Log from August 9th:
I’ve had my first experience with hitchhiking. I thought that if I stuck by Scarlet-marked drivers, I would be safe. My naïveté cost me one of the most traumatizing experiences of my life.
By day, I mostly travel on foot. It’s easier to outmaneuver them that way, I think – I take trails and shortcuts, keep away from the road. I don’t know how to Run; I think that’s the problem. I always felt so safe. How stupid could I have been? As long as I stay away from civilization by day, though, I feel like that might be better. It’s false safety, but it’s there.
Once the sun starts to set – that’s not until something like eight-thirty at night – I make my way back to streets and get on the first mode of transportation I find. Usually busses, but tonight, a car pulled over on the side of the road and asked if I was who he thought I was. I looked him over; red cowboy boots. I found it funny, since the Mistress wears boots of a similar shade, if not the same style. I said yes, and he told me to get in.
We were driving for a while. He was willing to take me down the 401 and pay my toll into the United States, which was a relief. I looked up the route I needed to take, beforehand; 129 hours on foot, 15 hours by bus, or 8 hours by car. Anything to whittle down that trip seemed like a blessing, and with no one else on the road he was going sixty over the speed limit.
Then suddenly he was pulling over – the deceleration almost made me dizzy. He started going on about the Mistress, and being important to her, and then…he just…sprung at me.
By the end of it, I was just…soaked in blood. It’s not like I minded, it wasn’t the first time, but…I was shaking. Killing someone like that is different. It’s not like in tribute.
I just kept telling myself it was the same. I was protecting what belongs to the Mistress.
Unless, would she have wanted me to be-…?
I couldn’t stomach it. I’m feeling sick, right now.
In the end, I had to skin him. I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be recognized. I know I read something about flaying, before. There’s still blood everywhere, but this isn’t CSI; DNA doesn’t solve everything in sixty minutes.
I don’t know what I’ll do with the skin.
For extra measure, I spent hours taking off the license plates. It was grueling, and I was stuck using everything and anything the man had in his glove box. My hands are so badly scratched that I can barely type…I’ll need to have them bandaged.
Now, I’m just…bundled up in a ditch off the side of the road, maybe a mile away, with a bag of stinking flesh, license plates, and my laptop. It’s the only source of heat, and I wanted to write down what happened. The details already feel a hundred miles away.
God, the nausea is too much.