Page 3 of January Bell

Which is why, I suppose, it’s a trap—because you don’t see it. That’s the whole point.

“Help.” I cry out, hoping, for the first time, that Zan will come running.

He doesn’t come running.

He doesn’t come flying.

Nobody is coming, especially not me.

“Help,” I yell again, flailing around, trying to get loose, only succeeding in spinning around like fishing bait.

Simply thinking the word bait makes me fall silent. Bait is not something I want to compare myself too, but I think it might be all too close to reality.

And now, unluckily for me, all I can think about are the awful horror movies my ex loved. Blood pounds in my ears as I attempt to slow my breathing, conserve my energy, or whatever the fuck you’d call silently weeping while dangling by one leg.

At some point, I pass out.

When I come to—barely conscious—it’s twilight, dark pressing in on all sides. Behind me, a crash sounds, a crackling in the underbrush that could be footsteps.

God, I hope it’s footsteps.

“Zan,” I say weakly. “I’m so sorry; I was wrong, please cut me down, I need you.”

I scream as I spin, coming face-to-face with the thing crunching through the forest.

This isn’t good.

Not good at all.