Page 4 of Hunting Gianna
God, I miss being out here.
Once I've marked my territory, I get to work. A girl can’t survive on fresh air and freedom alone. I’m smart enough to know that much. I may not be “good enough in bed,” but at least I know how to pitch a fucking tent. Which is more than I can say for that sad sack of skin.
God, what did I even see in him?
I give the sleeping mat a few good whacks to settle the air in it. The roll makes a satisfying puff as it pops open on the ground. The long branches I gather scratch my arms, and my hands sting with the freedom of splinters. I drop them in a pile, all ready for a fire and all mine.
Time is mine, too. Finally. I kick off my shoes, feel the soft forest floor beneath me. The duffel is practically empty now. There’s enough food and enough space, and I’m finally enough for myself.
The tent rises as I start working, things slowly coming together. Like magic. I watch the rippling fabric catch in the breeze before I stake it down, arms burning with the good kind of fire, the kind that reminds me what this is. What I am. Free. I flip the empty duffel into the tent, pop my rainbow chip granola bar into my mouth and savor the taste of adventure as I wander back for the rest of my things.
The sun is a lazy golden orb behind the ridgeline, catching at the tips of trees like they might go up in flame. It’s the perfect time of day to be a bird. And this bird is finally getting some fresh fucking air.
I set the duffel down just outside the trees, watching the last light flash across the sky. The same light from the same sun that hits the deck of his stupid ship. But it shines brighter up here, better. I wrap my arms around myself, snug as a cocoon. Tomorrow I’ll stop ruminating and move the fuck on. Tomorrow, I’ll start a fire. Tomorrow, I’ll start everything.
A mountain breeze kicks up, fluttering my empty bag, fluttering my heart, and I let it all blow me away.
The fire crackles, a conspiratorial whisper, and I swear it's talking to me. Just me. About time something did. I draw closer, my knees tucked to my chest, sketchbook a fragile shield against the wilderness. It takes exactly twelve strokes of the pencil to bring the trees back to life. Fourteen more to cage in the sky. A quick line, a heavy smudge, and the landscape is mine again.But I still don't feel alone. My eyes keep returning to the trees. The same way his always went back to the waitresses. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's the same.
I press the pencil harder, let the sky grow darker on the page. Let it push out everything else.Snap. Snap.Two strokes and they aren't pencil marks. I laugh at myself. Almost like it's funny. Almost like I believe it. The crack of a twig turns into the snap of the lead, and my hand smudges the sky black. My grip was always too tight. No wonder I can’t hold on to anything.
My art, like my life, seems to be slipping.
But I won't let it. I clutch the sketchbook like an amulet. Tighter, tighter. This is my life, mine alone, and I don’t have to share it with anyone. Not even an imaginary fucking woodland creature.
If something is out there, it better be a fucking werewolf coming to make me the princess of his pack, ‘cause I am done with fuck boys.
The night air shifts, crackling with warmth, dancing with the occasional spark from the fire. And then I'm right back at it, this time capturing the delicate curve of an unfurling leaf, the sweep of trees caught in the golden glow of my triumph. Another branch snaps, closer this time. Maybe there’s something out there. Maybe it thinks I don't see it yet.
Maybe it's right.
I shift my focus back to the drawing, back to me.
The blank spaces fill in, and my chest feels less hollow. There's something about these lines, these perfect pencil lines, that bring more than a drawing to life. It's a delicate sketch of sanity. Maybe not what I left behind, but a better version. My hand is steady.
The sun sinks lower, catching its own reflection in the pool of my water bottle, and the stars, too, are caught before they scatter. I'm in the middle of something wonderful and I know it. I inhale so deeply I almost tip backwards and land in the fire. It glows against my skin, orange-red in the early dusk, and I feel it spread, slow and unashamed. Maybe I won't last a couple weeks out here. Maybe I won't even last the night. But I can say this much already, I am more than adventurous enough.
The long shadows of trees finally lose their grip on me, on my tentative little slice of wilderness, as they melt into blackness. It's just me now, my breath, and the rise of smoke into a perfect deep blue sky.
The light seeps away, inch by inch, almost as if it regrets letting go. If I didn't know better, I'd think the whole mountain was folding itself around me. Instead, I fold my arms over my knees and watch the fire dip and swoon with the night air, breathing right along with it. The thought should have me reaching for a phone. For a drink. But there's no signal here, and I'm in control. No captain at the wheel, just me and the way my skin shivers with pleasure at the thought of an empty horizon.
I stay like this until my eyes feel heavy, until the pencil slips from my fingers and lands on the soft earth. Then I get to work on something just as important as art.
I eat for the first time in hours. Really eat. Setting up my grate and boiling some water, the pasta is poured in and away we go. I watch the flames rise to meet my offering, and the fire accepts it with a gentle sigh. It doesn’t take long to cook, and God is it delicious. Each bite dissolves in my mouth, and I am back to the time before him. The ones before him, even. I savor the sweet disintegration, brushing sauce from my lips and my lap, thinking maybe this will feed more than hunger. Maybe this will feed the empty spaces, too.
This is the kind of luxury I forgot existed. Being in the middle of the world and in the middle of nowhere, all at once. Like nothing else matters, not the past or the future, not the words he said or the words he didn’t say. The present is enough. I want to taste it all.
The wind picks up again, wrapping the smells of campfire and pine into something far sweeter than an escape. The smell of victory. And maybe that smell, that dark and earthy mystery, is why I start to believe I'm not alone again. I put down my guard along with my dinner and start hearing things I shouldn't. Little sighs and snaps and whispers.
This is the land of snapping twigs, not snapping assholes. I laugh at myself again, and I laugh at the mountain's own desperate need for company.
But the longer I listen, the more the laughter catches. In my ears, my throat. Maybe this is exactly the kind of adventure I didn’t have in me. Or the kind he didn’t have in him.
I’ll never know.
But I do know this much. I want to draw another picture. I want to draw it now. Something big and urgent. Something with teeth.
Maybe I’ll save it for morning, when my eyes can see what my heart already does.
