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Misty gets it, she really does. It isn’t one of those things she has to pretend to understand so nobody focuses on her long enough to pick up on the fact she’s completely missed what was supposed to be funny or hurtful or, on the rare occasion, genuine.
There is no grating laughter that rattles her insides and blisters on its way out. Her mouth doesn’t split wide open in a smile too big for comfort, revealing medically realigned white fangs, not yet burdened with what is to come.
This sort of thing seemed to come naturally to her, a primal instinct she picked up on somewhere along the line. Perhaps it had been dormant, festering in her insides long before they crashed. A genetic predisposition imbedded in her from far off ancestors, lost to years and years of evolution only to be activated again when faced with a certain death.
Serving Natalie is what she was made for, she swears this is what she was born to do. She had been crafted in her mothers womb for nine months for the sole purpose of being bound to Natalie’s side in servitude.
Who was she to fault Travis, after all it had never been hard to understand where he was coming from when he looked at Natalie that way, as though she hung the moon and the stars and everything in between.
Which was stupid to think, because Misty also knew that Natalie was just a girl. Tormented and just as well stranded as the rest of them.
Natalie had always been so devastatingly easy to love though, and it was the one thing Misty understood in her entire life without a shadow of doubt, so she would do just that.
Bent at her waist like a jester in court, one hand flourished to the side in an extravagant show of absurd foolishness and the other an anchor placed in her liege’s glacial hold.
And when their eyes met in the flickering of the dying fireplace, Misty thought this had to be destiny. That on the off chance they’d never suffered out here together, they would’ve still found one another in this fashion — the queen and the fool, the burnout and the freak.
If not in this lifetime, then certainly the next, and any that existed beyond that. That if there was infinite universes, with infinite timelines, Misty would seek her out in every single one.
Her sudden fealty to the girl above her was thick enough to smother. Undoubtedly, she would let it kill her if she were granted such a choice. Rotting under her didn’t seem nearly as awful as being greeted by the tightly coiled arms of the afterlife in an unforgivable ice coated lake or slowly turning blue in the first fall of snow.
Natalie laughs at her, actually laughs, an unfamiliar melody choked by poignant tears and ugly guilt. It rings in her ears and Misty feels her own mouth tugging upwards at the sound in some bizarre sense of exhilaration.
Give her the right materials and she would weave a crown fit for only Natalie. A mess of flowers twined together just for her to wear, imperfect and worthy.
The thorns would dig into her scalp in a foreboding omen of what it meant to be considered something holy. Misty would be there to wipe the blood from her forehead, a loyal disciple with a sympathetic caress and a hammer in hand, nailing her to a cross for all eternity.
For all it was worth, Natalie basked in the worship.
Misty always did regret not savoring that moment beneath her a little longer. She should’ve let selfish temptation consume her and held her hand a little tighter, she was as pitiful and as lost as the rest of them, Natalie would’ve allowed her a moment to drown in the passion of her inauguration. After all, they’d all been searching ruthlessly for something to hold onto out there.
If they yearned to pledge homage to her, who was Natalie to deny them that devotion?
If Natalie enjoyed the admiration, just for a moment, who was Misty to starve her of it?
_____
Following Natalie to the ends of the earth meant many things, the worst of which came in the form of watching her try not to crumble in on herself.
Before the crash, Natalie had been an anomaly, much like Misty herself, though Nat’s divergence from their peers had always seemed more of a welcomed or even sought after nonconformity than a forced isolation. The junkie goth kid that dipped behind the bleachers to smoke pot and wore leather in place of where armor should’ve been. Misty had been present during enough practices and games to know that when Nat felt threatened, she sought comfort in solitude. Running away was easier.
When things got too rough out there, and all eyes turned to her in gut wrenching distress for what to do next, turning to run came like a second nature. She often removed herself from the group in order to possess small moments of peace. Moments that not even Travis invaded, whether by his own will or her behest.
After one particularly hostile argument between Taissa and Natalie, one that involved a much needed talk of food and their possibilities now that they had no real shelter, Natalie stalks off with curled fists and defeat clear in the sharpness each step.
