Cabin in the Woods
This work contains descriptions of parental abuse.
It is June, but not hot yet. It’s been raining nearly every day; even when skies are grey the sea of Greensea remains a murky jade.
The moment the ground dried, we set out; Annie is free of school for “summer vacation”, and Betsy is taking her, and These Ones, on a camping trip.
We settled in a campground familiar to Betsy, and around the area were the tents and campfires of families with the same idea. While Annie flit about with the other children, we put up the tents.
One for Betsy and Annie, one for myself and Anni.
“This one would not mind sleeping under the stars,” he says.
“Then do so,” I reply, knowing full well the nights are still chilly. “More room in the tent for me.”
It grunts at me; a laugh. “You want me to freeze so very badly! I will not, then. You’d enjoy it too much.”
Though he and I snap at each other the entire time, the tents go up in one piece. I step out of the shade to warm up and smoke. Betsy approaches from behind; the heft of her bootsteps was unmistakable.
“Clive, I got the fire goin’,” she says. “Weiners and buns soundin’ good to you right now?”
I wouldn’t have come had she not promised there’d be food, but I choose not to say that.
“Naturally,” is what I do say.
When I turn, she’s looking me up and down with a frown.
“What is it?” I ask.
“What’s with the outfit?” she asks.
I look down at myself: sandals, and a blue and white checkered frock I altered the fit of.
“It was one of Miss Fran’s old dresses,” I say. “She was going to throw it out, so I offered to take it off her hands.”
Betsy nods, and says, “Cool! Gotta say, though, baby blue gingham on you, it’s givin’ Dorothy Gale.”
I have no idea who this Dorothy Gale is, so I shrug. I finish my cigarette and join the circle around the campfire.
The meal is uneventful.
That One leads the conversation, shows off, makes merry – ever the charmer, it has Annie and Betsy’s undivided attention, and I tidy away the trash in silence afterward.
There’s a large rock by the creek that’s catching the sun. I drift away from the others and stretch out upon the pleasantly warm surface, rolling about until I’m comfortable. I overhear them making plans to catch something in the creek, and—
Something is pawing at my arm.
I’m met with Annie staring at me expectantly, That One looming just behind her. The sun and shadows have changed position; I’d fallen asleep for some time.
“Annie. What is wrong?” I ask.
“Mom said she was gonna go take a walk before we caught crawdads, but it’s been a really long time, and she’s still not back...” Annie said.
I look around. Betsy is indeed nowhere to be seen.
“Worry not, Annie. Clive will find Betsy,” That One offers. He looks to me with a snarl. “Won’t you?”
“Of course,” I say.
Annie smiles, and when she looks to That One, the snarl is gone in a second.
“Fuckin’ excellent!” he says in a friendly, sing-song tone. “Come, Annie! We will get a head start on hunting crawdads.”
Annie eagerly runs off, pail in hand. When she’s out of earshot, That One’s stare hardens.
“I will stay here with the young one. Find Betsy,” he spits at me. “Now.”
My own eyes narrow.
“You have some nerve commandeering me,” I say. “We will discuss this at a later date.”
“Yes. Discuss,” he repeats – a polite way to describe the way we’ll tear into each other when the time comes – and turns his attention back to Annie.
I reluctantly roll off my rock, and smell the air.
Betsy’s scent is distant, but unmoving; she covered a lot of ground, and hasn’t budged from wherever she wound up.
When I catch up, she’s standing outside a dilapidated log cabin. I deliberately lean my weight on a branch when approaching. It cracks underfoot, drawing Betsy’s attention.
“Hey,” she says.
And that’s all. She’s back to looking at the cabin.
I stand at her side. The logs once comprising the cabin’s structure were blackened, rotting away under a blanket of vibrant, healthy vegetation and crawling with insects.
“Prince Charming is requesting your presence back at camp,” I croon.
Betsy hums in acknowledgment, but makes no move to retreat from this place. She’s rooted to the spot, a contemplative frown on her face. Much as I’d like to get back to lounging on my rock, I find myself intrigued. The day’s been a bore, but this—
I stroke my chin, and ask, “Something special about these ruins?”
