Chapter Text
Mary swung her leg over the seat of her bike and kicked off of the dirt under her, her feet finding the pedals. The dusty earth beneath her clouded up around her bare legs, billowing around her bike tires as her bleeding feet began pumping the pedals steadily.
She tossed her small bag into the basket tied to her handlebars as her aching legs picked up the pace, spurring her forward quicker. Her fingers trembled and shook as she gripped the textured rubber on the handles, and she squeezed them harder until her knuckles turned white.
Her unsteady hands caused the bike to swerve slightly as it hurtled down the dirt road. As she sped faster, the brittle grass and loose dirt swirled beneath her. The wounds and scratches on her legs began to itch as the dirt settled into them.
The blazing beginning-of-summer sun beat down on her back, causing the slashes that peeked from beneath her flimsy dress to throb.
She felt a trickle of blood creep down the back of her neck, sticking to her sweat-damp hair. The intoxicating mix of pain, fear, and adrenaline that coursed through every one of her veins made her body tremble and shake. She shook her head, trying to snap out of her manic.
She pumped her legs harder, up and down and up and down. Anything to make her go faster. To get her away from what lay behind.
From behind her she heard a loud crash. The sound detonated through her nervous system, causing her to jump. Her left foot slipped off of the pedal, and as it spun in a fast circle it came back up to slam into her shin
“Shit!” She cried, and as soon as the sound left her mouth her hand flew up to slap over it.
The lack of control over the left side of her handlebar caused her other hand to jerk unsteadily, and her bike flew to the side.
She tumbled to the ground with a thud, her left leg trapped under a wheel. She exclaimed again, this time an anguished cry as the pain of her fall caught up to her.
She scrambled under the searing hot metal, desperate to get it off of her already-sensitive skin. She threw the bike off of her and rolled over, the scratchy grass under her back and the blazing sun above her not offering much relief. She lay there for a few seconds, eyes closed and mind hazy.
All of a sudden, another loud noise jerked her mind back to its surroundings. The unmistakable sound of a shitty engine firing up sent sparks of panic through every inch of Mary’s body. The sound was distant, but she would recognize it anywhere. She heard it every day, and the reaction it caused her was hard-wired into her brain. Usually it meant safety. It meant danger was leaving, and it wouldn’t be back for nine short yet glorious hours. But today, it meant danger was coming her way. Hurtling towards her, rumbling closer every minute.
She jolted up, eyes swinging around her. She knew this road like the back of her hand, she traveled it at least five times every day. This long stretch of dust, grass, and trees was the only thing that barred her from the rest of civilization. The mile and a half that stretched before her was the separation between her and safety. Make it to the other side, and nothing could hurt her. Usually.
The line of trees to either side of her offered little shelter or protection, as the trunks were thin and spaced out. But it was better than where she laid right now, spread out in broad daylight.
As the sound of the truck she knew was coming grew louder, her survival instincts kicked in.
She grabbed her bike, hauling it into the dried up creek bed that dipped between the main road and the outcropping to the side. Brown, crumbling leaves and pine straw littered the small valley, and she shoveled them over her bike frantically. It wasn’t completely covered, but the sound of engine rumbling was getting closer to the bend in the road that obscured her view from the length she had just traveled.
She leapt over her partially covered bike into the length of forest that lined the entire road.
She sped through the grove and dove behind a dense clump of trees and bushes. Panting and gasping, she sank into the ground, pulling herself into a tight ball. The leaves above her offered cherished relief from the brutal sun, and the earth beneath her was cool. She tried to steady her breathing, slowly expanding her lungs and pushing the air out of them as quietly as she could.
She could feel the sobs building inside her, but she swallowed them. Now was not the time. She wasn’t out yet.
The truck grew louder and louder, and the sound of the engine and the tires against the dirt pummeled against Mary’s ears. As it pulled closer, she could hear the staticky radio blaring the gospel station. The lively tune floated through the summer air, piercing the otherwise peaceful day with praises to the Lord.
She trembled as she lay sideways on the cool ground. She pulled herself closer and squeezed her eyes tight as a disobedient tear dripped down her face, collecting sweat and grime as it rolled across her nose and fell to the ground.
The truck was passing her now, she could tell. The sound was deafening, and she could feel the reverberations of the large tires as they turned against the road. She didn’t have to look to know. She could picture it clear as day in her mind.
