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  If I didn’t feel like going out into the woods—rare days, indeed—I could stay close to the cottage, letting the chickens get exercise and maintaining the buildings. I could paint them, stain the interior of the cottage, or simply read a book on a blanket in the field. There were plenty of volumes inside the cottage, though there were few on the shelves I hadn’t already read.

  I lived an isolated life by choice. I liked the fact that I could, for the most part, sustain myself. I knew how to garden and fish and cook; I could raise chickens and make repairs to buildings and clean; I could mend clothes and fix simple issues with the fuse box and stove and refrigerator without electrocuting myself or blowing myself up.

  It was a point of pride that I could survive on my own. It had taken research and practice—and plenty of mistakes.

  Of course, I did have a safety net. I utilized it less and less as I learned to be more self-sufficient, but it was there all the same.

  One gray day, when heavy clouds threatened to bring the rain the region needed so badly, I dragged the laptop out of a case on the bookshelf. I rarely kept it charged and had to plug it into the wall to get it the power it needed. I treated the laptop—and the Internet I accessed with it—as a last-ditch effort to get me what I needed when I couldn’t get it myself.

  I didn’t like using it as a window to the outside world. I eschewed the ubiquitous Google, the various news sites, and other wasters of time. When I had to access the Internet for something, I kept to my task. I didn’t have the luxury of sitting around and surfing. And it didn’t come cheap, out there. The cottage was so remote that I required satellite Internet. I paid for it by the amount of data I used, so that was another reason not to fool around on the laptop.

  That day, I logged in to the website of a farm supply store in a nearby town. “Nearby” was a relative term; the town was a good fifty miles away. I ordered another sack of chicken feed and jug of insecticide for the garden. Those were things I couldn’t make myself, though I figured if I was industrious enough, I could probably grow the grains necessary to feed the chickens, or come up with a natural deterrent to the bugs in the garden. Heck, I bet I could train the chickens to seek and destroy the harmful bugs out to get my plants.

  There. Ordered. I often thought about the employees at my bank—another place I hadn’t seen in five years. They probably died of shock every time my account showed any sort of movement, gossiping about what, exactly, it was that I was doing out in the wilderness, buying chicken feed and insecticide and the occasional order of lumber.

  A truck would drop off the supplies I ordered at the door to my cottage. Whoever made these deliveries probably hated them, hated driving all the way over here on the deserted two-lane highway before being forced to drive on gravel for another fifteen miles until they reached the cottage. I never saw who dropped the orders off. I preferred not to be seen. I didn’t want to scare anyone with my hideous face. And I never walked the gravel road that led to the highway. I hardly even looked at it. The road was a lifeline to the rest of the world—a lifeline I’d gladly sever, if I only could.

  I supposed I should consider the Internet more as an ally than a detriment. It helped me obtain the things I couldn’t get myself—the chicken feed and insecticide, clothes when I grew out of mine or couldn’t patch or mend the tears I incurred, the occasional grocery order that included powdered milk, frozen foods, flour, sugar, and other necessities.

  The biggest luxury I allowed myself was books.

  When I wasn’t working, I was reading, gobbling up words and stories in single sittings, craving more and less all at once. Romances were my favorite—cathartic scenes of love gained and lost, of hearts won and hurt, of kisses.

  I lived through these narratives, but I always finished each tome with a little bit of bitterness. I lived in a self-imposed exile. There wasn’t going to be a Prince Charming for me—especially not with my face.

  As upsetting as that admission was, I still couldn’t kick my romance habit. And the love scenes … did something to me. I would never admit it to anyone—if there had been anyone in my life to admit it to—but I liked to imagine some of the love scenes in the novels playing out while I touched myself.

  As Prince Charming would lay his Princess across their silken couch, I would lay myself down on my quilt-covered bed. As Prince Charming smoothed his Princess’ flaxen hair away from her face and kissed her, I would comb my own fingers through my curls, flutter my own fingers against my lips. As Prince Charming would trail kisses down his Princess’ shapely neck, I would drag my own fingers down my neck, raising goose bumps at the feather-light touch.

