The Hidden

The Hidden

Precisely two weeks after my fifteenth birthday, on a mild and bright October afternoon, I saw a man get hit by a car. Although I was deeply afraid of what I might see, there was nobody else who could help. The road was otherwise deserted. I ran over to the driver, who was frantic and in hysterical tears. I tried to calm him down. Told him we needed to call an ambulance, but he insisted there was no time. We must drive straight to the hospital. It was the only way. Anything I had ever read or watched on TV had made it clear to me that moving an injured person was very bad, but I was powerless to stop the rising panic of the situation, stomping my shaky protest into the dirt. With all other avenues of logic and reason closed off, I found myself helping to lift the injured man into the car.

In the back seat, with his head on my lap, I noticed for the first time how strikingly beautiful he was. He was not injured in any visible way except for a bright smear of blood across his forehead, but even that small visceral offence caused me discomfort. I wiped it away with a crumpled tissue I found in my pocket. His skin was pale and flawless next to the jet black of his hair that fell in a thick, shiny mop. He could not have been more than twenty years old. I silently prayed to whoever was listening for him to be spared any lasting damage caused by our hasty intervention. Some dried leaf litter was strewn through his lovely hair and I gently began to pick it out with my thumb and forefinger. I remember how important it was to remove every single crumb of it so I could restore him to perfection. I don’t recall how long I was absorbed in this intricate task, all I know is that I was so transfixed by it, that all other concerns had drifted away and a peaceful, dreamlike state cocooned me. It was the soft, dappled light flittering in through the car windows that broke my reverie and caused me to look up from the beautiful boy and notice that we were driving into the woods. I told the man he was going the wrong way. Said it. Then shouted it.

As I was grappling with a succession of reasonable scenarios as to why this man was continuing to drive in the wrong direction, the beautiful boy opened his eyes and calmly sat up beside me. The surge of relief was overwhelming. I spoke to him in comforting words, tried to find out how he was feeling but he remained silent and facing forwards as if I was a ghost he could neither see nor hear. His eyes were an impossibly clear and bright blue. Two Jewels set into his perfect face, the effect of which dowsed me in calming acceptance as I waited for the ultimate, plausible explanation that had to be coming. Without any discernible intention, I began looking around the car for nothing in particular and anything at all that would make it all make sense. All the while, a tiny, almost imperceptible voice was trying to make itself heard over my placatory, dampening internal monologue. I wilfully ignored it because I wasn’t ready to agree with what it was saying. I kept pushing it down but it persisted and grew louder and more urgent until it was the only voice I could hear, and it was screaming over and over.

GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT NOW.

Yet there I remained, powerless to abandon the false comfort of denial. My mind wrestling with my instincts, still hopeful, still expectant of everything to be fine. The reassuring voice fervently resisting the opposing forces that would see it silenced. This can’t be happening. You must have this wrong. It’s going to be fine. The voice grew quieter and less certain each time it spoke, and a third voice was now chiding me. This is what you get for taking the shortcut home from the library. You were told never to use that route. It’s your own fault. My racing pulse thumped in my ears and throat, making my head feel like it was filling up with blood and drowning me. My body was leaden weight, a useless lump incapable of acting upon the one shrieking command that would not cease pummelling my brain. In one swift movement that seemed to happen regardless of any conscious control, I yanked the door handle and threw myself from the car.

I landed on soft ground, then I was somehow on my feet and running. No longer heavy. I could barely feel the earth beneath me and could hurdle any objects in my path. I ran like this for what felt like miles without tiring. When I eventually found the courage to look behind me, I could see nothing but dense woodland. I continued to run, but the fuel to sustain the speed and endurance was now spent, and I soon dropped to the ground, gasping painfully. I wasn’t even sure how far it was to the road or which direction I should be heading. It was starting to get dark, and the temperature had dropped considerably. I sat for a short while, having a pointless discussion with myself about what I could do if I had only managed to grab my satchel before I jumped. Despite how the nascent idea of it knotted my insides, I knew what I had to do.