The white paint was freckled with mud and dust, and several dents and scrapes marred its body. The windows were rolled down, she could tell by how loud the music was now.
But to Mary’s shock, the sounds of the truck did not stop. The roll of the tires did not falter. The door did not slam, and the keys did not jangle. The engine continued to rumble, but it grew distant.
She did not believe what she was hearing. There was no way her bike went unspotted. No way her rebellious presence was not felt, that her pounding heartbeat and deafening breaths did not give her away. She lay in the same position, not brave enough to move.
Minutes ambled by, but Mary did not move. It was only after the birds had long picked up their song and the squirrels began to rustle above her again did Mary dare to budge.
Eventually the blood stopped roaring through her ears and the pounding in her head calmed. Her body stopped shaking, and she hesitantly stretched out. She rolled onto her back and let her long limbs spread around her, stretching them out as far as they would reach. She winced at the stiffness in her back and hips, and she twisted slightly to crack her joints, sighing as the pressure was released.
She opened her eyes, gazing up at the blue sky, which was slightly obstructed by green leaves. She liked being under their cover, liked that they dulled the harshness of the sun. It was still hot, but slightly less unbearable.
As she slowly regained her right mind, something wormed the back of her conscious. Just as she had relaxed, her whole body tensed again.
Fuck, she thought, not even pausing to feel guilty at her crude choice of words.
She groaned as she sat up, her whole body protesting the movement. But she forced herself to stand up, using the nearest tree to steady herself.
Spots danced around her vision and the edges of her brain fuzzed. She was thirsty, hot, and slightly delirious from the fear and anxiety. Still, she stumbled forward, one mangled foot in front of the other as she quickly made her way back where she came from. As she stood at the edge of the thicket, she squinted and shielded her eyes as the sun hit her again at full force.
The heat made her feel queasy, and she felt like vomiting as she walked to the dip of the creek bed. As she bent over to sweep the covering off of her bike, she felt an uncomfortable tug in her stomach.
Before she could react, her stomach contracted and she turned her head away from her bike as her breakfast fell onto the ground in front of her. A pile of what once was oatmeal lay in front of her feet, and she smiled with satisfaction. Her body now frequently rid itself without her having to force it, and it made her proud how well she had trained herself. Her body now knew any excessive provisions were unwanted, and rid itself of them before she could do it herself. She picked up a pile of straw and threw it over the waste, quickly continuing to uncover her bike.
She had removed her bike from the bed and lay it on the side of the road, and she was now hunting for the contents of her small messenger bag, which had spread themselves all throughout the leaves. She turned the brown bag upside down, letting the bits of dirt and leaf crumbles fall to the ground before she strung the leather strap over her shoulder, leaving it open so she could return the contents inside.
The first thing she spotted was her lighter, the silver glinting under the sun. The metal was hot, and she threw it quickly in her bag.
Her book lay open, the pages facedown against the dirt. She had no idea how it had fallen that way, but grabbed it, dusting it off and checking the pages frantically. It was brand new, and she would be furious with herself if she allowed it to get dirty. Only a few smudges of dirt marred the pages it fell on, but she didn’t mind too much, she decided. It was like a little reminder, a souvenir of an adventure she was sure she’d laugh at eventually.
Her little towel was the most affected, the coarse white fabric patched with brown. She sighed and went to set it in the bike basket, not wanting it to get the inside of her bag dirty. Her little digital camera caught the corner of her eye, the screen reflecting brightly. She brushed it off and slid it in next to her lighter.
She knelt on the ground, shifting the leaves around to look for her cigarettes. She found the box open, a few of them scattered. God, she could use a cigarette right now.
She found her key next to her journal and pen close by, and with the last of her things safely in her bag she fastened it shut, double checking the buckle before she hauled her bike up.
She once again swung her leg over the seat, pushing off and maneuvering back onto the road. She pedaled slower, more leisurely this time. Without the threat of a loud engine behind her, she took the time to enjoy the ride. The almost daily trip she took was her time, where she let her body relax and mind wander. As she ambled along the road, she let the song of the bluebirds and the gentle breeze that had picked up to lull her into a more peaceful state. The sun had dipped slightly in the summer sky, and the sweltering heat was cut by the cool promise of evening.
Her thoughts drifted, thinking of her destination. It had been longer than usual - three days - since she had last gone. She was itching for it, aching to be able to relax. As the excitement grew in her, she was pulled from her daydream when the end of the road approached.
