Drabble 22: The Forest of Theatrics

The shadows were lace upon her cheeks. Ingrid fingered the amber pendant hanging from her neck. A full moon hung above the forest's trees. She thought the bare branches were like many raised hands, clamoring to answer some unasked question. She reminded herself to breathe. What would happen, she wondered, if her lungs seized up now?

Dead At Sixteen, the article would read. No, Missing, Thought Dead In The Forest. It was curious, Ingrid pondered as she leaned hesitantly against a tree, this naming of things no one wanted to talk about. The Lake. The Forest. The War. The Magic. The Creatures. As though to name them was to give them power. As though to speak of them was to spread fear. [A bit too much Harry Potter lately, maybe?]

The tree's bark cut sharply into her spine. The Unforgiving Forest. That would make a better name. Ingrid surveyed the expanse of leaves above her. A trembling began at the top of the tree. The slightest shake. Small enough that it almost seemed insignificant.

The quivering increased slowly. There was no wind, Ingrid thought. No wind at all. The leaves started to shake so violently that it seemed they were fighting. Edge to edge, they swiped at each other. She should be running, she realized. But it was too late.

The leaves dived from the tree all at once like synchronized swimmers. Ingrid did not scream. She ran, throwing her arms up behind her head. Her breath at first came, in and out, like the tick-tock of a clock. Rapidly her lungs filled and emptied in time with her feet.

The leaves zoomed after her, a cloud of rustling green and brown. They tore at each other and cut off bits of Ingrid's hair. It was the only thing within reach of their sharp edges. Ingrid could only imagine what they might do to her skin.

Her lungs began to falter. Her breathes turned to wheezes. Her muscles began to seize up. Her running slowed. The end of the forest was not in sight. There was no way she could keep running. There was no way out of the forest fast enough. And the leaves did not have to stop once the forest stopped.

Abruptly, Ingrid dropped to the ground. The leaves did not immediately veer down after her. Wait, she told herself. Wait for it. The sound of them got louder. She was praying for theatrical effect. They did not disappoint her.

They waited. The leaves waited above her. The Forest of Theatrics. That would make a better name. Ingrid waited. She could hear a few leaves still fluttering to catch up. Then silence. And sudden sound. Now!

The leaves dived all at once again. It was like a horrible leaf cult set to kill her together. [That is the weirdest sentence I have ever written...] Quick, Ingrid thought, I have to be quick. She rolled quickly to the side. Rolled and rolled until she hit a tree. She heard the leaves sink into the ground like thousands of pushpins sinking into cork board.

She wanted to get up and run, but she was struggling to breathe. She clawed at the tree next to her, not sure if it was any safer than the last tree, but needing it anyway. She managed an upright position. Sweat pooled and ran into her eyes. Her trembling hand reached up to wipe it away.

Breathe, she thought. Keep breathing. Breathe deeply. Expel all the air. You can do it.

But she couldn't will the asthma attack away nor could she convince her lungs to take in air. I'm going to pass out, she thought. I'm going to--

And so she did.

Notes: I MUST PACK. OH DEAR, OH DEAR, OH DEAR, WHERE DID TIME GO?? WHAT DOES ONE WEAR TO GO HIKING? HELP!

I really have no idea a) why Ingrid was in the forest in the first place [probably recklessness], b) how she survives considering passing out isn't helpful if she's still not breathing properly... [maybe Oliver finds her?], or c) why the creepy leaf-creature-things attacked her [just because they're evil??]

OKAY, PACKING.