The remaining light was fading rapidly, and my desperate search to find adequate shelter for the night was taking an alarming amount of time, but before total despair took hold, I came across a forest clearing. At the opposite edge was a huge, gnarly, upturned oak tree, which had lifted a good portion of the forest floor with it when it fell. A version of optimism glimmered as I approached it. The exposed roots with a solid layer of earth above formed a natural alcove that was as good a place as any I was likely to find. I took one last anxious look around before climbing in as far back as I could fit. The pungent smell of damp soil assaulted me from all sides, and I was barely able to stifle a scream when some existing tenant dropped onto my head. After frenziedly shaking out my hair, I zipped my coat, put up my hood and drew the cord tight, leaving just the centre of my face exposed. I tucked my jeans into my socks, pulled my hands inside my sleeves, and tucked them tight under each arm. With my swaddling arranged, I sat back against a patch of soft earth and looked out beyond the tree roots at a particularly bright, rising moon set against a cloudless sky. A gratitude I had never felt before radiated towards that moon. I knew that as long as she was there, I wouldn’t be all alone. That she would stay with me and spare me the terror of a night spent in total darkness. Thank you, I whispered over and over as hot tears burst their banks and cascaded down my freezing cheeks. Although I was still wretched with fear, exhaustion eventually won out.

I awoke while it was still night. The distant sound of heavy footsteps crunching over dried leaves had penetrated the fragile slumber my nerves had allowed. Searching, male voices pierced the darkness. My stomach lurched, and I clasped my hands over my mouth, terrified I might let out an involuntary whimper. I waited, waited, waited for them to pass, but their voices would not travel any further away. My arms ached with their solemn duty to keep me silenced. I knew if those men saw the upturned oak, they’d have the same idea as I’d had. Silent tears streamed from my eyes, along with a sudden hit of warmth in the seat of my jeans. Any minute now, any second now, they were going to find me. My whole body had tensed rigid with terror, and every muscle fibre screeched in agony. Then something. Something was different. The voices had changed. They were no longer calling out to the little girl who was hiding. They were disagreeing. I strained to hear over the rushing of blood in my ear. The sounds became increasingly animalistic until I realised they were scuffling with one another. I considered making a dash for it while they were preoccupied, but dash where? I had no light. No way of knowing which direction to run. They’d chase me down easily. So I did the only thing I could do.

The cessation of noise came more swiftly and suddenly than I was anticipating. I sat huddled, waiting for any clue that might reveal what was happening outside of my view. There was nothing. Hours passed. An angry wind had gathered pace and roared fearsomely through the clearing, taking up leaves and twigs and anything in its path. An occasional piece of hard forest detritus would hurtle in and attack my exposed face, so I placed my forehead onto my knees. For hours, I remained in the same position, waiting, waiting, waiting for dawn in a dank, dark pit of roots and soil and crawling bugs. If there exist adequate words to describe the desolation of the longest, coldest, loneliest hours of my life waiting for that night to end, I have never found them. By the time the sun had begun its ascent, I was as close to madness as I had ever been before or since. Whatever was waiting for me outside was better than remaining in that living grave.

