The Cave and the Eye

HIGAN SINCLAIR

The cave reeked heavily of damp rot and dying moss. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was anywhere else but the wind wheezing through the narrow ribs of the newly found hole we managed to crawl in made that impossible.

Every passing draft carried Becca’s suffocating scent in its careful stillness as though she’d somehow found a way to bleach the air around her.

I detested that smell and how it clung to my nose, my clothes, my hair, my teeth. It was a bleak reminder that I was there, not in my own house, nor my pack’s territory, nor in Springville, but buried alive in a mountain like a rodent.

All because of her.

I sat slouched on the camping mat against the cave wall where a jagged line of stone persistently dug into my shoulder blade through my shirt. My boots tapped out a restless beat on the rock ringing out louder than I liked.

I wanted to leave but someone had made that impossible for me.

Becca and her whims sat about twenty feet away, cross-legged by