She put her foot down to halt her bike, and swiveled her head from left to right. She had reached the end of her purgatory, the strange space that separated her from the rest of Wallows, the Nebraska town she was born and raised in.
The street sign to her right read Jackson, and the intersecting sign above read Hutton. Hutton Street ran perpendicular to Jackson Street, and if she turned left it would take her right to the center of town. If she went straight, she would end up in mostly neighborhoods, and if she ventured even further she’d be turned onto larger roads that led to the freeway. She had never dared go anywhere near there, and she didn’t plan on it. But if she went right, Hutton Street would narrow and bend, winding towards open fields and rolling country. That’s where she was headed.
She checked again for oncoming cars, but there were none. There usually weren’t. She swung her handlebars right, pedaling and picking up the pace quickly. If anyone saw her, she wouldn’t make it very far. She’d have to stop to chat, or come in for dinner or lemonade or cookies, which she had no intention of doing. Just the thought of being halted caused her legs to work faster. As she whipped past humble houses with white fences and small flower gardens, she heard a voice behind her.
“Mary!” a sweet woman’s southern lilt called.
She knew who it was. It was Mrs. Grant, a lonely old widow who Mary had befriended her sophomore year of high school. When Mrs. Grant’s husband had died, Mary had been instructed to bring cookies and a Bible to her house, and the old woman had taken a great liking to her. Mary had been coming over to her house every Saturday since then. That was almost a year ago, and Mrs. Grant still always managed to have something new to talk to Mary about.
Mary knew she was far enough away to ignore Mrs. Grant. Next time she saw her she would feign innocence, and claim to have not heard her.
She continued to pedal, but it still sent a pang of guilt straight to Mary’s heart. She loved Mrs. Grant. The old lady was a huge gossip, and Mary was the first to be informed of every mishap, scandal, and disagreement that took place in Wallows.
She had grown to look forward to her Saturdays in the small, cozy house. Mrs. Grant loved her, and Mary loved her back. Mary’s only living grandmother lived hours away in a farm in Kentucky, and Mary only saw her when she was forced to spend summer with her. But Mary hated the old woman, she was bitter and mean and hated Mary right back.
Mrs. Grant called to her again, but if Mary stopped now, nothing good would come of it. She was anxious and irritated, and she knew she would snap at the sweet lady. That’s the last thing Mary wanted to do.
She also knew that the dirt and grime coating her body would raise too many questions, not to mention gashes all over her back, arms, and legs that her thin dress did little to cover. No, she couldn’t stop now. So Mary continued to pedal until she could no longer hear Mrs. Grant calling her name.
The sun was much lower in the sky than it was when Mary first started off down Jackson Street. She guessed it was probably around four o’clock.
Having made it past the most inhabited part of Hutton Street, her pace had significantly slowed. Her legs were aching now, and every pedal was an effort. She was so close, and although the adrenaline had worn off she was propelled by her anticipation.
She was fully in the country now, and the beautiful surroundings were almost enough to distract her from the aches that shot through her tired body. The rolling hills and grazing cows were speckled with farmhouses that sat majestically in the distance, and large barns stood sturdily in the fields. As she continued further down the road, which had slowly turned back into dirt, the houses became a little more pitiful, and the barns shifted from red to rotting.
Eventually, there were no houses or cows, and the grass became a little less green. It had been about 3 miles since Mary had last seen a building of any kind when her destination came into view.
The whole ride only lasted about 30 minutes, but the events and circumstances of this particular trip made it feel like hours. She almost sobbed with relief when she caught a glimpse of her house.
Well, she supposed it wasn’t actually hers. But she liked to imagine it was. Who else’s would it be? She was the only person who had stepped foot into it for at least 15 years, and she knew that for a fact.
Mrs. Grant had told her after the last residents had moved out, no one dared to buy it. After years of failing to find new owners, the house had been abandoned. She wasn’t sure why, not even Mrs. Grant knew what had happened.
But Mary didn’t mind, because it meant that she had the expansive house all to herself. It was so far from town nobody would ever have a reason to come out here, and because of some strange unspoken curse, she didn’t think anyone would want to anyway.
