Content warnings

Intimate partner violence. Coercive control. Threat and pursuit. Cancer. Death of a parent. Disaster.

4:14:02 p.m. — it’s me again. I know you won’t text me back, but I had to tell you I’m finally doing it. I’m leaving him. for good. forever.

4:15:06 p.m. — I think you’d be proud.

4:15:18 p.m. — I hope you’d be proud.

6:07:42 p.m. — I did it. I left. I fucking left. I took the bag I’d hidden in the closet underneath the laundry. he’s never washed his own clothes in his life, so he’d never look there. god I’m so fucking scared. I left my real phone at home, wiped it and everything. no tracking software on this one.

6:07:56 p.m. — god I wish you’d respond.

6:09:15 p.m. — the train’s almost an hour outside the city now. I was frozen in my seat by the window, freaking out as each person walked passed, thinking he could’ve somehow followed me, like each face would potentially be his. one guy on the quiet car, christ, he had the exact same Bears hat he always wears. exact same one! I almost threw up. but no, this was a kind-faced boy, early 20s. didn’t have any of his face’s deep frown lines.

6:09:55 p.m. — about another hour and I’m there. you probably know where I’m heading. you showed it to me. our special place, remember? just for a few days. even he doesn’t know about it. I was able to keep that from him.

6:10:33 p.m. — wish I’d been able to keep even more from him.

8:04:14 p.m. — the kind-faced boy gave me a ride. we got off at the same stop. he was heading home from college for a weekend visit. isn't that nice? I wish I’d have done that sort of thing more often. I know you would’ve liked it.

8:04:22 p.m. — I miss you so much. I hope you know that. I’m sorry about how I left things.

8:06:18 p.m. — sometimes I forget there’s so much kindness in the world after... everything. but that’s done now. time to start over, time to begin anew.

8:08:17 p.m. — I almost told that boy everything on the drive over. maybe I should have. he asked if I was okay, but I kept a brave face, told him I was just going camping for a few days. he told me he’d always heard the woods were haunted. “nobody goes there anymore,” he said. I told him I used to go camping with you all the time. that seemed to placate him. I hope he doesn’t tell anyone. when he dropped me off, he gave me his number, said to give him a call when I get back to the city. I lied and told him I would. I’m never going back.

9:14:14 p.m. — okay maybe this was a dumb idea. my flashlight broke. and the moon isn’t out so it’s dark as hell in these woods. can you believe that? and I know your favorite word—redundancies, redundancies, redundancies—but I just didn’t have time to do that. you don’t know how hard it was scrounging everything. it took me almost six months. every single day I was afraid he was going to find my stash. more than once, after he did something nice, like clean the house, or take me to dinner after a rough work day, or the time he booked us that trip to the grand canyon because I told him I’d never seen it, I started to think maybe I was crazy, that I was overreacting. I thought maybe if I told him what I was planning he’d change.

9:14:54 p.m. — but you can’t change a monster.

9:15:15 p.m. — using a cheap cell phone as a flashlight sucks.

10:01:37 p.m. — I got lost a few times trying to find the campground by the twin lakes. I did what you taught me, didn’t panic, got my bearings using my compass (yes, I knew better than to go without one), and figured it out. you'd be proud of me. maybe not of everything, but you always showed me how to be self-reliant outdoors. maybe you should’ve taught me to be self-reliant in other ways, too.

10:07:05 p.m. — something is following me. oh my god, how did he find me??

10:21:51 p.m. — whatever it was, it’s gone. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but then I froze and heard whoever it was—whatever it was—keep going for a few paces. then it stopped. I ran so fucking fast. I don’t know if it chased me, but I hid in a hollowed out tree off the main path. my heart was beating so hard I thought I might stroke out. wouldn't that be fun? “Hiker dies from being scared shitless in wilderness. Film at 11.” why do they always say film at 11? is that when you’d watch the news when you were younger? nobody my age watches the news.

10:22:19 p.m. — well, he watched the news. thought it made him seem smart. that piece of shit.

10:24:47 p.m. — just saw a deer stroll past, looking even more scared than I am. that must’ve been what followed me. for a minute I thought it was him. but there’s no way. I’m probably always going to think he’s right around the corner, aren’t I?

10:25:08 p.m. — you’d know what to do, wouldn’t you?

11:09:31 p.m. — even without the moon, the campsite is as beautiful as ever. you first took me here when I was, what, six? seven? every few months we came out here, hell or high water. “just gotta get away sometimes,” you always said. “reconnect with nature.” my plan is to spend a few days here, reconnecting, and then call up a shelter I looked up a few towns over.

11:15:08 p.m. — setting up a tent with one person is stupid when you can’t see shit, btw

11:22:19 p.m. — okay I started a fire. should’ve done that first, now I can actually see. maybe I didn’t remember everything you taught me.

11:28:42 p.m. — I’m not making excuses but he seemed nice when I first met him at that grad school party. christ, he was so handsome, too. stunning, really, his eyes just sucked you right in. blue and as expansive as goddamn lake michigan. he told me that evening we were destined to be together. just said it after talking to me for half an hour. meant it, too, you could tell. it was flattering, if a bit much. the buzzword these days is lovebombing. a red flag the size of nebraska and I missed it. took me on a date the next day. wore a nice sports coat and everything, professorial patches on the elbows. steak dinner, that place on rush street. wined and dined me. waited three whole dates before I slept with him. you probably don’t want to hear that, seeing as we never had “the talk” or even, like, acknowledged sex is real. sorry, but that’s what happened. I really liked him, you know? he made me feel special.

