The Mating Run by Leeka

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Ettie’s back has been something that I’m used to following all the years we’ve been together. The only

time that I’m ever in front of Ettie is during our morning jogs, but that’s because Ettie says that she’s

tired and worn out. Though judging from her lab results, I knew that she was lying, probably just so that

I could feel better about myself.

And so as she leads the way, I’m not surprised in the slightest. I grip the strap of Zeke’s bag tighter

around my shoulders, sneaking a glance to the corpse of the Hunter beneath my feet. Bending down,

my hand instinctively snat ched the map clutched in the dead Hunter’s grip. The edges were now

crumpled and stained with blood, but I ignore it, safely tucking the map away inside my pocket.

For some reason, I stole a glance at Ettie, ensuring her gaze remained fixed ahead, unwavering. I

didn’t want her to see that I had a map to begin with.

Where are we going?

Somewhere safe.

A few minutes after, I spot a makeshift hut looming ahead. My eyes widened with amazement at the

sight, not expecting such a place in the middle of the forest. Ettie led the way with an assurance that

resonated with the familiarity of a place that, despite its primal surroundings, echoed with the heartbeat

of home. The logs. and intertwined branches formed a protective cocoon, a sanctuary, just what Ettie

would have wanted.

As we approached, Ettie’s silhouette against the backdrop of the rustic dwelling embodied a semblance

of normalcy, a stark contrast to the predatory chaos lurking beyond its wooden walls. The scent of

damp earth and the comforting musk of wood permeated the air, momentarily soothing the raw edges

of apprehension etched upon my consciousness.

Ettie, pushed a curtain of vines that served as a door to the side, urging me to come inside. Carefully, I

walked through the vines, expecting more people but was

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surprised to see that we were alone. Ettle then unceremoniously dropped her arrows and quiver to the

side, propped against the log wall.

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“Drop your bag there, Alina,” Ettie suggested, her voice a thread of vulnerability woven into the tapestry

of the forest’s symphony. Her eyes, reflective pools mirroring the scars of our fractured history, held a

fragile plea for trust.

A fleeting hesitation gripped me, my fingers unwilling to relinquish the tether to security that my bag

represented, I didn’t think it was safe to be here empty. handed, and I didn’t have it in me to trust Ettle,

just yet. She looks more like a stranger than my friend as of the moment.

Ettie, her eyes catching the flicker of hesitation and hurt, spoke with a measured acceptance that

carried the burden of understanding.

“It’s okay, Alina,” she said, a sigh traversing the divide between us. “I get it. Trust isn’t something that

mends overnight, especially after everything.”

The admission, hung in the air like an unspoken vow. Even I felt guilty, especially with how I can’t even

deny it, even though I knew that there’s nothing to be guilty of. My bag, a repository of survival etched

upon its frayed surface, remained tethered to my grasp-a silent testament to the jagged contours of our

shared journey.

The hut, a haven cloaked in the shadows of secrecy, beckoned us into its embrace. Ettie’s invitation, a

delicate dance between hospitality and the unspoken ache of redemption, echoed through the air.

I chose a corner, my back to the wall, a calculated stance that mirrored the lingering specters of

caution. Ettle, her movements fluid as a leaf carried by the wind, busied herself with tasks that spoke of

a routine etched within the confines of our shared sanctuary.

She cast a fleeting glance in my direction, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm yet to be bridged. The

logs c rackled in the fire, their dance of shadows an intricate ballet that mirrored the tumultuous

interplay of emotions within the confines of my heart.

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“Are you hungry, Alina?” The words, imbued with a sense of hospitality, held the power to bridge the

gap or deepen the fissures that lingered between us.

Caught off guard, I was about to utter the customary denial-a well-practiced shield to conceal the

gnawing emptiness within-when an involuntary rumble emanated from my stomach. Our eyes met, and,

for a moment, the solemnity melted into laughter a shared acknowledgment of the universality of

hunger, a reminder that, beneath our veils of animosity, we were, at our core, beings tethered by

shared needs.

Laughter, that age-old remedy for fractured connections, reverberated through the hut, momentarily

suspending the weight of distrust that had become the silent companion to our every interaction. The

echo of shared mirth cast a flicker of familiarity upon the walls, like the fleeting warmth of a sunbeam

breaking through storm clouds.