The house was huge, sprawling across the large hill it sat on. Due to its neglect over the years, the white paint was yellowing and completely faded in some places, and the rot that crept over its walls was evident from even far away. The blue shutters that framed the large windows were mostly missing, and the ones that remained were barely hanging on. The porch that wrapped around the dilapidated exterior was unsteady, and if a misstep were to happen, Mary knew she would fall through the termite-eaten planks. The doors were squeaky and the floors creaked, but she didn’t care. This was her place.
As she pedaled past the rusty mailbox and up to the driveway, she cut across the giant expanse of not-quite-green grass that separated the house from the road.
She propped her bike up against the back side of the giant oak tree in the front lawn and sprinted up to the front door. She pulled the key hastily from her bag and unlocked the front door.
She bolted inside, twisted the lock behind her, and flew up the large staircase in the foyer three steps at a time. She hurtled to the left and slipped into the room she had claimed as her own. A mildewed mattress sat in the corner with a faded floral sheet draped over it pathetically.
Mary collapsed onto the mattress and moaned in pleasure as her agonized body met the soft surface. She closed her eyes, letting her need for rest take over.
When her hazy mind began swimming back to consciousness, her first thought was pain. Pain everywhere. In her head, her body, her heart.
She felt a cry burst out of her mouth, and before she knew it, her body was being racked by sobs. She couldn’t stop them, couldn’t contain the way her body was convulsing on the mattress, only causing more pain on her burning skin. She cried and cried until no more tears would come.
Her head was throbbing, and she could feel her pulse all over her body. She felt clammy and gross, and the room she slept in was stifling. She hadn’t thought to open the window before she fell asleep. She pulled herself up, and as she trudged over to the window she looked out to see that it was almost dark.
Shit, she thought again.
How could she have let herself sleep for so long? She had lost precious daylight, and now her absence would just be harder to explain.
She slid the lock at the bottom of the window free and pulled it up. She bent down and crawled out, stepping onto the roof and into the cool dusk air.
A blanket and lantern still lay from the last time she had been out here. The little roof alcove was her favorite part of the house. It was slightly hidden by a gable that stuck out of the left side of the house, and just big enough for her to spread out comfortably.
She basked in the refreshing breeze until her burning injuries became too angry to ignore. She climbed back into her room, leaving the window open.
She trekked across the room and opened to door to the adjoining bathroom. There was no running water in the house, but she still liked to keep things in the various cabinets and shelves anyway.
Sometimes when the heat was too unbearable even for the roof, she would open the bathroom window and sleep in the bathtub. She was tall, but not enough that she couldn’t curl up comfortably.
The mirror over the non-functioning sink was dusty and cracked, and she swiped her forearm over it to clear away the grime, wincing as a crack in the glass caught on her soft skin.
She braced herself for what she knew would see, and she cringed as she looked up into the mirror. The girl looking back at her was someone that Mary did not always recognize, and certainly not someone she liked. Her appearance had changed over the past year, and having to face herself was something she had come to dread.
Her face had become gaunt, and her cheekbones, once cushioned by juvenile plumpness, now jutted out harshly. Her large green eyes that used to be so sparkly and full of life were now sunken in and ringed by purple. For a girl of only seventeen years, her eyes held the pain of someone much older, and the sadness amplified in them startled her as she gazed into them.
Her pale skin made her look ghastly, and the effect was only enhanced by the contrast of the dark waves that cascaded down her shoulders and past her breasts.
She knew deep down somewhere that she was pretty, because she had heard it her whole life. Compliments from adults, peers, even strangers. But she had a hard time believing it. She hated the way she looked. Her face was a reminder of where she came from, which she did everything to escape. But she couldn’t escape herself.
She pushed her mane of hair, now frizzy and matted with dirt and twigs, behind her shoulders to inspect her body. She wore a white shift dress that fell just above her red, bruised knees, and the thin straps hung limply over her bony shoulders. She was a bit taken aback by just how bad her injuries were. She knew it was bad, but she didn’t expect it to be this bad. Now the excruciating pain made sense.
She tenderly pulled the dress over her body, wincing as the fabric brushed against raw skin. She let it fall to the floor beside her feet.
Standing in nothing but a pair of panties, her eyes roved over her body, taking in every inch judgmentally. Her bones stuck out at odd angles, ribs pushing out against her ghost-white skin.
No matter how long she lay out in the sun, her stubborn body refused to darken. She was ever envious of the sun-kissed glow the other girls returned to school with every year. She looked like all the blood had been sucked from her.