It is a scene they’ve all witnessed several times since the cabin disintegrated into rubble and ash days ago. To no surprise the days have been long with no roof over their heads or blankets to help keep warm. The nights are even longer, albeit Misty does not entirely hate the tingling feeling of belonging she gets when they all huddle together to generate a heat sufficient enough to rest.
Only this time Misty swears she can make out the pooling water at the corners of Nat’s eyes just as she turns to march beyond the tree line. Something lurches deep inside of her chest, urging her to move forward.
Her feet are carrying her away from the makeshift camp they’ve established at the wreckage left behind from the crash, stepping into the imprint Natalie’s boots left in the snow. Smaller in comparison, but also much softer, much kinder to the Wilderness. Should the trees and the dirt and the wind be as alive as Lottie swears they are, it would be thankful for Misty’s careful touch. It might even contemplate rewarding her for her consideration.
“Natalie?” Her voice betrays her, cracking at the edges and signifying weakness she hadn’t intended to show. She hopes it is enough for Nat to know she isn’t the only one scared.
Streaks of salty liquid trail down her face in thin lines left behind in the disgusting grime that covers them all. The perfect picture of a teenager burdened with a plate far too full for her to carry alone.
Something snaps, and more like a young girl than a God, Natalie shakes with small gasps and sobs she attempts to hush by burying her face in her hands. Something rotten overwhelms her, similar to a rapid infection.
The once large space standing between them closes with Misty’s hasty steps onward.
Misty is not Lottie, but she is a good actress despite what Crystal (Kristen) said, so she places her hand to Natalie’s chest just above her beating heart anyway in hopes it does something to ward off the whirlwind of emotions brewing under the surface.
“Breathe in and out with me.”
Natalie knocks her away with brows drawn together in irritation and Misty is once again at a loss for what she’s supposed to do with herself. She subconsciously pushes at the frames of her glasses. Lottie would know what to do, she would know exactly what to say to calm Natalie down to see reason.
Misty rues not being born a prophetic mouthpiece of the Wilderness.
“Why did you do that? And stop touching your glasses.” Natalie scoffs, her voice rough and watery.
Her tears seemed to evaporate as if they’d never existed. If it wasn’t for her wavering tone of voice and the redness in her face, Misty would’ve thought she’d imagined it.
She twitches and she can’t stop herself from nervously reaching up again to shove them up the bridge of her nose despite Natalie’s request. “Well I…I’m not sure how to help you without being Lottie.” She finally admits.
“Don’t.” Natalie warns once, though she looks like she wants to say more before sucking in a deep breath, “You want to help me, Misty?”
She is nodding her head before a verbal confirmation can slip out. It is just them now, standing under the canopy of trees coated in thick white. Flames from the weak fire Taissa managed to start some time ago threaten to fade away into nothing but dying embers, Mari nudges the burning branches with a stick of her own.
The others voices are distant enough to sound muffled but close enough they both can make out the intricate storytelling of Van, it’s a new one that Misty somewhat wishes she was listening to.
“Come here.” Natalie demands in a low tone. It isn’t the first time since her new title as appointed leader or the cabin’s demise that she has slipped into her new role with a shred of confidence. The pedestal her friends and former teammates have abruptly put her upon sways dangerously but never topples sideways.
With every tentative step she takes, she waits for Natalie to turn and lead her somewhere. Anywhere. Only, Natalie doesn’t move at all and Misty isn’t sure when she is supposed to stop walking. Snow crunches softly under her weight, not loud enough to drown out the echoing drum of her own heart.
She stops herself inches away from Nat, close enough to reach out and touch if she had the courage to do so but far enough away to be considered a cautious approach.
Natalie’s face flickers with minor annoyance as she nods, “Closer.”
“Nat?” Misty mutters. Vapor escapes her lungs and forms dense clouds in front of her body, she really is starting to miss the fire too.
“Closer.”
She does as told, shuffling until all that is separating them is a minuscule space that Laura Lee would frown at if she were still there. Natalie smells of the Wilderness; Douglas Fir, melted snow, sweat.
Gone was the stench of cheap deodorant and cigarette smoke that Misty used to get a whiff of when Natalie was just close enough to hand in her a practice jersey at the end of the day, Misty accepting it with an overeager smile that she would only return with half as much enthusiasm. Half had always been more than any of the others offered her.
