Hold My Hand

They stumbled to a stop, feet inches away from the edge, causing stones to topple over and roll into the deep chasm in front of them.

She stared at him, looking at the way his hair stuck to his hair, sweat and dried blood along his forehead, his fringe a dark, sickly red where the caked blood had stuck. She knew she was in a similar state. Turning her gaze away she looked at her left hand, the ring and little finger missing, leaving two bloody stumps. Her right hip, a deep gash moving horizontally along. His hand gripped her shoulder, and along his shoulder blades were two deep cuts. Their physical wounds would eventually heal, maybe scar, but it would take too long.

She looked over her shoulder at the approaching figure, the happy whistle that carried on the wind alerting her to his presence. He walked with a loop-sided gait, swinging the hatchet as he whistled.
“I can’t go back to him.” She whispered, turning her gaze back onto the man – the boy – beside her.

“We won’t.” He spoke with determination, certainty as he stared into the pit. Lifting a hand, he rested a finger at the gash just under his hairline. “Come on.”

He grabbed her right hand, looping his fingers between her own, feeling the soft, all-too-vulnerable flesh. They squeezed tightly, knowing that in mere minutes they would have beaten him, they would have won.

He would not have them again to torture; they would not allow themselves to die by his hand.

The whistling grew louder, and she let out a long breath. “One...two...three!” Together they jumped, feet pushing off the ground, hands gripping each other tightly.

It felt, for a second, as if the air was holding them up, carrying them both. Then, suddenly, they were falling down, too quickly for her liking, and she couldn’t help but cast her gaze downwards.

Her heart seemed to throw itself into her throat as she saw what was at the bottom of the chasm; there, laid out were bodies, all in different states of decomposition, some two or three high. The pair cast each other a last glance, the horrifying truth hitting them both at the same time.

He didn’t kill them, he never killed them.

He drove them to the edge of the cliff and watched them jump.

Crack.

Splat.

Everything went black.

He grinned as he gazed into the chasm, eyes locking on the two fresh bodies, the girl still alive, her body twitching. Their eyes met and in them he could see the tears, the knowledge. He’d told her, back at the camp as he lifted the hatchet.

“You won’t beat me girl.”

He took a drag on his cigarette, flicked it down and stared at her for a few seconds longer, at the beautiful, twisted angle of her limbs, the way her leg bent the wrong way and the arm curved unnaturally towards her boyfriend.

He turned away from his pit, limped along the road and smiled to himself, whistling his merry, happy tune.