She tenses. Then rubs her arms. A nervous habit, particularly when she’s feeling guilty.
“It’s my dad’s cabin,” she says. “Used to be, anyway. ‘Bout a year after he passed, it got struck by lightnin’ and burned down.”
I nod, solemnly enough that she continues.
“Haven’t been out here in awhile. Was curious to see if there was anything left,” she says. “Lotta memories out here. Good and bad. Mostly bad.”
She squats, and lifts some of the rubble. Bugs writhing in the still muddy soil scatter in all directions.
“Y’know, not far from here, I made my first kill,” she says.
My brows bristle with interest.
I dig. “Small game?”
No answer.
I dig, again. “Perhaps your first bear?”
“Weren’t no bear,” she says. “I killed a man.”
I lean closer, the corners of my lips ready to fall off my face should I grin any wider. She turns toward me abruptly. I suck the smile into a pursed line. She catches it anyway, and her frown deepens still with disappointment.
“Wasn’t what I’d call an enjoyable experience,” she says.
“Clearly,” I reply. “Who was it?”
“Herbert looks a lot like his dad,” she says. She’s rubbing her arms again. “Made the same face after I shot him, too.”
I restrain another grin. Oh, what I wouldn’t have given to be a fly on the wall when she blew half his head off. I’d only had the privilege of seeing the aftermath.
“The good doctor’s father?” I ask with scandalized inflection. “What ever could have spurred that?”
“I saw him, beatin’ on Herbert out here in the woods. Straddlin’ the line between the limits of his property and public hunting grounds,” she says.
Betsy stands, and she’s staring off into the woods now.
“He was out here whippin’ a half-naked kid with a belt. And I-” she says, and pauses. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I…”
She trails off.
“You saw red?” I offer.
She nods, absently.
“Got close to ‘im real quiet-like, dad’s shotgun in arms, and-”
She mimes raising a long-barreled firearm.
“Pow,” she whispered. “Fell like a sack o’ potatoes.”
She’s so lost in the memory of this she fortunately misses the snort I let out. I mask it with a clearing of my throat. She shoves her hands into her pants pockets, her emotional turmoil apparent in how tightly she held the muscles across her back and shoulders.
“Weighs heavy on you, does it?” I ask.
She nods.
We stand there together for a time, birdsong and distant campsite chatter our only other companion.
I’m unable to imagine what she’s going through. Nor do I care to. Death is a foregone conclusion of being alive, no matter how it happens. I’m rarely one to dwell.
“Does it hurt to see this place in ruins?” I eventually ask.
Betsy shakes her head.
“No,” she says, and she says it with the first smile she’s given since I arrived. “This place burnin’ down’s one of the best things that ever happened to me. Sometimes I just gotta come out here and see it for myself. Remind myself that it’s really over, y’know?”
I don’t know, but I nod anyway. She laces her fingers together and stretches, standing tall and bouncing up and down on the forefront of her feet.
“Let’s get back to camp, yeah?” she asks.
For some reason she offers me her hand.
“I’m capable of finding the way back without assistance, Betsy,” I say.
The smugness in my voice gets another frown out of her.
“You’re no fun,” she says.
“I’m loads of fun,” I say.
I take her hand. Warm. Calloused.
I remember this touch.
I pump her hand stiffly a few times. A handshake. She laughs.
“You’re so weird,” she says.
Betsy gives me a friendly thump on the back and walks off in the direction of camp. She’s nearly out of sight by the time I follow.
The remainder of the evening is uneventful.
Betsy, Annie and That One scoured the creek for crayfish until it became too dark for Betsy and Annie to do so. Besides being thrown a suspicious glare, I had no further interaction with That One until we retire to our respective tents for the night.
I lay, and pull out the book I brought along, a hefty volume on medieval torture devices.
“Why did Betsy leave?” That One asks.
He’s crouched over me, watching, wide-eyed.
