She snaps awake, neck contorting upward. A rush of air leaves her lungs and then she coughs harshly, against a background of a tiny scream. Looking wildly at her side, she finally notices the young girl. So fine and delicate-looking that she almost seems more doll than human. The girl seems familiar, somehow. She can’t place her. A nasty voice in her head whispers that she’s put her hands around the girl’s throat and strangled her, watched the light leave her eyes—she quickly dismisses that thought.
No more, she thinks.
“Sorry,” she manages, coughing again to clear her throat. “Don’t… wake me up like that.”
The girl blinks slowly, a deer in headlights, before nodding once and coming closer. She kneels down, a brow furrowed in concern.
“You’re Forrest,” the girl notes, as if surprised. “Marly Forrest. I’ve heard them talk about you.”
“They like to do that.” Dourly said. She smiles as best she can. It’s a weak imitation of the gesture. “And you’re Brynn, I imagine.”
“You’ve heard of me?” More surprise.
Inwardly, Forrest reflects that the girl seems brighter than average, but a little slow. She certainly doesn’t carry the same mellow, decaying air of the cult members. She can be trusted.
For now.
“The old man asked me to help you,” Forrest explains, standing up slowly. Her legs do a lot of complaining. A sharp pain flares in her right kneecap. “Whatshisname… Stiles.”
“He’s been sweet.” Brynn smiles brightly. “A real friend.”
Forrest makes an indistinct noise in the back of her throat. She knows the real Marty Stiles. The gun nut, the committee member. He was only civil because of how feeble he’s become in his old age. Twenty years ago, she would have had to kill him in order to survive.
“If you say so,” she sighs. “We’re leaving. Stay close to me, and you might live.”
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
