Awry

10

The next morning, Tristan did everything he could to avoid Gabriel. Things had been tense at the cabin since Scarlet’s mysterious resurrection and neither brother had spoken since.

His cuts from the fight had all healed, leaving no reminders of his brawl with Gabriel but, in a way, Tristan wished the scars had remained. At least then he’d feel somewhat punished for what had happened to Scarlet.

He had brought her death. Again.

Exiting through the cabin’s back door, Tristan stared at his compound bow leaning against the side of the house. Funny how only days ago shooting practice helped him cope with the torment of being so near to Scarlet. But now….

Now, he wanted nothing to do with bows or arrows. It was all just a reminder of his misery.

Dressed for running, Tristan pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, shielding himself from the morning wind and set off without direction through the forest.

Winter was in full swing, the forest trees dead, the icy breeze wailing into the stillness. Soon there would be snow on the ground and jogging through the woods would be impossible. But, for now, Tristan could navigate through the dead life of winter, snow-free, and run away from the cabin.

From the memories. From the guilt.

From the ghosts of all his mistakes.

A minute passed and soon his lungs began to burn.

His connection to Scarlet was stronger than ever before, making the agony in his bones more acute now that she was no longer nearby.

Further and further he ran.

Breathing in.

Breathing out.

Hating himself.

His eyes caught sight of something glinting up ahead and he slowed to a walk. Moving closer, he saw it was sunlight bouncing off the window of a small shack. The shack was hidden in a dark cluster of trees, barely noticeable but for the shining windowpane.

Tristan didn’t remember there being any other buildings on his property. How far had he run? A half-mile, maybe?

He looked closely at the tiny hut. The trees surrounding the shack were large and wide, providing a thick cover of shade and camouflage for the small dwelling, and dirt coated the outer walls, making it nearly impossible to differentiate the shack from the forest around it.

Tristan had first bought the twenty acres of Avalon land he lived on shortly after Scarlet’s last life had ended, and he’d roamed the property many times since then. But he’d never seen the hut before.

He strode near the wooden house, the wind rushing at his face as he pulled back the tree branches and bushes that acted as a perimeter for the building.

It was very old and looked abandoned. Dirt, leaves and twigs covered the porch and gathered on the roof, and the wooden boards of the structure were weathered and cracked. The windows, dusty and forgotten, were lined with cobwebs, and the front door stood slightly off its hinges.

Tristan looked around for a moment, making sure no one was around, and stepped onto the porch. The wooden planks beneath his feet creaked as he moved, spooking a family of bats from under the roof. Dark whirls swept past Tristan before the bats disappeared to find a safer resting area.

He eyed the dusty knob on the door before gently turning it in his palm. Groaning against the movement, the door shifted, and then fell completely off its hinges and crashed to the porch.

Tristan stepped back as the heavy door broke through a row of boards, sending up a cloud of dust and dirt, and scared more bats from their nesting place above.

He looked around before carefully stepping inside the shack.

It was tiny.

No more than twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, the hut was a rectangle in layout, a single wall dividing the space into two parts; the front room, which was the majority of the space, and a small back room.

Tristan stood in the front room. To his right was a small kitchen, consisting of a very outdated oven and an oversized sink, and to his left was a small sitting room with a single torn couch. A neglected fireplace took up the center of the sitting room wall and a musty rug lay sprawled in between the couch and the kitchen.

Making his way to the back, Tristan found a small bedroom barely large enough for the bed it housed. Aside from that, there was nothing in the shack.

No papers, no pictures, no proof of life.

Tristan eyed the place one last time before exiting through the now-doorless entryway. He stared at the fallen door on the splintered porch boards as he stepped over the mess and pinched his lips.

More brokenness. More disaster.

It followed him wherever he went.

He stepped off the porch and looked around again.

Without looking back, Tristan jogged away from the shack and back into the trees.

Still trying to outrun his ghosts.