Misty tugs her busted bottom lip between her teeth (thank you Shauna Shipman, you have an impeccable right hook). The cut hasn’t had much time to heal but neither has Lottie’s face or Shauna’s knuckles. It rips open every time she grins too wide or when her canines dig in on accident, the cold doesn’t help the process either.
Natalie is looking at her — no, really looking at her, gaze drifting up and down, left and right. Mulling her over in an overbearing display of new attention Misty can’t discern as being something positive or negative.
It’s intoxicating and Misty gets giddy at the thought of someone willingly subjecting themselves to her company. Not just anybody though, because Nat isn’t just someone.
“D-do you want me to go get Lottie? Or Travis?”
The calculating look on Natalie’s face was starting to feel a bit too heavy for Misty to carry. Her hands grow sweaty and her shoulders sag under the weight. Sisyphus would’ve chortled mockingly at her poor attempt.
Natalie shook her head dismissively, “Just stay still.”
Her fingers are cold, the fleshy underside of her thumb brushes against the fragmented exterior of her bottom lip anyway. The cut stings under the pressure and Misty resists the urge to shiver or flinch at the abrupt contact. Natalie had said to stay still, Misty had no intention of ruining whatever was currently happening.
Except, sometimes her mouth worked a little faster than her brain. “Are you sure you’re okay? Your hands are-”
“Misty, shut up.”
“But what if you get hypoth-”
She tastes copper, bitter and sour, it pools where they connect, threatening to spill down their chins. Natalie doesn’t seem afraid of it though. She wonders if Natalie enjoys it like she does, if the taste of her reminds her of that night kneeled at Jackie’s charred remains, or if it’s more sanctimonious in her mind like when they ravaged what they could of Javi.
Her desire to taste Natalie grows tenfold when the girl finally pulls back, her own lips tainted in fresh red, a smudge of Misty left at the corner of her mouth. She isn’t sure that want will ever dwindle or fade, she thinks she might be hungry for the rest of her life. Looking endlessly for the next best thing.
There are a handful of things she could say to fill the now uncomfortable silence that danced around them, her more than Natalie though, because Nat doesn’t look nearly as startled by what just occurred. She looks… content, fulfilled?
Her neck bounces up and down as she swallows a thick ball of urgency, “The plane.”
“Huh?” Natalie hums quietly in response, stepping back to place an illusion of space between them as if suddenly aware they’d been standing chest to chest. Practically close enough to be considered one being and not two separate entities. One of her eyebrows goes up in question.
“Earlier, you suggested we stay at the plane.” Misty says through her nervousness, she moves to push her glasses up again but pauses, “It’s — uh well yeah, I think it's a good plan.”
The other brow follows suit and Natalie seems to be considering something. Misty scrambles to form an apology, helpless as the words lodge in her throat, getting stuck on the ridges in their haste to mend what they assume is broken. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, mirroring that of a fish.
Natalie grants her at last with a small nod of acknowledgement, “Thanks.”
And she’s leading Misty back towards the faded fire, silhouette painted in shadows cast from the low sun peeking beyond the mountains that surround them. Appearing as an ominous priest leading her to the confessional. The clerical collar tightens around her neck with every step, but so does her grip around Misty’s wrist.
She drops it before they can be spotted by the others.
_____
Natalie pulls at the fraying hem of a deep purple hoodie that Misty thinks once belonged to Gen, or maybe Akilah, she isn’t entirely sure it matters anymore since they’ve all been sharing clothes. All she knows is it’s not something she’d necessarily ever hang up in her own closet back home.
Pale hands wrapped with torn fabric in a feeble attempt to keep limbs from falling off from the negative temperatures dance down her arms until they catch on her exposed wrist, pressing hard enough to dig through the many layers of clothes keeping her warm in order to feel her pulse. Misty traces the denim of Natalie’s jeans under her fingers with a false fragility.
“Off.” Her voice is kept low, a whisper spoken only loud enough for Misty to hear despite being a safe distance from the others.