  If I closed my eyes tightly enough, I felt almost as if I could summon Prince Charming to my humble cottage bedroom. My imagination could transform my own fingers into his hands and mouth, exploring my body. I could look past the fact that it was my own hands tweaking my nipples and palming my breasts, my own hands rubbing down my belly in circles, my own hands pinching at the space between my legs, sending waves of pleasure emanating throughout my body.

  I could pretend it was Prince Charming inside of me, though no one had ever been inside of me, as I slipped my fingers into my own body, one hand still circling around my clit, creating and cultivating pleasure until it suddenly blossomed into an orgasm. My climax made me forget everything—forget the fact that I’d never been with a man before moving out to the cottage, forget the fact that I’d never, ever be with a man from now on, forget the fact that I was terribly disfigured. Orgasm was the great equalizer, setting everything right in my world.

  I shook my head free of the cloying thoughts, the ones that urged me to go pick my favorite romance novel, open it to its dog-eared page marking the best sex scenes, and take it into my bedroom to while away an afternoon. Some other time, perhaps.

  I turned the laptop off and closed it, securing it in its case on the bookshelf before peering out the window. The sun cut through the dark clouds, and I sighed. It looked like the heat was going to boil off those rain clouds before they could release a single drop. I needed the rain, and the garden needed the rain, but there was no use worrying about it. It would rain or it wouldn’t. There was nothing I could do to influence it either way.

  I spent the rest of the day cleaning the cottage from top to bottom. The pent up energy from the rain that never fell seemed to supercharge my efforts. I swept every inch of the wood floor, heaving furniture around to make sure I captured each and every speck of dust and dirt. I was lucky that the cottage was so snug. It usually wasn’t much of an effort to keep it clean in the first place, and it wasn’t too much of an undertaking for me to really make the place shine.

  I dusted the bookshelf in the family room, reverently running the rag over all the books I’d accumulated. I took the couch cushions outside and beat them with the broom, raising great clouds of dust. I washed every inch of the kitchen in soapy water before rinsing it, making the tiles on the countertop gleam. Even the dilapidated refrigerator and stove looked cheerful and bright, and like they’d last me for several more years.

  The bathroom was a piece of cake, just one more part of the house swept up into my tornado of cleaning. I saved the bedroom for last, changing the sheets and adding the old ones to the laundry basket before starting a load in the washer, hidden in a little utility closet in the hallway. I always hung the clothes and linens to dry outside.

  My bedroom was the smallest room in the house—besides the bathroom, of course—and only had room for a bed, side table, and little chest of drawers. I didn’t need lots of clothes or possessions, so it didn’t bother me much.

  My one prized possession, though—a framed photograph of my parents and me—got special treatment. I spritzed the glass with cleaner and made sure there weren’t any fingerprints or streaks. Carefully, so as not to smudge the glass, I polished the wooden frame with a rag until it shone. I stared at the picture hard, willing myself back to that happier, freer time. The girl in the picture, the girl who I used
to be, stared determinedly into the camera, but both of her parents smiled lovingly down at her.

  Mom’s hair was straight and fair, the same blonde as mine, but it was Dad’s curls I’d inherited. I could see myself in both of them, the perfect blending of their love, but the realization was more sour than sweet.

  I would do anything to get them back in my life. There were some days when I felt so down that I’d spend entire hours gazing into that one photograph, trying to remember the details of when it was taken. We were all wearing shorts—it was summer, then, or we were somewhere warm, at least. The girl in the photo looked more sassy than truly happy—maybe I’d gotten fussed at for some quirk or foible or had just gotten away with something.

