When she wakes, she’s on the opposite end of the bed, and her bonnet—which she wears to protect her fragile curls from her plagued tossing and turning—rests on her pillow, where her head should lie.
But her pillow, the case, the sheets, and—when she peers over the edge of the bed—the carpet too, are not the same off-white they were when she fell asleep last night. They’re stained a greenish brown, and it doesn’t take her long to find the culprits. She pulls her knees to her chin, dragging her feet, caked in mud, across the bed and leaving a trail.
“Oh, God.” She sighs and tries to run her fingers through her hair, but they get tangled in something other than her usual curly knots.
Twigs. Short, skinny, broken-off twigs, tucked in her hair like stylish Bobbi pins. One by one, she plucks them out, careful not to tug too harshly on her curls.
One, two . . . five . . . eleven . . . fifteen . . .
The more she collects in her lap, the more she finds in her hair, along with leaves, dry, brittle, and crumbing when she tries to pick them, creating an even bigger mess.
After all these years, had she really gone back to the woods?
She turns her attention to her journal on her dresser. She must write this down. The pills don’t work, the alcohol. She’s graduated to sleepwalking.
But at least she’s stopped dreaming.
Yes, if one good thing can come from this, it’s a night without seeing his face lit up by the flames of that bond fire. The last time she trusted the trees to keep a secret.
That, she calls peace.
When she rises, she catches the first glimpse of herself in the mirror, and all the air escapes her lungs as if being squeezed in an invisible force’s fist, and breathing becomes a chore. She buckles to the floor, missing her bed completely, her knees popping underneath the sudden weight of her body. More than just her hair, her feet, her eyes like soulless dark pockets. On the front of her night shirt a stain, bright crimson, stretches from the bottoms of her breasts, across her stomach, past her navel and bleeds onto the elastic waistband of her pajama pants.
Blood. But no pain or sign of an open wound reveals to her that it is not her own.
“Oh, God. Oh, God.”
The pills, the alcohol, the dream she couldn’t stop dreaming until . . .
“I went back to the woods.”
Where his face still lives. The heat of the fire, his hot breath. Her screams stifled by his sticky, sweaty palm on her mouth . . .
With all her strength lost in her legs, she clings onto the fitted sheet and pulls herself onto the bed, flings back the covers hiding the evidence of what happened to her last night.
Evidence that could incriminate if anyone were to find her like this.
You know what they would think. You wanted it . . .
Things keep happening to her. The mud, the blood, the sleepwalking. Things she hoped would stop with the pills, the alcohol.
The dream, his face, his weight, his naked skin . . .
Bigger than her hand. Weighty. Cool as night. One side covered with moss painted with the same blood she wears until she rolls it over with her fingers for a closer look.
His face, his face . . .
He had no face. And she remembers. What happened. Not to her, but to him. When she went back to the woods. To end the dream, recurrent ever since the night he took her to that bond fire, led her deeper into the wilderness, away from the crowd, pinned her against the tree, pounded between her legs for her to let him in.
One stroke, wild-eyed bewilderment.
Two strokes, a gash as deep and as wide as this rock.
“It’s not moss.” Squishy, oozing between her fingers just as it oozed from the side of his head.
The pills, the alcohol.
His face . . . Gone.
She wonders now, will she sleep?