The Longest Night
, 2

The first root in the cliff creaked and small pieces of dry dirt crumbled from the side. There were few places to grab onto and use to climb, so she did so very carefully.

When she first saw the large rift, this enormous precipice, she considered back-tracking and replaceing another way around. Uncertain of how long it would take, she had made the final decision to climb the steep hill anyway. It mocked her by threatening her survival. She did not have the option to back down from that fight.

Once she situated her footing, she reached up for the next root. She was trying to take another step as it slipped from her grasp.

The dirt beneath her feet gave way; she flailed to grab onto the roots at her sides. When it finally registered that she was fucking falling she was eating dirt and slowly slipping down the face of the hill, only handfuls of errant roots to hold onto. Her arms were spread to wide and she kicked wildly to replace purchase, but the roots slipped between her sweaty palms before she realized she would probably die, if not in the fall, certainly in the aftermath.

The world twirled before her knee clipped something hard. She flipped like a coin and landed in a heap at the foot of the incline. The wind was kicked out of her lungs, her arm went completely numb for a moment before tingling, then her body ached with shock. Pain faded in and she kicked out with her good leg uncontrollably, like that would ward off the hurt and work the air back into her lungs that hurt so fucking much.

A few agonizing minutes had her breathing back to normal. All of her still hurt like hell, but she could at least think. She swore aloud before rolling over—

—and shrieking bloody murder. She fell down again, wailing wildly. Panic had her by the throat. It took her a moment to realize that something was very, very wrong. Her eyes bugged and she gasped out loud. “No, no, no, no,” she begged to someone, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head. She started to whine the words as she looked over her shoulder at her bloody, twisted kneecap.

“NO! NO! NO!” She looked skyward and was about to holler as loud as she could for help, but the scream caught in her throat before it let fly. No one to help. And even if there was someone…

Come back HERE!

She beat her fists on the ground and sobbed into it. She was dead. This is where it ended. She’d die of exposure or infection or starvation. No way to get out of this. Deadly unidentified virus? Mob of cannibals? Handled. Fifteen-foot climb? Demise.

“Fuck it! Fuck!” she cried, clawing at the dirt. She closed her eyes and begged and prayed. When she opened them again and looked, the damage was still there.

It must have been half an hour or so before she dared move. Grabbing onto the roots within her reach she pulled herself slowly into a sitting position, being sure not to disturb her knee. It was dislocated, likely broken, and blood continued to ooze down her leg. What chance did she have?

Cries passed her lips quietly. Her hands surrounded her knee in a protective bubble. She knew she had to set the joint back into place, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. As soon as her hands got close, they backed away automatically. Her mind would sooner let her die than override its fear of agony.

She sat leaning against the cliff for an hour, trying to get close to her injury, but failing to do so. Her pale skin had been bathed entirely in red. If she could reset her knee, then she could treat the wound and stop the bleeding completely, but it was so hard, so hard…

The months had brought summer, and along with it, longer days. She had many more hours of travelling time, but sitting at the bottom of the cliff had drained most of them, and the sun was setting. She could not sit there disabled through the night, however, or she would surely die.

The night she escaped Fort McMurray came back. Fear clung to her like a cold sweat. It was a film playing inside her head: she could see the grotesque faces of those in the city, the dead body, the darkened landscape where she wanted to die, the gas station where she lost a part of her humanity.

Eyes filled with tears, she looked to the orange sky as she remembered. Death was always so near to her, but this moment was different: it clutched her life in its bony hands, and was slowly drawing her away now. How many times had she wanted to die? How many times had she thwarted it? She would accept her fate, whatever it was, and either remain to remember, or leave to join those she had lost. Those she had lost…

His face again. He was so handsome, so close. She never wanted to lose that. Seeing him always gave her a feeling that kept her going. A warmth so deep, it was invigorating.

Closing her eyes, she took in deep, shuddering breaths until they evened out. Her fingers worked at the belt on her shorts, and she pulled it away gently, trying not to disturb her knee. She folded the belt in half and stuffed it between her teeth, biting hard. There was another stone planted in the ground, and she shifted herself gently towards it, resting her foot upon it. Careful, careful. She shimmied her shoulders down, angling herself comfortably between the stone and the steep hill behind her. That leg? It’s not yours. Someone esle’s. You need to fix it. She closed her eyes, and in the darkness she could see him looking at her on the platform like she was the only one in the world.

She reached for her knee and wrenched it sideways.

She screamed through her clenched teeth. Gasping wildly, she shifted her grip and pulled again. There was an awkward click as the cap slipped back into place. She gave a guttural scream as a final stab of pain sliced up her leg before it dissipated into nothing but an odd, numbing sensation.

Her jaw relaxed as her cries ceased and the belt slowly slipped from between her teeth. She sat there, breathing heavily as the memory soothed her, taking away the strain and the pain. All she could see and feel was him. Death would have no place in her heart; she would continue on. That was what she promised herself. Promised him.

Hesitantly, she bent her knee, testing out the joint. A significant ache pulled her joints as she moved it, but it could move. Reaching into her pack, she grabbed her bottle and poured water over her knee, ridding the wound of dirt and washing away the blood. Then she grabbed the antibiotic cream she had recently found and rubbed a generous amount over the gash. It stung terribly, but it made her press harder. The wound was small, and even though she could have done with some stitches, she was hopeful that the disinfectant would be enough to keep it from getting worse. Taking a torn shirt she had in the pack, she wrapped it around her knee and tied a firm knot.

With utter care Catherine built a haphazard campsite, limping from place to place, watching each step she took, very aware that one misstep and she could dislocate it again. She went without food and slept as soon as the essentials were taken care of. There was no pain, no nightmares, but one face on an empty train platform.

As morning broke, she cleared camp quickly and checked her wound. It had stopped bleeding long before, but she kept the wrap on it to keep it clean. It was impossible for her to walk properly, or very fast, for that matter. The sun had been up for roughly twenty minutes before she faced the cliff again. It stood vigilant. Challenged her.

With the man lingering in her mind, Catherine approached the face of it, grasped the roots, and began her climb once again.