#ahfoh

It was a bad idea to drive in this weather. The news said it could be a contender for ‘the storm of the century,’ a blizzard set to batter the region for almost week, and strongly advised against travelling once it hit.

Rationally, you knew you’d made a mistake, the snow was already coming down at a steady pace when you left. An hour driving and you could barely see the road.

Also rationally, you couldn’t stay.

Tears welled in your eyes.

Really, you should have seen it coming.

Your girlfriend had been acting weird for a month. Jennifer had grown distant, less affectionate, didn’t communicate as much. Whenever you tried to broach the subject she brushed it off, reassuring you that everything was fine, she just had a headache, she wasn’t feeling well, work was stressing her out, and all of it left you feeling insane because you knew something was wrong and she kept avoiding it.

Even then, she still accepted the invitation to spend the holidays with your family, smiling and friendly, pretending everything was fine up until you were alone, then it was like she wanted nothing to do with you.

You could’ve waited until you were home to really address it, but your family wore you down with their usual thoughtless comments, and Jennifer seemed to actively avoid the physical affection she normally lavished you with to get through it.

You should have left it alone.

“I don’t love you anymore!”

The words twisted like a cord of barbed wire around your ribs.

Your knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you muttered.

The silence of the car felt suffocating, pressing in around you like every backhanded remark made manifest.

The argument replayed in your head, the humiliating exposure of it all, the sneering judgement of your family when she revealed your recent job loss.

You weren’t enough.

You never were.

A chime from the backseat signalled another message, probably an angry text demanding you come back like all the rest. No concern, no sympathy, just disappointment and scorn and the ever present feeling that across the entire world there was no one who needed you.

You were… unnecessary.

The thought sat heavy in your heart.

Would it really be that big a loss for anyone if you just let go of the wheel? You hadn’t spoken to any of your friends in a year, and your family made it clear how they felt about you.

When you first told your mother about your relationship with Jennifer she was ecstatic, relieved that you found someone so accomplished and put together, like it was a charity case. She always greeted your girlfriend with such genuine affection, like Jennifer was her daughter instead of you.

Without thinking, you loosened your grip.

A huge shape darted into view, four legs, brown fur—you slammed the brakes. It was too close, too fast—your tires couldn’t grip the ice.

The windshield exploded, the car lurched off the side of the road, and a horrible crunch stole the world from you.

Black.

Pain.

Cold.

Freezing, sharp cold that bit into your skin like a razor blade.

You opened your eyes, blinking against the harsh wind whipping through the broken windows.

The startling bulk of an elk sat half-crushed into the passenger side, neck turned at too sharp an angle to still be alive, both front legs stretched across your lap, one hoof pressed hard against your hip. The back end of its body lay limp across the dashboard, and you could just about see the crumpled hood of the car, steam barely escaping before it was whisked away by the worsening storm.

Sadly it didn’t nearly as much for the smell of blood, gasoline, and animal musk.

A branch from the beast’s antlers was lodged in your shoulder.

An actual branch was buried in your upper arm on the other side, and another stopped just shy of spearing you in the chest like a butterfly in a display case.

A sob slithered up your throat.

You swallowed it.

You needed to get yourself free, at least enough to reach back and grab your phone to call emergency services—if they would make it out to you in time. Doing even that much seemed impossible when every little movement sent agony through your arms, not to mention the sickly wet heat of blood slowly seeping down your sleeves.

The more you tried to move the worse it got, the colder you felt, the less you could see—was it getting darker? What time did you leave the house?

Panic started to set in. You struggled harder, crying when the antler dug deeper with your efforts. You weren’t sure how long you spent trying to move your arms, it felt like hours, each second stretching with ever pulse of pain in your body.

When you latest attempt to unbuckle yourself failed you slumped back into your seat, trying to think of another way, trying to ignore how dark it was getting.

That was when you noticed a light approaching, blurred by the storm and bright red, like emergency lights.

“Over here!” you screamed with the last of your strength. “I’m over here! Please, help!”

In the merciless din of the blizzard, the light grew closer, larger, coalescing in a shape you would almost describe as human.

If only you could keep your eyes open, you might have seen more. As it was, exhaustion stole you away into perfect darkness.

::

::

Consciousness returned slowly, pain creeping through your body in sluggish waves that were entirely at odds with the comfortable bed beneath you.

You opened your eyes to an unfamiliar room, decorated in powder blues and white. The walls had a pretty floral motif, as did the curtains through which you could see a hint of the storm raging outside, and if you focused you could just about hear the wind howling too.

There was a wicker chair with blankets, a desk, bookshelves, what looked like a closet, and the door to the room was directly to your right. There were soft furnishings everywhere, throws, pillows, anything to make the room more comfortable and welcoming.

Low, warm light lit the room from two wall lamps, the overhead ceiling light left alone.

Despite the pain and confusion, you felt a brief, overwhelming sense of safety.

Then the confusion won out.

“Hello?”

Your voice came out scratchy. Swallowing the dryness, you called out again, louder.

You didn’t hear anything.

