Discarded by M. Hunter (the reading list .txt) 📕

failed to push them aside. The cheese knife she was still gripping tightly in her right hand would offer little resistance if the two of them jumped her.

A twig snapping somewhere to her left instantly froze her movement while she tried to determine where it had come from and what could have caused it. She tried to hold her breath, but she could barely manage it for more than a few seconds, and then her lungs would burn and she’d have to inhale again. Surely they’d be able to hear the sound of her hot breath, or even see the plumes of it as the condensation rose in the rapidly cooling air. She closed her eyes, straining to hear any sound that wasn’t the thunder of her heart against her ribcage or her breathlessness.

Silence returned to the forest and she pictured her pursuers paused in their pursuit, listening for the sound of her movement. If neither of them moved, would they remain frozen like statues all night? Deciding that every second counted, Joanna took flight once more, charging into the darkness, her arms crossed in front of her face to offer what little protection they could.

Nettles and thorns scratched at her bare legs, and in hindsight making a break for it in the sequined party dress hadn’t been a good idea either. Why had she been so impatient? She had convinced Chez to take her outside for a walk, and had she not made her move and simply returned to the caravan, maybe a better chance would have presented itself tomorrow when she was better prepared.

Her right trainer struck a stump protruding from the black floor, and she lurched forwards, stretching out her arms and somehow managing to break her fall with only grazed hands. She could hardly breathe, the air unable to enter her lungs quickly enough to dilute the lactic acid building in her calves and thighs. She curled into a ball on the floor, hoping anyone passing would mistake her for a frightened animal or bush. She could barely see her hand in front of her face down here, so what chance would Grey and Mr Brown have?

She remained tucked up on the rough ground, composing herself, and all the time listening out for the sound of snapping twigs and voices. It had to have been ten minutes by now, hadn’t it?

Get up, she willed. Staying still wouldn’t help her get home. Chez had offered a head start, and resting here was throwing away that chance a second at a time. Grey and Mr Brown were much taller and would probably swallow the distance between them in half the time it had taken her, so there was no more time she could waste. If she could just make it to the stream, she felt confident she’d be closer and able to up her speed.

Driving her palms into the rough terrain, she took five deep breaths, and then forced herself up, careful not to grunt with the exertion. But the ground before her was already darker and it wouldn’t be long before the still blue sky over her head darkened, and then it would be impossible to see anything.

Suddenly she spotted a gap in the trees ahead, and was that…? Yes, the ground seemed to shimmer and flow through the clearing. Upping her speed and diving through the space, she found herself on a stony path, a fast-flowing stream beside it. With no time to lose, she immediately turned right and tried to find an even pace without breaking into a noisy run.

It was slightly lighter here where the trees on either side of the water separated at the top, rather than entwining, and the sky reflected off the murky water. The pathway was barely half a metre wide, and large bushes of nettles formed a barrier to the trees to her right, but there was no safety barrier stopping her from falling into the stream to her left either. Twisted tree roots protruded from the ground in web-like fashion; chipped stones in charcoal, silver, orange, and brown crunched beneath her trainers as she moved as swiftly as her dwindling energy would allow; bare branches, like skeleton fingers, hung down, waiting to snatch her up. Thick green reeds danced in the flow of the stream, and the occasional fish plopped and splashed as it battled against the current; the stream stank of damp and decaying matter. As she looked ahead of her for any sign of a bridge, it became clear just how precarious a situation she now found herself in.

She’d turned right onto the path, but was that what Chez had said? Or had he said to head left? She genuinely couldn’t remember, which meant there was every chance she wasn’t heading towards the town like he’d said – assuming he’d told her the truth in the first place. Maybe the directions he’d actually given would lead her straight back to the camp. And if that was the case, then he definitely wouldn’t have waited for ten minutes before informing his companions that she’d bolted for it, which meant they were probably circling nearby somewhere, waiting to strike. Maybe that had been their plan all along: lead her to the stream, where they’d throw her in, never to be found again.

Then suddenly, from out of nowhere, she spotted a wooden bridge up ahead. No longer caring about the sound of footfalls, she broke into a jog, willing her legs to move quicker, allowing her brain to finally believe that things would be okay. If she could get over the bridge and find the road into the town, she would simply stop the first person she spotted and explain who she was; she didn’t know her home phone number, but she could tell the person her name and address, and he or she could then phone the police and have her taken home. If she told her parents how sorry she was about going to the newsagent’s shop