The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep by Laurie Stolarz (summer reads txt) 📕

described as having lost? I close my eyes, thinking how scared she seemed the last time we chatted. And still I felt the need to make her feel worse.

My cell phone chimes. A reminder to take my meds. I swallow one down, hoping to get some sleep. But first, just a little more journaling.

THEN

38

Somehow, I managed to climb back up, onto the wall of the well. Miraculously, I was able to swing out and grab the chain again. Keeping a solid grip, I kicked outward. My feet met the cold brick surface.

I scaled the wall—right, left, right—refusing to look down, even when my hip froze up. From the fall? From too much straining? A stabbing pain shot down the length of my leg to the back of my knee.

Part of me wanted to quit. Another part feared getting to the top and what I would find. Would he be there waiting? Would he slide the lid closed just as my head crested the surface?

No, said the storyteller inside my head. Your parents will be up there. They’re already waiting. Just you wait and see.

What was that?

A squeaking sound.

I peered upward. A glimmer of light shone at the top of the well. Was it daytime again? How long had I been climbing?

Birds chirped from somewhere above. I was getting closer. I moved quicker, repeating a chant: Left, right, left; one, two, three. You’re almost there, then you’ll be free.

My palms singed. Meanwhile, a cooling sensation crawled at the back of my neck. At first, I thought it was the sprinkle of rain. But soon I realized what it really was. I tilted my face upward, able to feel the cool, fresh air hitting my skin and able to see that the sky above had brightened to a silver color that reminded me of doves, light enough to peep the overgrown bushes that branched over the well’s edge.

I breathed them in. It was almost too much, like sensory overload—the smells, the sounds …

My pulse raced. My arms wouldn’t stop shaking. Still, I took a few more steps, having finally reached the opening. I hooked my foot over the rim of the well and drew myself closer, kicking outward, maneuvering my body onto the ledge, then over the side.

My feet hit the ground. The sensation of tall grass, like crawling spiders, nibbled at my skin. I looked all around, my eyes struggling to take in the landscape that surrounded me: the trees, the brush, the bushes and blooms …

Too much to see.

Way too much to hear.

Were those sticks breaking? Was that someone whistling? Was that the peck-peck-pecking of a bird?

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

Swish, swish.

My head hurt. My ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The fresh air in my lungs seemed suffocating somehow. I began forward, gasping for breath, searching for a path.

Where was I? Where was the guy who’d taken me? Still in these woods? Watching from afar?

I began down a trail, swiping branches and brush from in front of my eyes.

It was so cold. I felt so chilled.

My eyes ran raw. My skin had turned to gooseflesh. Where was the fairy-tale book? Why hadn’t I thought to take it with me somehow? Or the troll doll?

My muscles tremored. I’d never felt so tired: an all-encompassing fatigue that distorted my judgment. The pine trees I could’ve sworn were still a few feet away were suddenly in my face; I collided with one. The dirt-laden path that seemed to bend to the left really went right; I stepped on a burr.

Sticks broke somewhere behind me. The sound of footsteps?

The caw of an overhead bird?

The screech of a wild animal?

The panting of my breath as I arrived at a fork.

I went right, stepping on something sharp. I let out a yelp. Meanwhile, the landscape dimmed, as though a veil had dropped down in front of my face. Was it approaching dusk? Or was the darkening inside my head?

How long had I been running? Four hours? Forty minutes? Did I ever take a break? I’m pretty sure I did. I remember the sensation of tall grass and weeds brushing against my face, poking into my eyes, making me sneeze, as I leaned back on a fresh bed of soil, imagining myself like a snake, camouflaged by nature.

Unless maybe I didn’t stop. Maybe that was just a fantasy inside my head, as I continued on the path, trying to get away. One thing I know for sure: The bottoms of my feet were raw and burning. My side ached, below my ribs, a jolting pain that caused me to hobble.

Moments later, I heard it: a high-pitched voice. A happy sound.

A girl’s laughter?

Someone let out a crying-moaning wail. It took me a beat to realize it was me. My cry. My tears. Something in my heart burst. I pictured confetti shooting out from my chest.

I’d reached a clearing: a carpet of grass, a rock sofa, a pit for a fire. And a water fountain, where I drank and drank, as my jaw ached and my shirt got wet. Meanwhile, two girls stopped doing cartwheels. And a woman with her dog turned in my direction.

Beyond them, the path continued. I hobbled forward, past the woman with a baby carriage and the tourists taking pictures. Past the old man reading a book. And the lady picking soda cans from the trash.

“Are you okay?” someone called, a high-pitched voice.

“She isn’t wearing any shoes!” another voice shouted.

The sun was setting. Eventually, it turned dark. I ran under lights and tore across streets. I was still miles from home and should’ve stopped along the way—to call my aunt, to phone the police. But I didn’t stop, even though I told myself I would at nearly every corner. My body kept on moving—until I found my way “home.”

NOW

39

I roll over in bed, able to smell something. The scent of burning chemicals hangs heavily in the air. I sit up and click on my night table light. The smoke detector by the door remains in neutral. It isn’t