  The truth was that I didn’t remember the circumstances of the photo, and it killed me. I’d picked that photo out of all of them to take with me because it was already in a frame—my parents had valued it enough to frame it, and that was enough for me. But I was too young when it was taken, or the taking of the photo was enough of an everyday occurrence for it not to stick out in my mind.

  Carefully, I put the frame back on the bedside table and stood up. It was evening by then, but I collected the clean, wet laundry from the washing machine and pinned it up on the line outside anyways. What the dew kissed overnight could dry when the sun rose again.

  For dinner, I made a batch of tuna salad and stuffed it into a couple of tomatoes, savoring the way the flavors blended in the simple dinner. I refrigerated the rest of the concoction, knowing I’d eat it throughout the remainder of the week.

  After brushing my teeth and changing into my nightgown, I sank into bed as I liked to do every night—exhausted and satisfied that I’d spent the day as wisely and as fully as possible.

  I dreamed of my parents that night.

  There were times when it was torture to dream of them. I missed them almost every day, even if I tried not to think about what happened.

  The worst part was feeling wistful during the dream, as if my subconscious recognized that sleeping was the only time I’d get to see them.

  “You look so beautiful, Michelle,” Mom said, kissing my forehead. “Like a young woman already.”

  “No, you’ll always be our baby girl,” Dad maintained, snaking his arm around my middle and hugging me to him.

  I looked in the mirror they were all standing in front of and gasped. Mom was right—I looked beautiful. My hair was swept back into a complicated braided up-do, pulled clear of my face. Both of my cheeks were as smooth as milk and had a healthy blush.

  This. This is what could have been. This is what should have been.

  I woke with a start. That dream again. I brought my hands to my face. My left hand felt smooth skin. My right hand felt warped skin—skin as warped as my terrible life.

  Sighing, I let my hands drop and stared up at the ceiling. The silvery light of the moon filtered in the bedroom window, and I felt like crying. Why? What was the point? There was nothing I could change now, nothing I could do to prevent what had already happened. My parents were gone, and my face—and future—was ruined. Why was that so hard to accept?

  I rolled out of bed and got a drink of water from the kitchen. I drained it and set the glass by the sink before walking outside.

  The land around the cottage transformed by night. I never felt scared of it—it was still the same place I knew and loved—but it was just different.

  The birdsong I was so familiar with was replaced with crickets in the field, the cries of screech owls in the woods, the far off yips of coyotes. And instead of the sun gilding the long grass and the tree leaves with gold, the moon cast everything in silver. I held my hand out to examine it in the light. It had such a strange quality that I wondered for a moment if I were still dreaming, if my real body was actually still asleep in my bedroom. It was a mischievous—if disquieting—thought.

  Even the wind had stilled.

  Wearing just my nightgown, I walked out into the field toward the barn, trailing my hand through the wildflowers that grew abundantly there. They were beautiful during the day, but ethereal by night, reduced to differing shades of pewter and steel.

  Maybe, by this light, I looked beautiful, too.

  It was a ridiculous thought, one that I’d only entertain at an equally ridiculous hour such as this. I walked a couple of more steps to the barn before I stopped myself, stunned. I realized that I was going to try to peer into one of the mirrors I’d wrapped up and stowed in there. As if a single dream had changed things. As if a smooth face would solve all ills. Laughing shortly at myself, I fell immediately silent. The sound was out of place in the night, jarring, and the crickets around me quieted to hear it.

  The night and the light of the moon might transform everything around me, but it wouldn’t change one thing. The sun would come up and reveal everything as it really was—yellow and pink and purple and white wildflowers in the field, birdsong, and the ugly scarring on my face. I couldn’t fool myself. It was more painful than reality. I didn’t need to play pretend in a mirror.

  I wasn’t a child anymore.

  Feeling suddenly tired—so exhausted I gave a passing thought to sinking down into the long grass and going to sleep right then and there—I made my way back through the field and to the cottage. I didn’t need to turn on any lights in order to make it to the bedroom with my shins and toes unscathed. I knew the place like the back of my hand.