Looking down, you tried to sit up and found your arms entirely uncooperative. You did, however, notice that you weren’t in your clothes, and you weren’t in a hospital gown either, instead you were wearing a girlish white nightdress.

Not what you usually wore to bed, but it was soft and smelled faintly of lavender.

The sound of distant footfalls caught your attention. You held your breath, watching the door as the footsteps grew closer, closer, closer.

The door opened, revealing a redheaded woman with kind eyes. She wore a knit sweater and jeans, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

“I thought I heard something,” she said, offering a relieved smile. “I was almost starting to worry you wouldn’t wake up.”

She approached but kept her distance, leaning her hip against the desk. “How are you feeling?”

You tried to sit up again and pain was your reward, making you grimace.

The woman darted forward, warm, firm hands steadying you, deftly avoiding direct contact with your injuries. “Easy!” she warned, her tone low and hushing. “It’s only been a few hours. You’re in no state to do anything right now.”

Nonetheless, she helped you sit up when you didn’t relent, propping you up with extra pillows until you were mostly upright and still comfortable.

The process felt like it drained what little energy you had, but you needed answers.

You started simple, exchanging names.

The mystery woman was called Wanda. You were in her home, a large cabin far enough from the main roads that barely anyone realised it was even there.

From her accent you guessed she wasn’t originally from the US, let alone Washington. She sounded European, almost Russian but you couldn’t really place it.

She had such an easy, warm manner about her, and listening to her explain the situation you’d found yourself in went some way to soothing your anxiety.

An accident, one that could have very easily been fatal if circumstances had been just a little different.

A look of genuine worry crossed Wanda’s face. “You’re lucky I spotted the tracks when I did, another hour and the blizzard would have covered them.”

“Thank you, you saved my life.”

“Only a monster would walk away from someone in need.”

Wanda glanced at the storm raging outside, snow steadily building on the muntins. “The storm is going to last a while,” she said, returning her attention to you, “so we will make do until it ends. I have plenty of food, firewood, and fuel should we need it, and luckily, your injuries are mostly superficial, bruising, surface cuts.”

She gestured carefully to the worst ones. “A couple of messy punctures in your arms but they should heal up nicely.”

You tilted your head at her. “Are you a doctor?”

Another smile, she shook her head. “No, but I know enough to put someone back together. You have to know a thing or two when you live alone out here.”

Standing, she clasped her hands together. “Are you hungry?”

It took you a moment to differentiate regular pain from the discomforting ache of your empty belly.

You left just before dinner.

Ignoring the sting in your eyes, you nodded.

Wanda left for a few minutes, letting you get a hold of your brittle emotions before she returned with a warm bowl of soup on a tray, a smooth cream of tomato, simple, tasty, and easy to eat.

In theory.

Even without the injury to your upper arms, you were badly bruised and sore, even the smallest movement felt exhausting. You tried anyway, trying to salvage some sense of control, some sense of dignity in front of a stranger. The ‘why’ was lost on you, you just felt raw and rattled and you needed to feel like something was going right.

When you managed five spoonfuls on your own, Wanda gently cupped your shaking hand.

You stared at her, wondering how pathetic you looked.

She gave you a knowing, sympathetic look. “Please, let me help you.”

You nearly jolted, equal parts exposed and soothed. Swallowing hard, you tore your eyes away from her and stared at the soup, knowing you absolutely did not have the spare energy to eat the rest of it on your own.

Your tattered pride rankled at the idea of letting her feed you.

You murmured, “it’s fine, I’m not a baby.”

Wanda shook her head. “You have nothing to prove,” she said. “You’re hurt, and tired, and you don’t have to be a baby to need help.”

She tilted her head to catch your eye, smiling when she did. “If a friend of yours couldn’t eat on their own, you’d help them wouldn’t you?”

At your reluctant nod, she carefully took the spoon from your hand, lowering your arm to a resting position. “I thought as much,” she said, dipping the spoon into the bowl. “Your friend can be helped, but you can’t, hmm? That doesn’t seem fair.”

You wanted to argue, explain what you knew to be nonsensical logic, and every attempt died on your tongue. Exhaustion pulled at your bones, you were still very hungry, and when Wanda lifted the spoon to your lips, her eyes warm and expectant, you couldn’t stop yourself from opening your mouth.

Carefully, Wanda fed you the rest of the bowl, each swallow becoming easier as your belly grew warm and full. You couldn’t remember the last time someone did that for you, always expected to be the independent one, praised for hiding the struggle and treated like an obligation if you didn’t.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until you felt it drip off your jaw.

Wanda politely ignored it, feeding you the last few spoonfuls of soup. “There we are,” she said softly, as if talking to a baby bird. “That’s a good girl.”

In such a scattered state, the words sent your thoughts spinning out of focus. You didn’t protest as she gently dabbed your face dry with her sleeve, and you certainly didn’t fight it when she helped you lay down again.

Wanda brushed the back of her hand against your brow, moving some loose hair out of your eyes. “Poor thing,” she murmured, “don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re safe here.”