#aurelie 03

Aurélie is living in the Upper Farm now, which is fine. Lily has not really slept and had left at dawn with a note for Tomas so he’d know where she’s going, which is fine. 

What is not fine was how tired the journey makes her. A month in Kimiko’s tree had left her body atrophied, her calves unused to trekking up hills and across the island, her shoulders unused to carrying the spear.

The sun is fully up by the time she reaches the Upper Settlement, people already out and about. A few people give her terrified looks and actually move out of the way to avoid her, which is strange. Some of them had featured in her green-tinted dreams, but not enough for her to remember anything.

She remembers the conversation with Tomas, though. She remembers her double saying terrible things in a sweet voice, poison hidden in sugar. She remembers stabbing Libby, though she’s convinced that one’s a nightmare.

When she sees Aurélie, Lily smiles. “Coucou,” Lily calls toward her. “Bon matin. Anything you need help with?”

@aureliemarchand​

The sky has taken on a hue one could mistake for night. But Mallory doesn’t think she’s wandered for nearly that long. It’s the canopy, dense and thick, filtering light whenever it chooses. And it’s the jungle, so it chooses whatever will unnerve people best, which is no light at all. Still, she can’t figure out where she’s going anymore than she can remember how long she’s been walking.

Behind her, a bush rustles. Mallory flattens herself against a nearby tree, holding her breath. Is it a monster? Maybe another survivor? Both are horrible options, really. Another survivor means another person to lose, after all, and her heart is feeling wretched enough about the others slipping through her fingers without adding another. A monster? Yes, she can fight one of those. She has plenty of pent up energy. Plenty of anger, plenty of fuel -- plenty of fear, too.

Her fingers dig into the bark. Monsters or survivor, she’s no use standing next to a tree and waiting. Edging her way around the sides of the tree, her fingers fumble on the rough bark for a foothold. Find it, and heave. Up and up, silent, wary of attracting the noise in the bush. Light flickers, brighter now. Mallory’s fingers close around a branch and up she goes onto it, back flush with the tree, legs drawn up beneath her. “Okay,” she murmurs, to herself, regretting the foolishness when the sound below silences altogether. “Shit.”