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Mud vein tarryn fisher pdf

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Visit my website at homeranking.info 5/ For Lori Who saved me when I was drowning Part One: Shock and Denial Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter. Mud Vein. Tarryn Fisher. Click here if your download doesn"t start automatically Mud Vein by Tarryn Fisher Free PDF d0wnl0ad, audio books, books to read. Read "Mud Vein" by Tarryn Fisher available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first purchase. When reclusive novelist.

I want to ques- tion the contents of the box. I pray to whoever is in charge of fire and blow gently. But something about an author as established as Tarryn Fisher refusing to pander to certain limits and expectations makes me want to outright slap a 5 star rating on Mud Vein. I wouldn't say this gave me major feels, but I did run through some emotions that may have even bordered on sanity. It just wasn't working for me at this time The story.. I watch in shock as his head thrashes from side to side.

My hand lingers on a label. The realization that they are all in my size sickens me. No—I tell myself. This is all a mistake. My brain is acquainted with grief and so is my body. Task at hand, Senna. I find an ornate silver box on the top shelf of the armoire. I pull it down, shake it.

Inside is a box of lighters, a key, and a small silver knife. I want to ques- tion the contents of the box. Stare at them, touch them—but I need to move fast.

Slip- ping my wrist into my makeshift sling, I flinch. I pocket the knife and fumble for one of the lighters.

My hand hovers above the box. Eight pink Zippos. I blow it off. My hand is shaking as I reach for the lighter. I laugh. Can anything tied to a kidnapping be coincid- ence? Right now I need to get warm.

My fingers are numb. It takes six tries before I can get the wheel on the Zippo to spin. It leaves indentations on my thumb The wood is hard to catch. Had he put it here recently? I look for something to feed the flames, but there is nothing I can burn that I might not need later.

I am already thinking survival, and it scares me. My eyes search the space until I see a white box in the corner of the armoire with a red medical cross on the top.

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A first- aid kit. I run to it and flip the lid. Bandages, aspirin, needles—God. I finally find single use packages of alcohol prep wipes. I grab a handful and run back to the fireplace.

I rip the first one open and hold the lighter to its tip. It catches and flares. I tuck the burning pad against the log and rip open another package, repeating the process. I pray to whoever is in charge of fire and blow gently. The wood catches. I pull the thick comfort- er off the bed and wrap myself in it, crouch- ing in front of the meager flames. It is not enough. I am so cold I want to dive into the fire and let it burn this cold off of me.

I stay like that, a lump on the floor, until I stop shaking. Then I move. It is locked. I yank on it for five minutes with my good hand until my shoulder burns and I want heave up my guts again.

I stare at it for a moment before I run to get the key from the silver box. What kind of sick game is this?

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And why do I take so long to realize the thing about the key? I pace around the trapdoor in my bare feet, smacking the key against my thigh.

It is an abnormally large key, old fashioned and bronze. The keyhole in the trapdoor looks large enough to fit it. I stop my pacing to examine the key more closely. It takes up my entire hand, fingertips to wrist. There is a question mark in the center of the handle, the metal curling around the character in an ornate design.

I drop the key. It clanks heavily against the floor not far from where I threw up. I back up until my shoulder blades are pressed against the wall. I shiver and my fingers automatically close around the knife in my pocket. The blade is sharp. I feel really good about that. I have a penchant for sharp knives and I sure as hell know how to carve skin. If I have a key, they have a key. I prefer the second option; it feels like it affords me a little more power.

I walk quickly, sidestepping the vomit and snatch up the key. Before I can think about what I am doing, I crouch over the trapdoor and plunge it into the keyhole.

Metal against metal and then … click.

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I use my good hand to heave it open. I peer into the darkness. There is a ladder. At the bottom of the ladder are a round rug and a hallway. I cannot see past a few feet. I am going to have to go down. I place the knife between my teeth and count the rungs as I climb. One … two … three … four … five … six.

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My feet hit the rug. The floor is cold. The cold shoots up my legs. Now that there is a plan, I take a look around. There is a skylight above me, laser-thin rays of sunlight pierce through it and hit the wood floor. I step through them, my eyes darting around for a hidden attacker. I am at the end of a corridor: There are three doors: All of them are closed. There is a wall dir- ectly behind me, as well as the ladder I just climbed down.

Beyond the hallway I can see a landing. I walk on my tiptoes past the doors and stop on the landing. I am obviously in a cabin. I can make out a large, open kitchen down the stairs and to the left. To the right is a living room with thick, cream-colored carpet. Everything is eerily quiet. I creep down the stairs, my back to the wall. If I can make it to the front door, I can run.

Get help. My mind goes to the endless snow I saw out the window in the round room. I push the thought away. There will be someone … a house … or a store, maybe. God, why had I not thought to take shoes? I am all action and no brains. I am going to have to run through three feet of snow with nothing on my feet. The front door is directly at the bottom of the staircase. I glance up to the top floor to make sure no one is following me, and then dive for it.

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A keypad sits next to the door. It opens electronically. I am going to have to find another way out. I am shaking again. I could break a window. The kit- chen is in front of me and to my left. I try that first. It is rectangular. Shiny, stainless steel appliances.

They look brand new. God, where am I? A window runs the length of the kitchen, its continuity broken only by the fridge. In the corner there is a heavy circular table with two curved benches on either side. I walk to the drawers and pull them open until I find the one with the knives. I pluck out the largest one, testing its weight in my hand before leaving my baby knife on the counter. I think twice and slip it in my pocket instead.

Now that I have a weapon, a real weapon, I head for the living room. Books line one wall; on the other is the fireplace. A sofa and a loveseat are arranged around the coffee table. There is no way out. I look for something to break a window with. When I look more closely I see that it is bolted to the floor.

There are no chairs. I go back to the kitchen, open every cabinet and drawer, my desperation increasing with every second I risk being discovered. There is nothing large enough or heavy enough to break a window. This could be a trap.

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There could be someone hiding behind one of the doors. But, why give me a key to the room I was locked in if they wanted me trapped? Were they playing games? My whole body is shaking as I climb back up the stairs. One foot in front of the other, Senna, and if someone jumps out at you, you use your knife and cut them in half. I am between the doors. I can hear myself breath- ing: It opens. I step onto the carpet, my toes curling around the shag like they need to hold onto something.

A canopy bed sits against the far wall, facing me. Two of its posters are life-sized carousel horses, their poles disap- pearing into the wooden beams of the ceil- ing. There is a fireplace to my left, a window seat to my right.

I am having trouble breath- ing. First the lighters, then the key, then … this.

I close the door behind me. One more door. This one feels more frightening than the last. I stand facing it for the longest time, my breath curling into the air, and the frozen fingers of my good hand clutching my little knife.

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