11:29:15 p.m. — he was a good liar.

12:12:16 a.m. — the battery on this phone is shit. I’m like halfway out of juice, nowhere to plug in except the ranger’s station. that’s a good five mile hike back. but I just want to explain everything. make you understand how it all happened. you start dating someone, it gets serious, then they start to change. maybe not change so much as the facade slowly breaks down. they become who they really are, who they always were, who they’d kept hidden from you. and then you’re too scared, too in love, too uncertain that you can’t trust your own instincts, because that’s what they’ve broken down. what they’ve taken from you. and then you can’t leave.

12:13:14 a.m. — I’m not going into everything he did. you don’t need to know that. I’m not unique. except that I got away.

12:14:56 a.m. — it’s dumb as shit that even out here, even as I’ve escaped, part of me misses him. what the fuck is wrong with me?

12:16:27 a.m. — I wish I could just call you.

12:45:28 a.m. — something is outside the tent.

01:08:22 a.m. — it’s gone. whatever it was, it left. oh my god this was so fucking stupid. what am I even doing out here? at least when you brought me, you brought the rifle your father taught you to hunt with. the one that would’ve been mine if I hadn’t, well. you know. wish I had it now.

01:09:51 a.m. — okay, it was like something was shuffling outside. breathing deep. I don’t think it was a bear, but what the fuck do I know? it sounded... angry. like it was mad I was here. at one point, I swear something pushed against my tent. maybe a paw. a hand? I don’t think it was a person. I held my breath so long I thought I was going to pass out. then I heard a loud splash, and it was gone.

01:10:22 a.m. — I brought a knife from the kitchen. it's just a stupid steak knife. I don’t even know why I did. but I’m glad I have it. it’s something at least.

01:12:22 a.m. — there are footprints outside. like a person. oh my god. it's him, right? it has to be him. what the fuck. how could he have found me? did he find my bag, put in a tracking device? why did he jump into the lake? this makes no fucking sense.

01:14:18 a.m. — this was so dumb. I’m getting my shit and heading back to the trail. I’ll just sleep by the ranger’s station. I don’t care if it’s against the rules. fuck this.

01:18:47 a.m. — my pack is gone. what the fuck.

02:15:15 a.m. — okay, this phone’s got about a quarter battery left, I’ll try to be quick. I started taking down the tent and set my backpack behind me, near the fire. it was out of my sight like three minutes. and then it was gone. I’ve got my smaller bag, which has my wallet, some cash, some food, but all of my clothes are gone. even worse, all of the things I couldn’t stand leaving with him. he made me get rid of most of my stuff, did you know that? said we were together now, whoever we were “before” didn’t matter. I managed to keep a few things, but he threw the rest out. made me watch him do it. god, I could’ve killed him. every photo of me as a child. every photo of you and me. except one. from our last trip out here, remember? I was 18, right before I went to college. I’d hidden that from him all this time. all I had left of you. it was in my backpack. and now it’s gone.

02:25:52 a.m. — something is following me again. I swear I feel its eyes on me. sometimes, I think I can feel its hot breath on my neck, hear it lick its lips, smell the rot of death and decay. but then I turn and nothing’s there?? am I going insane?

04:18:22 a.m. —I managed to get away, I don’t know how. it chased me and I ran. I’m hiding in those caves, the ones you told me to never play in? I don’t even know how I ended up here, I swear they’re on the other side of the twin lakes. maybe I got all lost. the sun should be up in a few hours. I’ll be able to find my way back then. my battery is almost dead anyway.

04:20:16 a.m. — I wish you’d respond. I wish you’d answer me.

04:22:27 a.m. — I heard another splash. or I think I did. and then I saw something move in the trees by the shoreline. it looked big. it looked wrong.

04:27:38 a.m. — I found that last photo of us in my smaller bag. god, I can barely see, I’m crying so hard. I thought I’d lost the picture forever. we look so happy. I hope we were. I hope you know that we were.

04:30:55 a.m. — I never told you why I didn’t visit you in the hospital. because I couldn’t. you don’t understand the hold he had on me. he wouldn’t let me go. I wanted to, christ, I wanted to so bad. he said we had to detach from our previous selves, that we were all we needed, which meant cutting ties with everyone. I understand now he did it to control me. I get that. I hope you know that he made me say those things on our last call. I’ve carried that with me every day, growing inside me like your cancer, knowing what I said to you, knowing how it must’ve made the pain worse. but you, goddammit, you told me you loved me. you said you’d always love me no matter what, that I was your baby boy, and that you knew I’d someday do the right thing, that I would be brave, that I would save myself. I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t with you at the end.

04:40:07 a.m. — to whoever is getting these texts, I hope you can forgive me.

04:55:18 a.m. — one percent battery left. the sun is breaking through the canopy. I just saw something move in the trees, hiding where it’s still dark. it’s coming for me. but I’ve got that knife. you told me to be brave. that I would have to save myself. I’m going to try. I’m going to fight like hell, Dad. I promise to make you proud.

END

Author’s note

After getting the story's general shape while on a train coming back from Milwaukee, I wrote the first draft in one sitting. I knew the title, I knew I wanted to play with form, and I knew the ending. The rest just fell into place.

Andy Boyle

Andy Boyle is a Chicago-based writer whose work has been in Esquire, NPR, NBC News, the Chicago Tribune and more. The author of two non-fiction books with Penguin Random House, his fiction has appeared in Uncharted Magazine, MetaStellar, Philadelphia Stories, Cold Caller Magazine, Rock and a Hard Place Magazine and more.