When I finally opened my eyes, it was into the searing white heat of a desert landscape. Sun-bleached stones and striated mesas came into focus. My limbs ached and the thirst was unbearable. Spiky tussocks of grass poked my bare, burnt skin. I became aware of my prone position, face down, skin scraping on harsh, rocky soil. I was cut in places, with dried blood caked to my arms.

He had brought me here. I was sure of it.

He left me cut and bleeding, and in a ditch?

I thought he was loving. I thought he cared about me. It was a strange kind of love that did this to a girl.

Did he not know that I was already mired in self pity, in old hurts, in a wounded spirit? Was that not enough for him?

To call me into this wild place, fraught with danger, injured and left to die; how could he do that to me?

The ghostly howl of the wind as it rushed between rocky passes and through the sharp-bladed grass was broken by a soft voice. “Here, drink this,” he said, holding a flask to my mouth.

It was him. Wrapped in coarse robes. Despite the dry heat, he wore heavy, dark clothing. His feet were bare, and he must have been tough skinned to walk on the rubble and thorns.

I drank, and drank, feeling the life slowly coursing back into my broken body.

He squatted next to me in the dust and dirt, and held out his hand. I glared at him, knowing that my naked, bruised, and wounded state would steal any authority or strength from my countenance. He waited. I refused to stir. An age seemed to pass as I tried to stare him into submission, knowing it was a fruitless task, knowing he could wait forever.

“I didn’t try to kill you,” he whispered, “but I brought you here so you could stay with me and heal.”

Lies. It had to be lies. He had told me he would protect me, stay by me, always love me. Then he had disappeared and left me to die here.

“I am here now,” he said. “And I was never far from you.”

A sharp jolt of pain ran through my body. I groaned and clasped his hand. His skin was cool, his touch kind. He lifted me to my feet and wrapped me in rough robes like his own. I hurt, but I could stand, still holding his hand.

He almost smiled, and his eyes were gentle. I wanted to hate him. What was this lonely desert? The heat, the pain, the blood. The scent of unseen flowers caught in the wind’s howling rush across the land.

“Come with me,” he said. He walked ahead of me, releasing my hand. Tears began to fall. I did not want him to let go, not again. I hated him and I loved him.

He walked onwards, and I struggled to catch up. I saw his feet dig into the rocky soil as he climbed over a rise. I followed in his footprints, dented in the white earth.

“Where are you going?” I cried. My voice was weak and lost in the natural noises of the wasteland. He glanced back toward me and smiled. I struggled after him.