The Huntress Book 1 Memories Read online

  THE HUNTRESS

  *

  MEMORIES

  MIHAELA GHEORGHE

  Published by Mihaela Gheorghe at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 Mihaela Gheorghe

  Prologue

  […], and just a few seconds to start running. I ran enough. The air is so frozen that I can barely breathe. It sticks in my nostrils. I instinctively looked over my shoulder to see if he followed me. I sigh, relieved when I see that he didn’t. So I’ll just see my way.

  Even under the threat of the weapon I wouldn't be able to stop my cry. The heavy clothes fall on the ground from my inert hands. Dane was very calm in front of me, a hand of his trapping my arm.

  “How...How did you manage to do that?” I babble.

  His orange, almost red lights in his eyes tell me that he's angry. He tightens his jaws.

  “I want to show you that it's pointless to run away from me.”

  His tone is literally a low growl. I shake my boots.

  “What... What are you?”

  My voice is not louder than a whisper.

  “Does it matter to you that much?”

  His tone has returned to normal now and he's more disappointed.

  “Does it really matter what I am?” He asks me again slowly. “I am something else. I am different. Does it matter what? A moment ago you were afraid of me!” He accuses me, though his voice is loaded with pain.

  “And I won’t deny it, but you have to admit and I had every reason in the world for that.”

  “Perhaps.” He admits quite cumbersome.

  I try to withdraw my arm from his grasp. He's too close. He stares deliberately.

  “You can get rid of me only if you specifically ask me, with your own mouth, to leave you alone and not see me again.” He tells me, stressing each word individually. “Is this what you really want?”

  The lump in my throat doesn't let me talk.

  “Tell me!” He insists. “Is this what you really want?”

  His tone is as if it has honey and poison. As it would suggest itself through the veil of my consciousness, through my brain interface, paralyzing my words. I cannot do anything but looking at him with dilated pupils. However, as he gets closer to me, I react instinctively and retire. In his golden eyes there almost glowing orange dots.

  “Just because I have the power to hurt you, it does not mean I'm going to do it.” He tells me. “Just because I have certain desires does not mean that I cannot control them.” He adds mesmerizing. “Therefore I want you to stop running away from me.”

  PART ONE

  MEMORIES

  Chapter One

  /’This pale face, illuminated only by the light of the two orange eyes, golden hair, and his voluntary chin, the lips that open in a grimace, shocked... His whole appearance returns in memory his name: Dane.. Now I know exactly who he was. But once with his recognition, the rest of my memories appear as well.

  Memories, once released, began to pour over me like a waterfall that I cannot stop. They now appear to me not only as flashes, but as sharp details, accompanied by sounds, smells, emotions. I willingly subjected to this imprisonment. I stay in this locked room, whose smell bothers me for enough time until now so that I can remember a past that it would be better left buried. However, these memories help me to keep myself hanging by a thread thinner than life itself. And if by reminding, I will succeed not to kill anyone in this family, if remembering will manage to quench my hatred and disgust, then... Then better to remember...’/

  Humans get used almost with everything. Why do I say almost? Well... I, for one, I'm used with things that many cannot get used. I talk about hunger, about the cold, about poverty, terror and physical abuse and more. I'm not talking about any hunger. I talk about that hunger that makes you have only 40 pounds to 1.75 meters tall. About that kind hunger that not only leaves you feeling your belly glued spine, but that just knocked your stomach literally and you bleed when spitting.

  About that hunger that gives dizziness and makes your nose bleed anemia. About that hunger that only tortures you without letting you actually die.

  Looking back now, I'm thinking that maybe it was better to stretch myself and let myself die of hunger. Anyway, I lived with this feeling almost every day of my life. But eventually I got used to living like that. Though I don't think there are many people who are successful.

  And I do not mean any cold. I do not mean the feeling you get when you just feel cold and you can rub your arms or hands together to warm them, or hop for the chill off your feet. This idea makes me smile. Because these conditions would have been a blessing to me. And of course I do not mean warm seasons. I mean the winter cold that penetrates your bones so strong, so that the slightest movement becomes a moan of pain accompanied by pain. I mean that cold that turns your skin looking like minced meat and your lips and other parts of your body in purple and black staffs. Worse was when I went to the river to wash. I had to break the ice over, rub me first with snow and then I had to really have the nerve to go into the water. And even worse was when I had to get out of the water. Now I wonder how I did not die of hypothermia. I guess I adapted in one way or another. So I've grown used to it.

  Poverty was part of my life as breath is necessary for someone to live. The old man managed to make for us a cardboard shelter downtown. Or it was my mother? I do not know. Because I do not remember dad other than drinking, always smelling of alcohol. Although where he did get the money for it, it’s still a mystery for me. Anyway, I did not dare ask him too many times this thing, because after that, the few hours I remained unconscious from his beatings. The cardboard under which we lived was still ragged and wet. The walking was a blanket. And that was torn, ragged and shabby. It never crossed my mind to ask my mother why we were so, and if we ever lived in another way, a better one. Anyway, got I used to.

