Into The Woods

CW: Extreme domestic abuse, gore, manipulation, kidnapping

My arms hang like dead weight. Warm liquid snakes from my temple, through my hair, and into my ear. Blood. I try to lift my hands, but pain rips through my arms. They collapse back into my lap. I’ve propped myself against the truck door’s armrest, fighting to stay upright. My fingers glisten red, the zip tie biting deep, swelling them numb. The white-gold wedding ring on my left hand gleams no longer dull, now, drowned in crimson.

A high-pitched ringing fills my skull. My head throbs in brutal pulses. Through the haze, Clyde Moody’s “Shenandoah Waltz” hums from the radio, his favorite song. A memory flashes: his hands on my waist, a gentle spin under warm lights. Then darkness, and the blow I never saw coming.

Before the darkness, there were signs.

His silences had grown heavier in the weeks before tonight, following me from room to room like something alive. His touch lingered too long, no longer gentle, but claiming. Possessive. I told myself it was stress. That love just changed shape sometimes. That fear didn’t always mean danger.

The argument that started this drive had been quiet. My voice is shaking. He's eerily calm. When I tried to open the door, he laughed and said we just needed air. Space. Time. I watched the familiar streets give way to trees and told myself I was being dramatic.

I was wrong.

The smooth blacktop gives way to a gravel road, jarring me against the door. Sycamore branches sway in the fading light as the sky bruises from orange to indigo. Darkness closes in.

My eyes drift, heavy. Snap open. Drift again. Tears slide hot down my face. I won’t see another sunrise.

The truck lurches to a stop. He shifts gears—two-wheel to four. We grind down a muddy track that dies in a clearing. Diesel stings my nose. The engine cuts. Silence swallows us.

His door groans open. Slams shut. Footsteps crunch closer, deliberate, every step pounding in my chest. The back door creaks, branding the sound into my memory.

I want to scream, but duct tape seals my mouth. His hands seize the rope binding me and rip me from the truck. The ground slams my spine, cold and wet. Pain tears through me. Bruises bloom where I already ache.

The door slams. He looms above me, bends low, and grabs my face. I clamp my eyes shut, resisting. His grip tightens until bone grinds. I break and open them. His eyes—once soft—burn now with something feral. His grin curls, wicked. Wanting.

The rope scalds my skin as he drags me. Weeds shred my clothes, stabbing my cuts. He hums “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” his gravelly voice crawling over my spine. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for anything, mercy, a miracle.

He hauls me up as easily as lifting a small child. My head sinks against his chest. His breath heats my ear, reeks of cheap whiskey. My cheek presses leather, stiff and smooth, a belt. A shoulder holster. Something hard jabs my ribs.

A gun.

Think. Breathe. Fight.

My pulse hammers so loud I’m sure he can hear it. The rope bites deeper as I shift, skin tearing where it rubs raw. My arms tremble, strength leaking away, but I force them still. Panic wastes time. Time gets you killed.

I scan the dark for anything, movement, sound, an opening—while he hums behind me, unhurried. That calm terrifies me more than the violence. It means he thinks this is already over.

He’s wrong.

My body wants to give up. Knees threaten to buckle. Darkness waits patiently at the edges of my vision. But something else stirs beneath the fear—anger, small and burning. Fed by every time he told me I was nothing without him.

Not anymore.

Water rushes nearby. His boots thud onto wood, hollow and creaking. A bridge. The river roars below, swollen and fast. Lightning bugs flicker along the bank, stitching green light into the dark as if the earth itself is breathing.

I inhale slowly. Exhale steadily. My fingers grope the leather strap. Find the steel frame. The backstrap.

Hope ignites. One chance. One breath. One shot...

The bridge groans beneath us.

His body shifts. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough. The hum in his throat falters, then stops. I feel the moment he knows. The moment everything changes.

I wrench the gun free.

Leather tears. Metal scrapes. The sound rings louder than the rushing water below. My grip slips, slick with blood, fingers numb and shaking. The bridge creaks again as we stagger, locked together.

He swears softly.

His elbow slams into my ribs. Air leaves me in a broken gasp. The gun dips. Nearly gone. I clutch it like it’s the last solid thing in the world.

Lightning bugs blink and vanish. Blink again.

He reaches for my throat. Fingers close. Pressure builds. Stars burst behind my eyes as the water roars louder. Darkness presses in.

No!

I raise the gun.

The shot tears the night open.

Recoil jolts up my arm. The sound ricochets through the trees. He jerks back, grip loosening, breath tearing from him in a sharp, unfamiliar sound.

The bridge screams. Boards rattle. Something cracks.

Above us, the stars thin into pinpricks of light, fading as the sky softens from black to deep blue. Dawn edging in, slow and stubborn.

He lunges.

The rope snaps tight. Wood slams my spine. The gun slips from my grasp and skids across the planks toward the edge.

For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

Then movement—too much, too fast. His weight shifts. A body collides with the railing. There’s a cry, sharp, cut short—a splash echoes below, swallowed by the current.

Silence follows.

Lightning bugs drift closer to the bridge, their glow reflected in the dark water. The river carries the sound away. Carries everything.

I lie there, gasping, staring as the sky lightens inch by inch. The stars vanish one by one, erased by morning.

I don’t move.

Time loosens its grip. Somewhere beyond the trees, an engine turns over. Or maybe it’s only the river. Maybe it’s only my heartbeat, finally slowing.

I close my eyes and breathe.

Once.

Again.