The Girl in the Forest

The night sky is a canvas of stars. It’s beautiful, in its own way; and yet the stars have never felt so far away before now.
She can feel them staring at her, judging her for what she is. A broken girl, lost and wandering in the woods, alone save for her brother. It’s not as if he knows she exists anymore. She doesn’t expect him to. 
And yet it hurts every time her thoughts drift too close to home, where everyone is, and how they are doing without her. How they could be better without her, when their lives had been so much easier with her by their side. Their father and mother would probably have gotten along just fine, but that would not have stopped the nightmares from plaguing them all those years ago.
Her heart aches when she thinks about the man who took them in. The one who promised to help her make something of herself. A leaf scraped her ankle, leaving a sharp pain that lasted for a few days. Her anlled healed quickly, but her bruises would stay until she was sixteen.
The dreams hadn't stopped even then. They'd always plagued her, whether awake or asleep. They’d followed her into the night.
She knew the truth about herself, but that was no comfort to anyone. The girl stared at the sky above. An aurora borealis was above. She heard a mysterious sound nearby that sounded like a mattress being removed from a bed. What followed was a scream. A scream so deadly that it had plagued her for 70 years. Her ripped skirt blew in the wind.
She was cold, and scared. She needed some air. So she ran. She ran towards the source of the screaming, trying desperately to keep up.
"Please stop," she said, out loud. Not knowing if he could hear her. Her breathing became laboured. She stumbled, falling onto her knees. She tried again, but she failed.
When she woke up, she was in a dark place. She was tied to her knees on the cold, wooden floor. A light was shining directly through the open doorway. There was someone standing in front of her. She squinted, struggling to see them properly. It was a young man, maybe early twenties, with long black hair and deep brown eyes. He wore a white jacket over a shirt and jeans. His hands were balled into tight fists. For 70 years, that man took care of her as her husband. She died at the age of 86. All she gave to the man was a toy egg. “Treasure the egg. It will show you my troubling past, Charles,” were her last words. 
The end.
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