Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Gretel comes to me, her steps tentative, and I hold out my hand to aid her into the wagon. The wood is old and creaks, but it will keep us warm for the journey. It’s hard to imagine we went by foot as children. I’ve taken the path so many times since, from hatred and fueled by pain. My chest is hollow as I think of going one last time. One last time and this time, I’ll burn that whole house down.
And what would that mean for the two of us?
Gretel glances up at me, then puts her hand in mine. I force myself not to make a sound. Her hands are just as delicate as I remember, but strong, too. I want to hold her hand. I want to hold it like we did so many times before.
I don’t. I boost her up onto the step and steady her while she climbs over and sits on the bench seat.
“Hup,” I say, my voice carrying out in the fog as I lift the reins. The horse hears, and trots forward.
The wooden wheels are loud on the street, which is part cobblestone, part dirt. I feel every jolt as we bump away from my father’s house. The clatter of the wheels echoes in my ears.
I try to stare straight ahead; I can’t help but to search the fog for any sign of movement. Each heartbeat of mine is heavy and thumps loudly in my ears. It’s hard to see anything but the outlines of buildings and hints of doors and windows. Once or twice, I see someone’s shadow in a window, but that could be a trick of the light. It’s early morning and we’ve got a long way to go. So far silence is our only company.
Gretel says nothing as we leave the village. The cobblestones give way to dirt, and the sound of the wheels doesn’t rattle back at us anymore. It disappears into the fog.
Thin snowflakes spiral down from a sky we can’t see. It’s probably as white as the fog, and just as chilling. I blink a few flakes out of my eyes. They’re sharp. Not like the fluffy snowdrifts of my childhood at all.
I wanted to go out in it, then. I wanted to make snowballs and build a snowman and catch the snow on my tongue. I wanted to chase Gretel and watch her cheeks go pink.
Now all I want is to be inside. Warm by a fire. Safe.
Alone. Not chasing demons I’ve long since killed.
The cold and the silence are worse with Gretel sitting at my side.
I try to tell myself I don’t care, but I do.
This isn’t how our last time together should be.
This is our last time together. I swallow thickly at the thought.
Once we return to the village, she’ll leave me once again. She can go back to whatever life it is she’s made for herself and leave me out of it.
It shouldn’t hurt so much to imagine that. It’s not as if I asked her to come here. But out here, in the oppressive fog and the bitter cold, it makes my heart ache like I just lost her all over again. For a moment, a small moment, I want to ask her to not leave so quickly this time. Just stay a moment.
It’s the memories that make it hardest of all. We could always talk before. If we ran out of things to do, we could lie on our backs on a hill and watch the clouds roll overhead for hours, talking about whatever crossed our minds. I could always think of something new to tell Gretel, or ask her, or wonder about with her.
The farther we get from town, the colder it gets, and the more my heart aches. It’s going to be a long day if it hurts more like this with every mile.
We bump along behind my horse. My hands are cold in the gloves, which need to be thin so I can work the reins.
I’m surprised when Gretel inches toward me on the bench.
I don’t mean to stiffen at her touch, but I do. She lets out a short breath, like she’s disappointed, but doesn’t move away.
Maybe she just needs a scrap of human comfort and warmth. The thought settles something in my chest although I can’t place it.
I’m the only one here to give her warmth. It doesn’t mean anything that she’s come closer. She’s only here to make sure the witch is dead. She didn’t come back for me. And why would she? When surely I remind her of what happened… I know she reminds me of–
“Is the fog getting thicker?” she asks, cutting off my thoughts.
“I can’t tell,” I answer bluntly and she shifts slightly. I nearly second guess myself.
It’s better than silence. I feel like I’m holding my words in my fists. I can’t loosen them. They’re practically frozen and my movements paralyzed.