Mud everywhere–as far as she could see. She’d slogged through the muck for hours hoping for even the slightest sign of civilization, but the crest of every muddy hill only led to another.
She couldn’t go back. Not to that place. Not to him. She’d rather die face down in the mud than see that monster again, and with every step that became increasingly more likely.
She looked back in the direction from which she’d come. He’d be waking up shortly to find her gone. If she was going to die that day, it wouldn’t be by his hand.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.
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