Perhaps not, it didn’t seem as though they had walked for very long before Natalie had pushed her against a tree without remorse. Not apologizing when her head made a soft thwack sound against the thawing bark.
She obeys dutifully and Natalie sways back to give her enough room to do as instructed. Watching every movement through careful eyes that never wander below the delicate intersection where her jaw bone curved upwards to meet her ear.
Misty knows deep down Natalie wants to caress that very same spot with the tip of her tongue. Misty is hopeful she would dig her teeth in too, just enough to leave the flesh splotchy. In her dreams Natalie bites hard enough to break skin and inflict something so painful it would be considered an act of masochism to consider it pleasure.
She is a foreign frontier, unexplored and tempting. Misty feels her own teeth clench in a want that gnaws at her from the inside out. A begging to be released, or at the very least, subdued.
Natalie prefers her like this, something Misty picked up on early on into their rendezvous. Below her, eulogizing her in a way that could only be described as sacrilegious to outsiders.
Her jeans make it just above her knees before Natalie makes a small sound of impatience that Misty has heard one too many times, a sound she had to learn to decipher amongst other things. Nat had found her virginity both alarmingly endearing and annoying. Her knowledge only ran as deep as what she’d read in the romantic fantasy novels she snuck from her mothers bookshelves, and because she is not a man, and Natalie is hardly a damsel in distress, her knowledge is proven to be useless when put to the test.
However, where unsure hands once danced clumsily, they now moved with assurance that if Natalie didn’t like something she had no problem stating so. And Misty had no problem following instructions.
Use me, she wants to speak over the stifled gasps Natalie represses behind her hand, take it all.
It was always yours to begin with anyway.
Taking is something Natalie hadn't know how to do before. Her entire life she had been altruistic, giving what she could to those who needn’t ask. Here though, she can take and take and Misty is an endless well that never runs out of things to give, she never asks for anything in return either.
“Misty.” Natalie’s voice is hollow despite its breathy intake, it has been for a while now. With every unbearable day, with every hunt, she grows a little more vacant. An empty coffin awaiting for its rightful occupant, embellished with moss and nothing warm.
Wanton hips thrust upwards with no guidance, seeking something more. They slam down all the same, demanding euphoria against her digits that curl inward, cracking her open like an orange on a too-hot summer afternoon back in Wiskayok.
The sight is never enough on its own, Misty takes in deeper breaths, savoring the smell of her. Searing the hushed sounds she makes into the temporal lobe of her brain to reminisce on later when she is alone and can venture below her waistline while everyone else sleeps.
Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, starving to lean in closer and nip at her neck. Only she’s been told no enough times to know better. Natalie loves her fingers inside of her, prefers her frizzy blonde curls fisted between her trembling knuckles, she does not want her mouth on her own, is not partial to the taste of her.
Or rather, she enjoys those things far too much and she isn’t supposed to. Shame always did have a way of changing people's minds.
She hasn’t been alone with Travis in weeks. Nor has she sought any of the others out, neither for words of wisdom or this. Misty mourns the day Natalie chooses someone else over her.
Natalie grunts grow louder and her movements more erratic. As practiced, Misty expertly maneuvers the heel of her palm into her center, swollen and slick and sensitive. Her own legs tremble a little in anticipation for what comes next.
Watching Natalie unravel before her eyes was her second favorite part of the ending. The tiny jerks and the sharp nose breaths indicated satisfaction only she could bestow upon her. The muscles in her face relaxed for the first time in days, the semi-permanent furrow between her brows that had been living there for months smoothed over. And if only for a second, she was Natalie again.
Misty resisted the urge to run her thumbs over the worry lines that her features carried, wiping them away with reassurance that she wasn’t just chosen by the Wilderness, but by her too. That no matter what choice she made, Misty would be there to help her bear the consequences.
Her favorite part of the ending was what she did when Natalie wasn’t looking, too busy coming down from her momentary high, focused purely on herself and not at all on Misty. Slowly she pulled her fingers from their rightful perch inside of Natalie, admiring with inflated brown eyes as she subtly flinched at the sudden emptiness their departure left behind. The uncomfortable wetness between her legs was left forgotten, finding relief only when her thighs squeezed together.
