Honey and Spice | ✔️

Chapter 34

Nathan

Sometime later, I wake up to Ryder's arms tightening around me. His breath quickens and I can feel his heartbeat racing. He lets out a pained moan, then the warmth around my waist disappears as he turns to face the other side. Minutes later, he turns around again. I fumble around for my glasses and hurriedly put them on. His eyebrows are furrowed, eyes screwed shut, and he mutters the same few words over and over again:

"No, no, please, I'm sorry."

Then he turns again, lying face-up with the blanket taken off. He grips the sheets tightly and grits his teeth.

"I-I'm sorry."

Tears start to roll down his face, and his breath becomes jagged. He gasps for air, but the tears just start coming faster. I sit up in alarm and put a hand on his arm.

“Ryder?” I ask, but he just grimaces at my touch.

Then I try to shake him awake, to snap him out of whatever horrors are flooding his mind. I want him to be okay, to be safe.

“Ryder!”

Ryder

The thing about memories is that your brain alters them every time you try to remember them. Sometimes, you’ll think that you’re wearing a different shirt than what you remember the last time, or maybe something completely changes the first time you think about it. And then you begin to question your memories, and maybe open a can of worms by doing so. It’s like you can’t even trust your brain sometimes.

Anyway, my memories came back to me through a dream. Or, more appropriately, a nightmare.

Everything’s the same as before - stale booze in the air, the cold wind rushing through my open window, my mattress creaky and uncomfortable in my empty room. But it’s like seeing this whole scene from a spectator’s point of view; I watch my then-five-year-old self tossing and turning on the lumpy mattress, hurting everywhere because of the bruises. I knew I had to keep my pained groans to a minimum, or else he’ll hear them. But just by looking at myself, I feel cold and aching all over.

Then the scene shifts, and I’m no longer a spectator, but my five-year-old self. Moonlight filters through the spaces in between leaves and branches. It’s still cold, but it feels eerie, like I’m in a horror movie. I hear movement somewhere, like someone trudging through thick, cloying dirt in the forest.

I remember this place. When I was five, I ran away from home - it was the first and last time I ran away. I stupidly thought he wouldn’t find me in the depths of the woods a few blocks from the house.

Spinning around, I sense eyes on me like sniper lasers on a target. My legs were weak from running, and my lungs felt like they were exploding. A word repeats itself in my head - “Run” - but I can’t find the strength to continue running.

“You better pray that I don’t find you, you useless piece of shit,” a voice booms around me. “Or I will fucking kill you.” 

Twigs snap and branches scratch my face and roots threaten to trip me and his voice echoes through the trees, promising death. It’s so dark, save for the occasional sliver of moonlight, that I can’t see a few inches in front of me. Footsteps pound around me, and I’ve tried to run faster and harder. I thought I was safe. I thought I was free. . . . No, no such thing.

But a pair of clawed hands suddenly pull me from behind, sharp nails digging painfully into my skin. A scream catches in my throat, and I am forced to look into the cold eyes of my dad, his devilish smile sending a new wave of shivers down my spine. Everything is wrong; his face, his voice, his bodily proportions. It’s like he’s turned into an actual monster.