lips pull tight.
“Run,” she says. “Now.”
I want to run, but I can’t move. My feet are stuck, caught by roots that wrap my ankles, squeeze until it hurts.
She tries to shove me, but her hands pass through. Like she’s a ghost. Like I’m already the one left behind.
The water is up to my knees now, then my waist. It’s thick, heavy, not water at all but something slow and sticky. Oil? Blood? I try not to think about it, but the smell is real, copper and chemical.
From the trees, the shapes step out. They’re wearing white, all of them, even the men. Their faces are blank, too bright to look at. I can’t see their eyes, but I know they’re looking at me.
Casey grabs my hand again, squeezes. Her nails are sharp enough to cut.
“I can’t come with you this time, Issy,” she says. “But you have to go.”
I try to scream, but my jaw is locked. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
The water is rising, up to my chin now. Casey’s face slips under. Her hair floats on the surface for a second, then vanishes.
I kick, thrash, anything to get air. My lungs burn.
Suddenly the water’s gone, and I’m lying on cold ground, on my back, staring up at empty sky.
I roll over. Dirt in my mouth. Blood in my nose. My ears ring.
I crawl, scrambling, and every inch of me is wrong—my bones don’t line up, my skin doesn’t fit right. I try to stand but the ground is soft, sucking at my knees. I look down: the grass is hair, matted and damp. The soil is teeth and bone.
I scream, finally, and the sound is real.
The dream skips again. I’m running, legs heavy, arms pumping. The woods are alive, full of voices, all chanting the same word: “Run. Run. Run.”
I look down and I’m in the white dress, the one from the file, from the ceremony. It’s stained, ripped at the hem, but I’m still wearing it.
I don’t know who’s chasing me, but I can feel them getting closer. Every breath is a countdown.
Branches whip my face, slice my arms. I taste blood. I keep going.
Casey’s voice is everywhere, bouncing off the trees: “Faster, Issy. You’re almost there.”
But I’m not. The trees are endless. The ground is a treadmill, never letting me gain an inch.
There’s a clearing ahead, bright with moonlight. I aim for it, lungs on fire.
I burst through, stumble and fall to my knees. The clearing is ringed with faces, every one a mirror of mine, but all wrong—mouths too wide, eyes sewn shut. They’re all in white, all of them, and they point at me in unison.
I want to beg them to stop. I want to wake up.
Footsteps behind me. Heavy, deliberate.
