Too Late, Mr. Mills: Watch Me Leave

The damp ferns slapped against her shins, cold and slick against her skin. The morning fog was so thick it felt like wet cotton stuffed down her throat. Adriana Guzman pushed through the underbrush, her voice nothing but a raw scrape of sound.

"Pippa!"

She had been screaming that name for nearly two days and nights. Two days of no real sleep, no food, surviving on nothing but cold creek water and the raw adrenaline that had become her only fuel. The relentless, driving panic kept her legs moving even when her lungs burned and her vision blurred. Her silk skirt was shredded, hanging in muddy ribbons around her knees. Dirt caked her fingernails, and tear tracks cut clean lines through the grime on her face.

"Pippa, please!"

Her throat closed up, choking on the name. She stumbled over a rotting log, her ankle twisting, but the pain didn't register. Nothing registered except the gaping hole in her chest where her daughter should be.

And then, a flash of color.

Through the grey mist and the green leaves, a violent splash of red. It was a beacon, a flare gun fired right into her retina.

It was the dress. The red sundress with the white daisies embroidered along the hem. Pippa had picked it out herself, spinning in front of the mirror just last week, laughing because it made her look like a ladybug.

Adriana's heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought they would crack. She lunged forward, her feet slipping on the wet leaves. Maybe she just took it off. Maybe she got hot. Maybe she's hiding.

She crashed through the final line of bushes, her breath held until her lungs screamed. She fell to her knees on the soft, damp earth.

Pippa was there.

She was curled up at the base of the massive oak tree, her small body tucked into a tight ball. She looked like a doll that had been tossed aside, a toy forgotten in the woods. Her dark hair was tangled over her face, her skin a sickly, waxy white.

"No." The word was a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of blood in Adriana's ears. "No, no, no."

The world went silent. The birds stopped singing. The wind stopped blowing. There was nothing but a high-pitched ringing in her ears, a sound that drilled into her brain. She reached out, her hand shaking so violently she could barely control it.

Her fingertips brushed Pippa's cheek.

It was cold. Not cool, not sleeping cold. It was the cold of stone, of meat left out in the winter. It was the cold of death.

The sound that tore from Adriana's throat wasn't human. It was a guttural, ripping noise that came from somewhere deep in her stomach. It was the sound of a soul being shredded. She collapsed forward, gathering the tiny, stiff body into her arms. She pulled Pippa against her chest, trying to press her own feverish heat into that frozen skin.

"Wake up," she sobbed, rocking back and forth. "Please wake up. Mama's here. I'm here."

But the small head just lolled against her shoulder. There was no response. No hug back. No little arms wrapping around her neck.

The shrill ringtone of her phone cut through the haze of grief. It was a loud, cheerful chime that sounded obscene in the silence of the woods. Adriana fumbled in her pocket, her hands numb and clumsy. She didn't look at the screen. She just swiped to answer.

"Hello?" Her voice was a broken croak.

"Adriana." The voice on the other end was flat, clipped, and laced with irritation. "This game needs to end. I'm tired of it."

Everette. Her husband. The father of the child in her arms.

"Everette," she gasped, the words tumbling out. "I found her. I found Pippa."

There was a pause, filled with the crackle of the overseas connection. And then, the distinct clink of ice against glass. The low murmur of music and laughter in the background.

"Are you listening to yourself?" he asked, his tone dripping with disdain. "You're dragging this out too far, even for you."

She shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "No, you don't understand. She's dead. She's in my arms, Everette. Our daughter is dead."

A short, sharp laugh echoed through the speaker. "Dead? That's your new angle? You think telling me my daughter is dead will make me book a flight home from Milan?"

The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the air out of her lungs. He thought she was lying. He thought this was a strategy, a ploy to get his attention.

"I'm not lying!" she screamed, her voice cracking, raw and bleeding. "She's cold! She's not breathing!"

"Enough." His voice turned to ice, cutting through her hysteria. "When you decide to act like an adult and drop this act, call me back. Until then, don't bother."

"Everette, wait-"

"Is everything okay, dear?" A soft, feminine voice floated through the receiver. It was sweet, solicitous, and utterly fake. It was Becky Clay.

Everette's tone shifted instantly, melting into something warm and indulgent. "It's fine. Just a minor inconvenience."

The contrast was a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. The warmth he gave to another woman while his wife held their dead child. It was the final crack in the dam.

Click.

The line went dead. The silence of the woods rushed back in, heavier than before.

Adriana stared at the black screen of her phone. She looked down at Pippa's pale face. She was alone. Truly, completely alone. Her husband hated her. Her daughter was gone.

In the distance, the wail of sirens pierced the quiet. Red and blue lights flashed through the trees, strobing across the damp bark. Shouts echoed through the forest.

"Over here! We found them!"

Flashlight beams cut through the fog, blinding her. She didn't look up. She didn't shield her eyes. She just held Pippa tighter, pressing her lips to the cold, rigid forehead, kissing it over and over again.

The world had ended, but the people around her just kept breathing.