  Perhaps I would’ve been better if I let mother receive all the garbage and ruptures from others who supposedly gave us alms. But I have told you from the beginning that humans get accustom with almost anything. Because although I have been near death so many times due to gaps, I could never get used to humility.

  I know, you'll say "The goat with old toad queue-and up! “ And perhaps you are right. But I didn't have the means to receive charity from others. Although if I would have felt that pity urged the people to behave so with us, it is likely that I may have swallowed my pride. But I could see how they acclimate themselves of disgust, their eyes squinted at us, with their nostrils and lips quivering contempt. It was enough that my mother was cleaning for them for a plate of food, or rinse for one penny. Anyway, she found it difficult to find someone to use her services, considering the fact that people epitomized us beggars, and all that my mother was trying to do was to work any for a piece of bread

  I don't know how much you have understood until now, but you know what I was even more afraid than my dad’s fists and belts?

  To have to go to school. If it was up to me, I would have never stepped into that place, full of individuals with airs and who had everything that looked at me and passed around me as if I were nothing more than a Toad. Hell, yes! I admit that I felt humiliated, with my stature too high, grass carp, due to lack of food and perhaps from other causes, with my hair in my eye for not to see their looks, dressed in the same tattered clothes and always wearing something that once was some chainsaw rubber.

  Teachers did not pay any attention to me. I am grinning now. For them, I was non-existent. I had my exams together with others and I think, for their desperation, I got better results than many others.

  “Learn, child, learn!” my mother always said to me. “Maybe you'll have the chance to get rid of here and of our lives.”


  I knew that it hurt her not being able to give me and to offer me more. For I often heard her crying at night. Even when my father abused her and she had to face his unwanted attention, she tried to refrain her sighs not to wake me up. I was all pretended sleeping and I've turned my back to them, trying to cover my ears so that I do not hear, trying to imagine other images than the ones that I had in my mind and which filled me with distaste: my father riding my mother.

  My hair is longer now. Much longer. I pass in the second high school year. It is the first day. I'm trying to distinguish my features into a little chunk of mirror that I found long ago. It doesn't make any sense. There's no way for me to go at school right from the first day. My raven black hair that continually comes in my eyes could not hide my broken and cracked mouth, or cheekbone skin, which is covered by all possible shades of purple with green and yellow. The memories of how I got my injuries come to my mind instantly.

  “Where are you, bitch?”

  That was my dad, drunk as usual, smelling of the cheapest alcohol. I do not even bother to answer. I do not tune out, as usual.

  “I said something, you fucking bitch!”

  I looked at him, puzzled. He usually sees his glass away, muttering something only he knew. Tonight he is different though. However, I still do not respond. Perhaps if I ignore him, as usual, he will do it as well.

  “You owe to respect me, bitch! I am your father and I struggled because of you both!”

  Anger besieges me immediately. I tried hard to ignore him, as I have done it for years, but I would not. I do not know why I get angry at a time, so badly and immediately. And to tell me that I must respect him, it seems to me too much. I turn to him with a sudden movement and I growled at him.

  “You bastard!”

  My anger is mixed with the distaste I usually feel when I am close to him. I'm trying to pass him without paying to him any more attention, hoping that he will do the same thing, and trying at the same time to master his anger. I'm used to him calling me in all possible ways that is not the question. I just can't stand to hear him telling me that I was to respect him. He sticks his hand in my hair and he pulls to my tears. He must not see that he hurt me, because I know he'll be happy and that my pain will give him satisfaction. I looked him in the eye with superiority.

  Although I knew that he will get angrier and worse, I did not expect him to hit me in the face with his fist up like he did. He hit me a few times with power, and then he left me alone when he saw my blood. He departs swearing. I shake, trying to keep my balance. My ears are ringing from the bumps and my face hurts badly.

  Now, in this shard of mirror, seeing the aftermath, I shrug. It's nothing. I skip one day. It's not as if I skipped the first time. Even if it's the first day of school. Better go to the River to take a bath.

  The autumn just came and I don't know how much warm time I'll ever get. Just thinking of the winter takes me with the shivers.

  “Hey, mom, you've got something to wash? I go by the river!”

  Not that we have too many clothes or rags to arrange, but at least I try to help her as much as I can.

  “Take those!“ She said.

  She hands me the ruptures she sells clothes. She did not look at me. She did not look at my face. I know she pities me. I know that she doesn't want me to see the tears in her eyes.

  By the river, it’s a pretty walk through the woods. And it's shady enough. It can also be animals nearby. But I never thought about it, and the dangers to which I could submit. I do not fear any longer. Anyone. The feeling of fear turned in disgust long time ago. Still thinking about how I would give a hearty beating to my dad if I would be stronger, I arrived at the river.

  I breathe deeply. I always liked this place. Where I am alone, away from cartons in which I supposedly have shelter, away from everyone who looks at me with disgust and circumspect. I throw the whole pile of clothes directly into the water. In the past, I have carried all kinds of stones and built a kind of washing machine. Water crashes up, and small dam forms a tiny whirlwind. That I made with large stones and boulders. It took me some time, because they were very heavy, but I did it, and it's done recently, as I said. I stitch my clothes and throw them all in there. A torn and ragged shirt and ripped jeans too. I do not wear any underwear. I throw myself in the water. Perhaps for others, it would be cool, but for me, unlike it is in winter, when ice needles sting me, it's really warm. I look upon on the sky, thinking what to do with my life.