She turned her gangly arms, which hung awkwardly, and sucked in a sharp breath. Her critique of her figure was halted by the gashes she had full view of now without the obstruction of her dress.
She turned her body, trying to number the lashes across her arms, torso, and legs. She quickly lost count. Some were small, only scratches. But others were large. And deep. She knew they would leave scars. This wasn’t even the worst of it. She couldn’t even see her back.
She ran a finger across a particularly deep cut that lay jagged across her collarbone. The whip had probably caught it from behind, wrapping around her shoulder and digging in. She whimpered at the touch, face contouring in pain. She needed to get these cleaned fast, before an infection set in.
She turned to the cabinet she kept her backup towels in. The one still tucked in her bike basket outside was unusable. She pulled one out, setting it on the lid of the toilet that hadn’t been used in years. Bending down carefully, she pulled a glass bottle of rubbing alcohol out from under the sink along with a fresh bar of soap. She crept back out the door and made her way out of the her room.
As she made her way down the stairs, her feet caused creaks with every step. It never bothered her during the day, but it seemed almost haunting in the dark. Still, the house never scared her.
She made her way out the front door and leapt across the lawn to the back of the house, heading towards the lake. Partially obscured by reeds and marsh grass, the midnight blue water shimmered and rippled under the full moon, which had now fully emerged.
She laid her supplies on the grassy shore and pulled off her panties. Making her way to the edge of the water she slowly stuck a foot in, gasping at the cold water.
It was going to be painful either way, she figured, so she screwed up her face in preparation and dove in. She gasped at the coldness against her tender wounds. Her mouth filled with water and she pushed to the surface, sputtering and coughing.
She swam to the shore, grabbing for the soap that lay on top of the towel. She ran it over her shoulders, wincing as it made contact with her skin. She lathered it between her fingers and ran them over her face, letting the soap wash away the dirt and sweat and smeared mascara.
She dunked her head under and came up again, already feeling better. She ran the soap over the rest of her body, ignoring the pain. After her body was clean and she had tamed and washed her hair, she crawled out of the water and spread her towel out on the shore.
She sat down and screwed open the bottle of rubbing alcohol. As she slowly cleaned every wound, her screams and cries of pain were swallowed by the night air.
Later that night Mary lay on the roof, fully clean and changed into a nightgown she found in the closet. It was too late for her to go home now, she would have to spend the night here. Her body was still in pain but it had dulled to an ache.
She was wrapped in a blanket with a lantern next to her. The light danced across her face as she intently read the book spread in her lap.
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë had captivated her from the first page and was slowly becoming a new favorite of hers. The story had grabbed her and drawn her in, and she felt she couldn’t tear her eyes from the pages.
Yet, as she read, the familiar little pang in her heart began to blossom. She tried to remind herself that it was only a story, that nothing like that ever happened outside the pages of a book. But her traitorous heart wouldn’t accept it. She still clung to the secret desire within her.
She wanted to be loved, to be desired in the way she had only ever read about. She wanted a love like Catherine and Heathcliff’s, passionate and intense and destructive.
She didn’t want to marry a nice boy from Wallows and settle down and have six children and attend church every Sunday and succumb to a vacuous, loveless existence. She wanted adventure, and passion, and excitement. She wanted to feel as if she was really living and not just observing the world around her, watching from the outside looking in.
But that was silly, just a fantasy she allowed herself to indulge in only when she opened the pages of her books. Thoughts like these always crept in when the sun went down, as if the moon was a bad influence, egging on the desires she tried so hard to suppress.
Sure enough, as she shifted her position, pangs of hurt shot all over her body, snapping her out of her little dream world. She wasn’t loved, and she certainly wasn’t desired. She had herself, and her stories, and her house, and that would have to be enough.
She closed her book and slipped it under the pillow she had brought out with her. She leaned over and blew out her lantern. As she settled down onto the roof, cocooned in blankets, she felt the most comfort she had in weeks.
How pathetic, She thought ruefully, my only friend is a fucking house.
And it was true. The house felt like a friend, the only constant in a world of tumult and fear. But this was the last time she would be here for a long time. For months, actually. The thought brought new tears to Mary’s eyes, but she willed them away spitefully. She would make the most of her last night here, she had to be back down Jackson Street before the sun rose tomorrow.
“Goodbye, old friend” She murmured as she began to drift off. “I‘ll see you when the summer is gone”
To be continued . . .