My feet move faster. Faster, until my injured leg screams in agony. I don’t want to see anyone. I want the rain to cleanse me. I tear my clothes off and leave them where they fall. I don’t know if I’ll ever return, and I don’t care, either. Anything that’s not now, is irrelevant. One foot in front of the other. Twigs, leaves, mud. My toes dig into the soil. My hands pick up clay and rub it on my arms, my breasts, my stomach, while I keep limping awkwardly. My slowness drives me mad. My being here drives me mad. I need to get away, but I can’t. I kneel, bury my face in the dirt and roll onto my back. I don’t want to see my scars. I’d rather be dirty than what I really am: ugly, cut-up, crisscrossed, dotted. I am the manifestation of violence.
I am The Fog.
Clay turns my skin and hair grey, patched with the red and brown hues of dead foliage. I want to be an old tree, giving birth to leaves and blossoms, providing a home for beetles and moss.
Runner calls for me, his anxious voice coming nearer with every breath. He walks past, not five metres from where I lie, yet he doesn’t see me. I close my eyes and imagine butterflies landing on my stomach. How can I make my toes root deeply into the earth? Wouldn’t life be wonderful if birds built a nest in my hair and on my outstretched arms?
His footfalls approach and come to a halt next to me.
I open my eyes.
He kneels. ‘How can I… I wish I could…’ He rakes a hand through his hair then drops his arm to his side. ‘Micka?’
‘I want to be a tree,’ I croak.
He lies down, his shoulder touching mine. Together, we gaze up at the foliage waving in the mild breeze. ‘Do you want me to leave?’ he asks.
Do I?
I sit up. Dirt and leaves are covering me, hiding me. I gaze down at him. His arm is folded behind his head and there’s a deep sadness in his eyes. But no sign of the turmoil that threatens to rip me apart. I need his calmness now. Need it like a drowning girl needs a steady float atop the wild ocean.
I touch his chest. He observes my fingers trailing down his shirt, pushing it up a little, and dipping into the hollow of his navel. I wonder when he’ll push my hand away.
But he doesn’t.
He pulls off his shirt, drops it among twigs and mud, and reaches out to pick a leaf off my stomach — a soft touch. Heat rushes through me. I want to feel his weight on me. I want him to push all air from my aching chest. I want to be pressed down into the soft forest floor, my body trembling against his.
His hand wanders farther up and picks a leaf off my right breast, then caresses the dirt off my lips. His gaze is insecure.
I know why — because it’s only me underneath the camouflage.
My disguise gives me courage. I run my hand up along the line of black hair from his stomach to the soft curls on his chest. He catches my hand and kisses my dirty fingers. I lean closer to caress his face, leaving grey trails along his cheekbones and in his beard. I’m surprised at its silky feel.
He picks a leaf off my left breast then rests his palm there. I bite my tongue so as not to sigh. The toxic pearl clicks against my teeth. My heart is knocking against the rough skin of Runner’s hand. I lean closer. My face is only a handbreadth from his now, and I can see the patterns in his dark irises, his wide-open pupils. And I can see my own reflection there — I’m not pretty.
But will he kiss me anyway?
Would he, please?
When his fingers trail softly down my neck and his gaze wanders to my lips, I pounce. Our teeth collide. Our kiss is hungry, like two starved souls feeding on each other. He tastes of forest and fresh soil.
I grab his hand and push it between my legs. His fingers curl inside me as he inhales my sighs and presses his body closer to mine. Arching against him, I swallow his moans and explode only moments later.
I don’t want to look at him. I want to come again and again, scratch the itch, fuck his fingers, fuck the weeping away. It’s stuck in my throat, chafing it, aching, cutting my air off.
I press my face to his neck and a sob escapes my mouth.
When he gently pulls his hand away, I look up. I want to say that I’m sorry, that I’m disgusted with myself, that… But he silences me with a kiss, holds me in his arms and shares his warmth and calmness.
I cry until his skin is damp with my tears. All the while, he holds me to him, never telling me that all will be okay, never telling me that it’s time to stop weeping, to pull myself together.
How can such a small life weigh so heavily that my chest doesn’t know how to breathe? All the people I’ve killed… I don’t even know how many. Thirty? Fifty? But this little one who was already dying, the most fragile of all, is killing me. Every breath I draw across Runner’s skin feels like my last. I’m losing a battle. I want to curl up until the forest eats me, until beetles and maggots dig through my flesh and I can rest in peace.
Peace.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful and sweet?
I inhale Runner’s scent and realise it is not only Ezra I’m doing this for, not just her I want to protect. It’s him — mostly him. How stupid is this? He’s the expert. I’m a bloody novice.
I press my forehead to the crook of his neck, not daring to kiss him there, because suddenly it feels as if this closeness is too much. I can’t handle the softness of his touch. It breaks me. He is not mine.
I’m ashamed I used his pity to get myself off.
Swallowing, I push away and stand. ‘I’ll kill the fuckers. All of them.’
He blinks and wipes mud off his eyebrow. Before he can open his mouth and comment on my freakout, I say, ‘I’ll wash. Briefing in a minute, then we’ll get a move on. Kat needs us.’