  I'd like to go far away, where no one knows me. Maybe I'll find something to work and I would be able to live just fine. I don't need too many things so that I can live. It is anyway what I shall do. That's what I would have done a long time ago, if it had not been for my mother. Or, perhaps I shall leave anyway and after a while I’ll take her with me. Because she’s getting old and she is no longer able to do too much. As a matter of fact, she isn't really that old, because I'm only 16 years old, but she lived the life of an old one, and she's about to become powerless.

  My thoughts slip again to school. I'm sick of it. Not sick of it as an institution, but of the ambient from there. I repeat, I'm used to many things, but not with humiliation. I can see them calling out for me to the Catalog: "Patricia Geoffe!" Well, although I find it ridiculous my name, and I prefer to be told “Pat, nor “Patricia” or “Geoffe”, will be there to answer “Present”. I giggle to myself. Who could call me “Pat”, anyway? I have no friends. I never had and I doubt that I ever will. Anyway, who needs them? Between a plate of cooked, good, warm steaming, food which I could only imagine how it looks like, and friends, I'll immediately take the plate. My entrails are beginning to stir again, noisy. I didn't give them anything for a few days, except water. I turn back on my belly and I move a little my hands and feet. In front of me there is a small waterfall. I freeze, all of a sudden.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Behind the curtain of the water, a pair of eyes is watching me. The first feeling I had was that it was an animal. But it's not; it is a human being like me. We look at each other circumspect; perhaps both a little scared, separated only by the curtain of the water. I think now that perhaps I had to do something to cover me. Because I was stark naked. And from what I observed, though not very clearly, so was he. Not that I am being rude.

  Well, okay, I am rude. However, I have a boyish figure; and if it wouldn’t be for my hair that gives away, and the crack between my legs, I could easily pass as a tall, skinny boy. I'm not shy. In my family it was never known what shame or privacy need mean.

  Since the guy did not respond, nor does he make the slightest motion, I ask him one more time:

  “Who are you?”

  I start to feel pissed. Here it was my place. Only mine. The sanctuary where I could escape from the whole world.

  “I warn you that this my place and I am not going to share it with anyone. So look, I turn my face out, so you can go out and you buzz off after that, okay?”

  I turn my back to him so that he will not feel embarrassed, waiting to hear him coming out of the water. After a few moments of silence, I started to feel ridiculous. I looked back again at him. Perhaps he's deaf?

  “Can you hear me?” I make a sign with my hand by the ear.”You are not deaf, eh?”

  My stomach is protesting again, but this time in silence. And the sound of water is quite strong.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks me.

  I stare at him. I know I did not have the guts rumbling, even if they moved. And his question has nothing to do with what I said. But I got pissed. Again. Badly. Like every time someone, anyone, noticed things about me, any things.

  “I’m not hungry.” I'm lying. “And I told you to go away!”

  I don't distinguish the guy very well, but I am well aware that he is very tall and blond hair. His skin is very pale. His hair could be blond or light brown, but now it seemed almost black, as wet it as it was. And his appearance is quite muscular. He could have easily hurt me. And though I fee
l as if I sit face to face with a beast, I still do not feel any fear. Perhaps it's just what you feel inside when you stand naked in front of someone.

  “What's your name?”

  I clacked my lips, disgruntled. I think it's the longest conversation I've been having in my life with a stranger. So I do what I do when I get angry. I ignore him completely. I turn to the clothes washed by now. I rinse them and put on my jeans and shirt as they are, wet. Don't bother me. How much rain, I endured in my life... That's nothing. And until I’ll get "home", my clothes will dry up on me. Without realizing it, I throw a wink toward the waterfall. And although I have not heard any sound that would give me to understand that the guy would be out of the water, however, he is no longer there.

  I shrug of indifference. All the way home, I had the impression that someone is behind me. When you're accustomed to living alone, it is as if you are developing a sense in addition that warns you that somebody is with you. And although I turned several times to look back, I have not seen anyone. However, I can swear that someone was watching me.

  Chapter Two

  Finally, my face healed. It's time for me to go to school. I have slightly crooked because it's raining. Fall has entered the world title. I pluck a few leaves of mint that I know since I was a child, and I conscientiously chew them. I lift my arm and inhale deeply. No smell of sweat. It doesn’t really smell of anything, but as long as I do not stink, it's okay.

  “Bye, Mom!”

  I do not wait for someone to answer.

  Although most were accustomed to see me like this, there still are some who stared at me. I gather my anger and fists. I'm fairly pissed anyhow from the wet clothes. I’m lucky that inside it is warm. I let the hair on my face with a slight gesture of the head, looking only and only down. As I said, not of shame, but I just don’t want to see their disgusted eyes. Because I don't know what I'd do if I lose this self-control which I found increasingly harder to keep.