“Ask her yourself,” I say.
“I did. She told me not to worry about it,” he says.
“Oh,” I say with a smirk. “What a shame she doesn’t wish to share what happened with you.”
His eyes narrow. “Tell me.”
“If she wanted you to know, she’d have told you,” I say.
He leans over me with a sneer.
“I am you,” he says. “So, no harm, no foul if you tell me, correct?!”
My eyes twitch.
“If you say so,” I reply.
After all, isn’t he the one of who matters most? Isn’t he the most REAL of the two of us.
The thought makes my blood boil. I bare my teeth.
“Ha! What is the matter, ‘Clive’?!” he croons. “Angry with this one, are you?!”
He’s close enough now I can smell his breath. Smells of dinner. Smells of us.
He gets to keep our title, while I’m implored to take on a name I have no attachment to for Betsy’s convenience.
Violence. Creeping through me, making my fingers curl.
The memory of his neck beneath them. I can feel it.
I clench my fists.
I AM AS MUCH ANKHANUM AS HE IS.
(“What’s it like being Ankhanum?”)
Another memory: Betsy looking at me quizzically in the bookstore.
(“You’re part of the same guy, right? You like me, too?”)
Betsy, across from me at the diner, doing everything in her power to not make eye contact while her cheeks darken with embarrassment.
Slowly, I unclench my fists, my lips falling over my teeth once more.
“I’m not in the mood for this,” I say, and turn away from him.
He’s quiet.
Then, “What?!” is his bewildered response.
He nudges me, whether with his nose or his hands, I’m unable to tell with my back to him, but to drive my disinterest home, I crack open the book I brought along.
“What do you mean you’re not in the mood?!” he says. “You’re always in the mood to tear into this one!”
I don’t answer. I don’t look away from my book.
He’s silent.
Claws bury themselves in the meat of my shoulder. His breath is hot on my cheek.
“WHAT, AM I BORING YOU?!” Each word has snarled emphasis. “THIS ONE SHOULD EAT YOUR TONGUE SO YOU NEVER SPEAK AGAIN-”
He raves on and on. I revel in the misery in his voice, which grows louder by the syllable.
“—TELL ME WHY BETSY LEFT, OR I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—”
I turn to him and smile, oh-so-sweetly, placing a single finger to his slobbering jowls.
“Shh,” I whisper. “You’ll wake Betsy and the young one.”
His boiling red eyes dart across my face, his jaws gnashing open and closed in pent-up frustration. It soon regains its composure.
“Cannot have that, can we?” he says, grinning with no humor. “Guess you win, then.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve had enough of your provocations for one day, Anni. Sleep—”
“What were you and Betsy doing out there? Tell me.”
“Looking at a cabin.”
His face grows lax with confusion, all prior hostilities briefly forgotten.
“That is all?” he asks.
“That is all,” I reply.
“Was that so difficult to simply tell this one?”
“You exist because I am difficult.”
It chews its lower lip.
“You are still not being truthful with this one,” he says.
I only grin widely. The pouty tone he’s taken on delights me. It grunts, lazily sideswiping my head with its claws. It draws blood, but not much. It is, as Betsy puts it, ‘sick of my shit’, and finally lays down.
“Whatever,” it mutters. “Betsy’s secrets will be revealed to me should you and I rejoin.”
“Ohh,” I coo. “That One is SO disappointed Betsy shared with me and not you. And we’d all been getting along so well lately...”
He growls. “Shut up.”
“If you want to know so badly, join me,” I say.
That One is quiet for a time, to where I wonder if he’s comtemplating it. Then he jabs an elbow into my side, the bone made sharp enough to hurt. Pain blooms in exhilirating fashion, and I chuckle.
“You would enjoy that too much,” he says.
“Contrary to your belief, Anni, I don’t desire to be at odds with you until we die,” I say. “Consider your need to know what I know an incentive.”
He peers over his shoulder, wide-eyed. Wary.
“This one will consider it,” he says.
Soon, we sleep.
The remainder of the trip is uneventful.