Friday, 11 December 2009
IN THE WOODS By Pixie J. King
I wandered deep into the forest; wearing only jogging bottoms and a polo shirt, and the icy wind chilled my skin. I’d strayed too far from the P.E lesson and the group full of girls, and the mixture of dead and orangey golden leaves drew me deeper into the foggy bleakness of the woods.
Dark bare branches clashed against the slate-grey sky. Thick-fissured bark, cold to the touch, creaked. The blend of the snow and lack of birds made the forest eerily silent. I realised as I trampled against the sodden, frozen ground how far I had walked – too far. A wave of awareness struck me. I felt alone, just the soft crunch of my trainers against the snow to accompany me.
I gazed up at the trees as I quivered in the cold. Their vastness towered over me. Somehow they seemed claustrophobic, yet inviting, teasing me into the mysterious fog. Curiosity got the better of me, told me to investigate the half snowed in footprints before me. The musty smells from the ground urged me as I felt the snow fall from the trees onto me, blinding me momentarily.
My breath became heavier, the further I walked; the trees seemed to frown upon me. I wasn’t meant to walk out this far, no way would I hear the whistle.
A snap of a twig made me turn, and I quickly moved to the spot where the noise came from, my heart in my throat. There was a small shadow, a girl’s shadow, leaning against a tree.
I darted to a large tree, caught my foot in a large root and twisted my ankle. I covered my mouth to muffle the yelp, calmed. I propped myself against the bark, but I felt no pain. The adrenaline and the cold soaked up my pain, numbed my body.
I shuddered in the chilly temperature; breath coiled around me like ribbons of smoke as I waited. Waited for a sign, a sound.
Then I heard her gasp his name, heard fear in her voice. I know that name. I hear it every day.
I glanced around, my eyes dilated when I saw him with her. He wasn’t meant to be out here.
I heard him talk. It made my ears feel dirty, poisoned by what he told her. I saw him kiss her, push her hard against the tree. His laughter made me nauseous. The sound of tearing fabric tore my heart and I covered my mouth, not letting my breath show. Her tearless whimpers rang in my skull.
I never heard Miss Cass’ whistle; I was out too far in the forest, too far away from the lesson.
Too far out to escape this nightmare.
Now it was more than a harmless game of Hide and Seek for a P.E lesson.
I could hear his breath. It was short, quick and sickening. I heard the thud of the bat, saw him strike her. Three times. Each time my heart cried out in horror, bashing against my ribcage as he tossed the bat. It landed metres from my feet.
Her penetrating scream ripped my soul.
She was sixteen. I knew her. So did he.
His deep, low groans filtered all over the wood, reverberating down my tree, and my spine juddered within my frail body. I wanted to scream, flee, but I couldn’t move, I was stuck rigid against the tree, watching the horror unfold.
I watched his every action.
Tears flooded down my face. They felt more like daggers, slicing into my skin, the frost burning my eyes.
I wasn’t meant to be here. I’d disobeyed the rules, ventured further than I had meant to, been allowed to. They would come looking for me.
But they would be too late. She was dead. They would find her pale naked body, her face frozen in fear. He would have vanished, and no one would suspect him.
But I saw him.
He glanced up, his eyes dilating when he saw me trembling against the tree. He straightened. His expression playful yet menacing, his dark eyes smouldering with desire.
I turned to run, forgot my sprained ankle and fell hard against the frozen ground. I turned and looked up to see him leering over me, his hand ready to grab me. I opened my mouth to scream, but my throat was too tight, no sound came out.
It was just a P.E. lesson.
He was my teacher.
Pixie is a student who is new to the writing world, and writes when she can, where she can. Her work is mainly flash fiction and poems with the occasional short story.
Pixie’s work can be found at
Alternatively, for a more warped version of Pixie’s thoughts, try: http://mywarpedways.blogspot.com/