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SEASON OF DECAY

Isolde

The past is daunting, triggering memories in humans that they’d rather forget. It’s evident in how most of them want to leave their pasts behind.

Me?

I can never allow myself to stoop that low. Not with how it ended—a chapter in my life I desperately need to keep under lock and key, buried deep underground where no one will ever be able to dig up that box.

Yet, if I allow myself to forget, my mind will associate that with safety.

A calming breath here, less adrenaline fueling my veins like an addiction there—shoulders sagging in relief, mind shutting off, if just for a second.

I can never allow the season of decay to bleed out of me, constantly needing that steadily, silently, disturbingly heavy pulse to keep me tethered to this heartache.

I can never be safe.

Not as long as they are alive.

Forgetting is a part of life. A gradual process in which old memories are silently replaced by new ones, the past left behind like storage boxes gathering dust in the attic. It’s natural, even when what we forget is a kind of inherited trauma.

Trauma doesn’t forget us. It clings, jarring and relentless, never once letting its grip go.

I’m the epitome of that truth; my past haunts me even when I’m wide awake.

A ding comes through on my phone, startling me out of my reverie as the crisp morning air bites my cheeks. Fresh wooden scent filters through my nostrils, the bitter cold blowing frighteningly in my house, whistling and howling as if sending a warning.

CASPER:

Good morning, beautiful.

I pocket my phone again, not in the mood to talk to him. I haven’t been since he basically accused me capable of murder thirty hours ago. My phone has been blowing up with messages from him since. Each one coaxing me to him, as if what occurred at the police station never happened.

Ignoring another message coming through, I keep my pace, running my usual route.

There’s something in the way my soul connects to the forest, the scent of pine trees, and the coldness that just heals something inside me.

My thoughts are bustling in the chaos of my mind, not fully understanding what it is I’m doing with my life.

I’ve lived on autopilot for so very long, it’s as if I don’t know who I am anymore.

My life ended before it had even begun when my parents died, and since then, I’ve become a shell of who I used to be.

I used to be so alive .

Not anymore.

Breathing heavily, I pick up my pace as I run, the trees rushing past me in a breeze as I work my way forward. I’m panting, sweat beading on my forehead, muscles screaming for rest, but I can’t get myself to stop—I need this to feel something.

Otherwise, I might just go under.

Listening to the gothic-like instruments in my ears, the music blends seamlessly with the barren branches rustling, sounding almost comfortingly eerie.

I come to a sudden halt…pause the music.

The branches keep swishing, and it’s not the wind this time. Then, that prickling sense of awareness fills me, as if someone is looking straight at me—their eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me shudder, and my breath stutters.

Looking around, I see no one. The woods are silent, uncannily so. That sensation of being watched filters through my body with a harshness that makes it hard to focus.

What is going on?

Gripping my phone tightly, I allow it to ground me to the present. Casper is still my emergency number. He’ll have my back if anything happens.

Right at that moment, the vibration comes from an incoming call. It should make me annoyed with his incessant attempts at reaching me, but only a whoosh of relief escapes me.

I pick up. “Hello?”

“You need to get home.”

A frown mars my eyebrows. “What are you doing at my apartment?”

“It doesn’t matter. You need to get here.”

There’s something urgent in his tone; I notice it in the way his voice becomes just a little higher.

“Why, Casper?” I ask, knowing he hates it when I use his real name, preferring I call him ‘baby’ or some other nickname.

A moment of silence in which I can hear his heavy sigh, almost sounding worried. It’s so far unlike his usual stance that it gives me pause.

“T-there’s something wedged into your door. An envelope of some kind.”

Thoughts instantly start racing in my mind, wondering what it could be.

“It’s wrapped in silk,” he finishes.

I nearly drop my phone to the snowy ground, remembering the gift I received yesterday. One I never told him about.

“With the number ‘5’ on it. What is this, Isolde?” he asks.

“I truly don’t know,” I whisper. “I’ll be there as soon as I finish my run.”

Movement in my peripheral view catches my sight, and a gasp escapes me, which Casper seems to catch onto.

“What is it, Isa?”

I don’t answer, merely lean closer to catch a better sight of what’s there. When I can’t get a proper look, I take a few steps forward. My heart is a wild drumbeat within my chest, a bird fluttering frantically in desperate need to get free. Panic in its natural habitat.

“Wait a sec,” I murmur into the phone, ignoring Casper.

Something red litters the white, grey snow, like droplets leading into a track. I follow it, tentatively, silent as a mouse while looking around.

That feeling of being watched doesn’t disappear, and I don’t know what to make of it.

Then, I see a shoe draped in blood. Like an unstitched wound, it leads up to a foot that’s separated from the rest of the body.

A startled scream leaves my lips, my breath hitching.

What the fuck is going on?

The scream echoes through the woods in a symphony that showcases my horror, echoing through the trees. I stumble back, nearly falling into the snow.

“Isa?! Isolde!” Casper’s voice shouts through the phone. “What’s going on?”

If I didn’t know better, I would think he was worried about me—he never truly cared for me. Not really.

“Isolde, what’s going on?”

Drawing back, my eyes are glued to the bloodstained snow. Horror-filled memories pile up in my mind, and I fight to breathe properly, feeling how fucking impossible it is.

My parents’ lifeless bodies right before my eyes.

That feminine giggle.

That dark, masculine chuckle.

“Y-you need to get here,” I whisper into the voice, that feeling of being watched returning tenfold. I look over my shoulder, not seeing anything. But I know something is there. I just don’t know what. “T-there’s a body.”

“What?” When I don’t give him any more of an explanation, he talks again. “Okay, I will be there.”

“And Casper? Bring the envelope.”

Something is going on. My entire body is trembling as I try to make sense of the scene before me: the blood and the severed foot, the trail of crimson leading deeper into the woods, until the body is finally visible, hiding underneath the foliage.

What’s worse? The number ‘ 5 ’ is drawn into the snow.

My stomach tightens as I scan the woods, every muscle in my body on high alert as I await Casper. I can feel the lingering sensation prickling my nerves, a cold shiver crawling over my skin until the hair on my arms stands with unease.

The wind howls in the trees, almost sounding like a dangerous whisper I had long forgotten. ‘Little traitor…’

The past two days have been a blur of dread, turning my almost peaceful life around. The box wrapped in silk, the bloodied hair bow from my past—it’s an unmistakable reminder of all that I tried to leave behind. The second murder in this quiet, small town since my parents’ death.

The realization hits me like a jet plane crashing onto solid ground—this isn’t a coincidence.

It’s not a nightmare I can wake up from. This is real—the kind of reality that forces me to face what I’ve been running from for so long. It’s a true fucking reality where pieces of my past are being dragged back into the light, meant to haunt me for all eternity.

Much like I deserve.

After all, I was the reason my parents died.