A new wave of warmth poisoned her core when she raised her hand to her mouth, at last she was granted a reprieve.
Gospel coated her fingers and then, finally, her tongue. The insatiable desire flares at the taste of her, a tangy sweetness that leaves her yearning for more. Always more.
The moment is short lived as she hastily cleans Natalie from herself, drying away the excess spit with a secretive swipe against the front of her jacket.
Usually, Natalie dresses herself after all is said and done. Buttoning her jeans quickly and quietly, not offering her a nod or a departing word before she disappears. When Misty follows suit after a couple of minutes, none of the girls spare her a second glance.
Because there is not a chance in hell Natalie would ever do anything like that with Misty.
_____
Severance. Phantom Pains.
It is insufferable. More so it is gruesome and painstaking, like seperating a lifeless torso from a planted spike. She would know, she’s done it before.
Or more like yanking the long rusted nails from scarred palms and watching the one person she reveres most collapse to her knees, bleeding and unwilling to raise her head.
Her hands would be slick with red that belongs to Natalie. It isn’t ichor, it did not seep from the lacerations of a god or a higher being capable of some formidable power. It came from a ruler who used to be a girl. Rather, a girl who used to be a ruler.
Misty imagined licking her torn flesh clean, tracing joints and bruises with diligence, mending the wounds one by one until it was her Nat staring back at her.
The one doused in that fire the first night stranded, when the other girls theorized what harmless mistake they’d made to anger some celestial figure, resulting in their bad karma, and by virtue the crash.
The one whom she pressed her chest into when they had to find solace in one another’s body heat on their coldest evenings, shamelessly matching her every inhale and exhale with the intention of syncing their central vital organs. To become one if she would allow it.
Not for the last time Misty wished to sew herself to Natalie, or maybe consume her, she wasn’t sure there was any other way to explain what it was she felt. It all got very confusing out there, the lines that separated them as individuals blurred.
All she knew was Natalie was something divine and sacred. Natalie was her friend, and Misty didn’t give a damn if the Wilderness chose her or not because Misty would’ve chosen her anyway.
That first night in the hospital after their rescue, she shakes under the thin white covers that smell far too much like chemicals and civilization. They’ve stripped her of who she was, scrubbed her clean of the filth and grit she’d grown accustomed to living with. Grown fond of, even.
To anyone else in her position, the scalding hot shower and comfort of finally being safe should’ve been enough to pull her under and into a somewhat peaceful slumber. They’d been reclaimed by society, they should rejoice at the idea of warm beds and the promise of never going hungry again.
Still, Misty tosses and turns until she can no longer withstand the itchy cotton of the sweatpants the nurses had given her when they arrived. The material isn’t nearly as satisfying as the pelts they’d stitched together to protect themselves from the harsh environment of the Canadian Rockies.
She slowly slips from the bed with quiet steps until she is walking along the walls towards a room number she memorized earlier that day when one of the nurses left her clipboard unattended. Not that she had needed to remember it, Misty could find her using only her intuition if she needed to.
The room was identical to her own, washed out yellow walls and a chair where a parental figure should’ve been hunched over in something bordering between worry and relief left uninhabited.
Natalie is awake too, curled into herself and chin pressed between her knees she hugged tightly to her chest. For a moment, Misty catches a glimpse of grandiose ivory antlers blooming from the top of her head, but they dissipate the second the door closes behind her and Natalie has turned to peer at her through the darkening room.
There is something stiff about her, shoulders set straight and back rigid, Misty approaches nonetheless. They’ve given her the same set of pajamas but Natalie doesn’t seem to feel the same discomfort at its material that Misty does. Or she hides it better. The latter is more probable.
Natalie doesn’t utter a word in favor of watching through narrowed slits of murky green and flecks of hazel as Misty approaches. The same as they had done many times out there, Misty takes her hands into her own. The callouses along the pads of her fingers are still there as they had always been. Subconsciously she traces perfectly over the veins that protrude from her waxy skin without having to look.
These are not Nat’s hands though, there is no dirt caked under her fingernails and the most recent cut on her palm is covered by a fresh bandage. Misty scrutinizes the doctors work, even thinks about undoing the gauze to redo it herself.