I crawled through the roots and emerged into daylight, blinking through falling soil. The cold hit me immediately. Shivering uncontrollably, I peeped over the crest of the mound. I saw only forest. Unsure whether to trust my astigmatic eyes, I squinted hard and scanned every square foot of visible forest. All was calm. There was no wind, and my ear picked up something that filled me with that same glimmer of optimism I’d had upon finding the fallen oak. It was the distant sound of running water; I was sure of it. The stream that ran through the woods. I could follow it back to the road. How had I not realised it before? It didn’t matter. Hope replaced fear, and I began to walk. I hadn’t gone more than thirty feet when my foot struck something under the leaves. A surge of adrenaline spiked in my chest as I realised what it was, and my head and eyes darted in all directions, seeking the threat of imminent danger. Finding none, my eyes returned to the brightly flowered pattern of my satchel, and I bent to retrieve it. I had already taken hold of it before I noticed the large, white hand clasped around its top handle. An involuntary scream escaped, and I let go, stumbling backwards. After I had gathered what was left of my shattered nerves, I deduced that the hand was not attached to a living person. Revulsion slithered through my midsection. I picked up a forked twig and shakily used it at arm's length to unhook the fingers. Once I’d freed the satchel, I stood for a moment, wondering if I should move the leaves from the rest of the body just to make sure. Of what? I didn’t know. In any case, I hadn’t the courage, and it didn’t seem important enough to try to muster it. I rifled through my bag. Everything was still in there. My glasses. My glasses. I could see. The half bottle of water was soon emptied into my parched throat. I continued my search for the stream. After a few steps, I heard a sound. I froze. Silence. A few seconds passed. There it was again. No denying what it was. No. No. No. In my peripheral vision, I caught movement in the leaves not far from where the dead man lay. I was consumed with terror as I watched a figure push itself up from under a mound of leaves. The face was bloodied and grotesquely swollen, but I recognised that mop of dark hair instantly. I was primed to dart in the opposite direction, but something held me fast. A primal survival instinct that insisted it was safer to keep my eyes on him than to not. He appeared too injured to take advantage of my proximity, but I had very recently been taught not to take things at face value. After a short, internal discussion, I was able to make myself walk over until I was only five or so feet away. He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. He was trying to speak but could only produce that same laboured, gurgling wheeze that had alerted me to his presence. As I stood there, not knowing what I should do, he slowly lifted his coat to show me the handle of a hunting knife, the blade of which had been pushed to the hilt into his ribcage. I hunched and violently expelled the paltry contents of my stomach. When I’d steadied myself, I drew a few heavy breaths and forced myself to think. I eliminated all of the options that just weren’t feasible and there was only one that remained. I never even turned back to look at him. I’ll get help, I shouted over my shoulder as I walked away.

I found the stream within ten minutes and the road within half an hour after that. The sun was brighter now, and soft light illuminated the asphalt, endowing it with the ethereal glow of a divine path to salvation. It was early on Sunday morning. There’d be no passing cars for hours. Despite the fact I hadn’t eaten and had vomited the only water I’d had in over twelve hours, I started to run. I knew if I could keep a steady pace I was only another hour or so from home.

When I reached the foot of the hill that led to my house, I broke into a sprint. A slurry of thoughts poured into my head. What would I tell my dad? How would I explain? He will have been up all night, worried sick. And poor Jess, she probably got caught up in the panic, too young to understand. I arrived at the door and let myself inside, expecting to be mobbed or to come upon some scene of emotional devastation, but the house was still. All the blinds were drawn, and aside from the dim, strip lighting under the kitchen cupboards, everything was in darkness. The little jade statue of Buddha caught my eye, oddly out of place on the middle of the kitchen counter. I walked over. Underneath it was a note.

Hey Sweetpea

Phil was short staffed on the nightshift so I’ve gone in to help him out. Jess is spending the night at Auntie Jo’s so you have the house to yourself to knuckle down with your project. Get a pizza. Money in the teapot.

See you tomorrow honey

Love Dad

x

I ran to the phone, lifted the receiver and began to dial but my finger recoiled midway through and hovered over the buttons like a question mark. A seed of a thought began to germinate. A glimpse. A vision. A premonition of life marked by a narrow escape. Daughters’ worlds open up gradually, grudgingly and conditionally – and in return for our liberty we owe our safety.

I replaced the receiver and stood stock still, silently locked in a fraught negotiation with my better self. When it was over, I walked over to the washing machine. I removed everything I was wearing, and placed it in the drum, coat, shoes, satchel, everything. I set a ruinous boil wash and tumble dry sequence. Accidents happen. I’d be forgiven. Then I walked, shivering, over to the bathroom and ran the hottest shower my hand could take. I stepped inside. The pain was singular. No other feelings or thoughts could invade my brain as shards of blistering water sliced at my frigid skin. I heard a faint noise and it took a few moments to understand it was coming from me. It grew louder and stronger until my lungs could propel it no further. Once my body acclimatised to the hazardous temperature, I took the soap and began to scrub. I washed off the foulness and the filth and watched until it all swirled away from me and disappeared.