Page 57 of Far From Sherwood Forest

I stand beside the mound of packed earth, leaning on the shovel because my entire body feels weak. My skin is caked with dirt and sweat. The heat from the sun burns my bare back, but I can’t bring my feet to move. My vision is blurry from the tears I refuse to let fall.

I won’t even say how I managed to get a nine hundred pound horse inside its grave by myself.

There’s a part of me that wants to say goodbye to her, that wants to speak those words out loud. But would my voice even work?

I don’t try.

My knees nearly buckle when I put my full weight on them, but I manage to stay upright as I turn and head toward the shed that’s on the property. It’s a decent size, and I had been using some of the space as a horse stall.

I have no idea why whoever owns this place hasn’t been here in almost two years, but I’m not going to question the only saving grace I have left.

Entering the shed, I return the shovel to its spot against the side wall. I try—I try really fucking hard not to look over at Isolde’s stall. But I fail, and grief crashes straight into my chest like a boulder.

I’ve never mourned the loss of a horse before. Even when the one I had since I was a child passed on nearly ten years ago, I felt little more than indifferent.

This time, I’ve lost the only thing I’ve loved for two years. This time, the grief threatens to crush me until I’m nothing more than dust.

Now I really amallalone.

As that fact hits me, my gaze drifts over to the back wall, to the rope hanging on the hook. It’s instinct at this point, something I can’t fight. It’s a thought that’s popped into my mind more and more often, an image of that rope wrapped around my throat, my feet dangling off the ground.

My stomach churns until I feel sick.

I know it’s just as much my fault. I’ve stayed here for years. Isolated myself. But it’s because I’m scared.Terrified. The idea of facing this strange world alone has the blood freezing in my veins.

I’m a fucking coward.

Every day, I wake up hoping this was all a horrible nightmare. That I’ll open my eyes to the familiar scratch of a straw-stuffed mattress beneath me, the smell of damp stone andburning wood. That I’ll hear the blacksmith hammering in the distance or the bells from the chapel calling the village to mass.

Instead, everything is quiet until I turn on the television, see the glare of a screen, and hear the unfamiliar way people speak, their words sharp but hollow.

I’m a relic dragged from the grave of history, and I’ve seen what happens to things that don’t belong.

As I stare at the rope, unable to pull my eyes away, I think about how much easier it’d be to leave this world completely instead of trying to find my place within it.

And that’s when I know what I have to do.

Turning around, I take what I need off the workbench behind me, then drop to the ground on my knees. I made this whip from rope, and it’s been the tool of God’s punishment every time I have these thoughts.

These dark, selfish, cowardly thoughts for which I need to pay penance.

The rope strikes my back with a sharp snap, and I grit my teeth as it hits scar tissue. The sting flares, then melts into a dull burn that spreads. It’s not enough. I do it again, my knuckles turning white around the rope as I let out a hiss. Another strike, and my breath catches.

I half expect the pain to carve it out of me—those thoughts, this weakness. The stain on my soul.

But it doesn’t. It lingers.

As the rope rains down harder, Robin’s face swims in my mind.

The image surprises me enough to give me pause. But then I remember. I had that same fucking dream last night, the one I’ve had too many times before. I’ve never been able to make sense of it, but it makes me feel as though I deserve this punishment even more. For thinking I could forgive a thief just so I wouldn’t have to be alone. For daring to dream that the man who left me to thisfate would be the one to save me.

The rope falls from my hand, and I pitch forward until my forehead is pressed against the dirty floor, my breath ragged. My back throbs, wet with sweat. Maybe blood.

I stay there, never wanting to come back up.

Waiting to feel like something other than sin wrapped in skin.

Present day.