These are the hands of someone Misty hadn’t really known — unless you counted watching her on the pitch from the bleachers and refilling her water bottle at practice more than mere acquaintanceship.
Her pending panic of the unknown ceases the second their eyes meet. Natalie’s tone is soft but her words are stern, “Let go of me.”
Bags hang heavy with dread under her eyes, and Misty had never been good at reading into what others said versus what they actually meant, but it’s so blatantly clear her words carry some alternative meaning. She’d grown attuned to Natalie out there, surrounded by trees tall enough to tower over buildings and submerged in a cold that sunk deep enough to bring death.
She must not let go quick enough for Natalie’s liking, because suddenly she is being shoved away, though she does not budge from the end of the bed. Those same hands she cradled in her own like a tender new life assault her shoulders and arms in a frenzy. Slapping, pushing, desperately seeking atonement.
As if being angry at someone else, at Misty, would purge her of any blame.
And also like they had done many times out there, Misty does not retreat under her vicious attack. Instead, she pushes through it with determination until they are meeting in the middle.
Falling into Natalie’s orbit, just as the planet’s revolve around the sun as their only source of warmth to support viable life, Misty revolves around Natalie. She tastes familiar and Misty clings to this memorial of the Wilderness hidden in the soft pink of Nat’s mouth. Where teeth hold remnants of what they’d done and gums carry their secrets too.
Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, rolling down her clean cheeks, and Misty wishes to wipe them away. Her hands have been there too, they know every curve of her characteristics as if they are her own. The arch of her nose, the vague dip of her cupid's bow, the indistinct scar above her left brow no longer than a pinky nail.
She had spent hours studying her with a childish wonder she knew would never be reciprocated. Trying as hard as she might to force Natalie to see her.
She might as well have built a home inside Nat, burrowed between her lungs and close enough to feel the ricochets of her steadfast heartbeat. Content enough in knowing that was as good as it would get, but forever aching for more in return.
Natalie’s demeanor shifts for a second. Her hands falling away from Misty’s shoulders long enough for them both to go back to what they know. A silent waltz they have refined and perfected.
Out there it worked. Natalie sought the comfort of Misty’s touch when she needed something reliable to lean on. The last sturdy piece of furniture that remained in her beat down trailer back home, a used nightstand that used to belong to her parents but somehow found a place at her bedside, full of abrasions from her childhood, good and loyal nonetheless.
But like a God (she isn’t, Misty has to keep reminding herself this), her wrath bubbles up again just under her impenetrable marble skin, seemingly unprovoked. Misty flinches at the vacancy she feels when Natalie jerks backwards and as far away from her as possible, loathing written across her face.
“Get out.” Her teeth are clenched, fists balled up and tight in her lap.
Revulsion sat on the edges of her downturned lips, just where it knew Misty’s eyes would wander even in the face of being thrown out. Stumbling off of her hospital bed and knees weakening in an endless longing to meet the tiled floor and worship in her shadow in hope of forgiveness. Just how predictable was she?
For once in her life, she can not think of anything to say to get Natalie to understand. Surely she would not be so willing to throw it all away. Surely there was still some glimmer of her Nat in there, the one who needed her just as much.
Something tells her this is the last time she would see Natalie, and Natalie must sense it too, because she sits up straighter and her jaw hardens as it always does when she is feeling upset or aggravated.
“I mean it. Get the fuck out.”
Her unyielding faith is twisted and turned abruptly into something to be abhorred. Long having grown sickly and crooked and wrong, she wholly expects Natalie to accept it anyway. Instead her face screws up in a bitter disgust Misty has seen a million times before.
Not just on the faces of her classmates she’d once been desperate to impress or adults who could barely hold in their opinions of her overbearing presence, but on their faces too. Just before they’d been handed over to the butcher's war torn grasp, once soft and untainted, brutalized only for the purpose of stripping muscle from bone and removing organs from empty cavities where life once lingered.
Tears welled up beyond the cracked lens of her glasses, “It’s okay Nat. You’ll need me again.”
She says it so earnestly that she might believe it.
For all it was worth, Natalie believed her too.