Yet, as laughter subsided, an awkward silence descended, an unspoken acknowledgment of the

precipice we stood upon. Ettie, ever the resilient spirit, cleared her throat, her eyes now fixed on the

fire, flames casting shadows upon the contours of her face.

“I have some meat,” she confessed, her voice a hesitant murmur seeking solace amidst the

uncertainty. “Even bacon.” The admission, spoken with the fragility of a secret unveiled, lingered in the

air like a whispered plea for acceptance.

The revelation stilled the air between us, a shared breath suspended in the uncharted territories of

reconciliation. The question hung, unspoken, in the space between our gazes-a question tethered to

the origin of that elusive meat.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, the words slicing through the uneasy silence like a blade seeking

truth. Ettie, caught in the crossfire of honesty and vulnerability, blushed-a shade of vulnerability etched

upon her features.

“A sponsor,” she confessed, a bit embaras sed. “I’ve gotten most of what helped me survive this long

from sponsors. I guess they kind of like me.”

The flickering fire painted the hut’s walls in warm hues, shadows dancing in rhythm with the ebb and

flow of our unspoken emotions. The cozy interior, a haven

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crafted from the rugged simplicity of our surroundings, harbored secrets not born of the forest’s

generosity but whispered by unseen sponsors. My gaze, a curious intruder, sought clues amidst the

hushed ambiance of our fragile camaraderie.

Against the rough-hewn backdrop of logs and leaves, incongruent elements stood as silent testaments

to a reality tainted by the unseen hands of benefactors. A fluffy blanket, its softness an affront to the c

oar se textures of the forest, adorned a makeshift bed. Pillows, plump and indulgent, gathered in a

corner-a luxury. inconceivable in the wilderness I had come to know.

A basket, not woven from forest vines but from some synthetic material foreign to our realm, cradled a

trove of treasures. Fruits, pristine and untouched by the blemishes of nature, lay nestled beside a loaf

of bread-a bounty bestowed by ant unseen hand, a stark contrast to the scavenging existence that

defined our days.

As my eyes swept over this unintended display of opulence, a disquietude simmered within-a

dissonance that struck a chord of discomfort within the recesses of my consciousness. It was an

unwelcome quest, an ugly emotion that gnawed at the edges of camaraderie-a jealous pang that

clawed at the bonds we sought to reforge.

The dichotomy between gratitude and envy, once a foreign concept, now unfolded as a disconcerting

truth-a revelation that mirrored the complexities. woven into the fabric of our newfound reality. Ettie, my

friend and compatriot in the theatre of survival, stood at the intersection of fortune and misfortune. Her

hut, a sanctuary veiled in borrowed comforts, bore witness to the unseen forces that dictated the ebb

and flow of our existence.

In the silence that lingered, pregnant with unspoken sentiments, my gaze locked onto the basket-the

embodiment of indulgences foreign to the calloused palms of forest dwellers. A surge of bitterness, a

visceral reaction to the apparent disparity, clawed at the fragile tapestry of understanding that threaded

our friendship.

The aroma of sizzling bacon, a fragrance so allen in our rustic abode, wafted through the air,

awakening my senses from the desolate slumber of our survival routine. Ettie, armed with a pot and

pan from mysterious sponsors, orchestrated a culinary symphony amidst the echoes of the forest.

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“Want a slice?” Her voice, a melodic invitation, cut through the ambient cr ckling of the fire. She wielded

a spatula with a dexterity that hinted at a familiarity with tools beyond the purview of our primal

existence.

I nodded, my stomach voicing its approval with an impatient growl. Ettie, bearing a plate that seemed

plucked from the realms of abundance, presented the bacon with a flourish-a mosaic of golden

perfection that defied the frugality of our surroundings.

As she placed a slice before me, the glistening fat beckoning like an ephemeral indulgence, I hesitated.

The plate, an emblem of opulence gifted by benevolent sponsors, reflected the paradoxes of our

existence-a momentary escape from the grim clutches of scarcity.

I accepted the offering, my fingers trembling with a fusion of anticipation and apprehension. The bite, a

communion with decadence, resonated through my senses a gustatory revelation that momentarily

eclipsed the monotony of our survivalist fare. Ettie, mirroring my actions, savored the richness of the

bacon in shared silence.

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