  Bed. That was what I needed. Respite from this long night.

  “You look so beautiful, Michelle,” Mom said, kissing my forehead. “Like a young woman already.”

  “No, you’ll always be our baby girl,” Dad maintained, snaking his arm around my middle and hugging me to him.

  I looked into the mirror. My hair was beautifully done, my face smooth and gorgeous.

  Oh, well. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  Chapter Three

  One morning, I woke to thunder.

  “Finally,” I mumbled sleepily, peering out the window. The clouds were low to the ground and ominous.

  I skipped breakfast to try and beat the rain at my chores. I gathered eggs in record speed but kept the chickens in the coop so they wouldn’t get scattered by the impending storm. There were ripe tomatoes on the vine, so I gathered them as well, dropping them into a five-gallon bucket as the wind began to pick up, bending the trees at the edge of the woods and whipping my hair around.

  With no need to haul water from the barn spigot to the garden, I secured the bird netting as tightly as I could and dashed back to the cottage, eggs and tomatoes in tow, just as the first fat drops of rain plummeted from the sky. By the time I got all the windows closed, it was really coming down, and I whooped for joy. The land needed this rain. I needed this rain.

  I gave in and cracked a window just to have the cool, wet breeze blow through the house, laying a towel down on the floor to catch the dripping water. Thunder boomed through the room, making me jump, and I hoped the power wouldn’t go out. I wouldn’t have a way to contact the company, and it would probably be one of the last transformers to be repaired because of how remote it was.

  Just in case, I emptied out the ice trays into a bowl in the freezer and filled them again, knowing I could keep anything perishable in a cooler if I had enough ice.

  The thunder boomed again, making me jump and laugh. It’d been so long since I’d experienced an honest-to-God storm that I’d practically forgotten what it was like.

  I experienced a momentary flashback of being a little girl when a storm swept through my hometown in the middle of the night. Terrified, I’d fled to the safety of my parents’ bed. I shook the thought from my head. It was too sad to dwell on, and there was nothing I could do to change it. There was no one to go running to anymore. I was all alone.

  When the worst of the storm passed and the clouds lightened from blue black to gray, I decided that I’d celebrate the needed rain with a walk through the woods. It had been a while since I’d seen the creek run at
anything other than a trickle, and everything would be glazed with rain. It was too much for me to resist.

  Wearing an old rain slicker and some rubber boots, I squished out to the tree line before plunging into the woods. It was still raining lightly, but the canopy above me kept me mostly dry. Only the occasional drop pelted my hair, cooling my scalp beneath the curls.

  It was like a different place after the rain. Silvery drops glistened on every surface of every leaf, and even spider webs grew more beautiful when festooned in rain. Looking up was like being beneath a green umbrella. The trees’ color had improved immensely with the water, and I appreciated every moment of beauty I witnessed.

  I also wasn’t disappointed when I reached the creek. It gushed over tree roots, its normally clear water brown with mud and debris. It was exciting to watch the rare occurrence—my creek usually meandered instead of rushing. I began following it to the river to see how large the pool had grown, when I stopped.

  I thought I’d heard something over the running water.

  I paused and tilted my head, keeping still so I wouldn’t make any more noise than possible. There. There it was again. Just discernible over the creek’s roar was a voice.

  The voice of someone else in the woods.

  I knew it was ridiculous, but my first reaction was one of fear. Who else could be out here with me? I’d never seen anyone in these woods—not ever. But there was someone there, and they sounded like they were in pain. Like they needed help.

  Treading carefully over the wet tree roots and leaves, I stepped closer to the raging creek. Keeping my head cocked toward where I’d heard the voice, I quickly realized that I’d have to cross the creek in order to reach it.

  The swift, swollen creek.

  I had been up and down this creek for years and felt like I knew it intimately, but it was practically a stranger to me now. I didn’t think I could simply wade across. The current looked far too strong.