Influencer #3
I stagger back and continue my search, making my way down a dim corridor that’s stuffed to the brim with taxidermy animals in large glass display cases.
Coyotes, mountain lions, skunks, and squirrels: they all watch me struggle along with their beady glass eyes.
The animals’ expressions are frozen in various states of pantomime, evoking stories of natural life up here on the mountain, but in the dim light I can’t help feeling like each and everyone of them has an ulterior thought tucked away in that hollowed-out head.
These propped-up bodies are here for sweet revenge.
A room full of corpses who never asked for this, and who now get a front row seat to my downfall.
“Marlo!” I hiss again.
No response.
As I turn to leave, I come face-to-face with a fellow predator, a giant taxidermy bear standing upright and gazing down at me in a frozen snarl of rage.
I pause for a moment, taking her in, wondering if I can spot a piece of myself tucked away in there.
The creature’s pose is impressive and intentional, showcasing the primal might of the California grizzly.
I step back a bit, getting a wider view, and in doing so I notice something else about this display.
Down at the base is a much smaller creature, a cub that’s been hollowed out and positioned to gaze up at its mother in admiration—if that even was its mother.
In reality, all this is just a fabrication, a morbid little play these creatures never asked to put on.
I hesitate, knowing I need to keep moving but feeling like there’s one last thing I should take care of. Finally, I reach out and place my hand against the glass, not quite sure what I’m doing but accepting the swelling river of emotion and letting it guide me.
“Aw, fuck,” I murmur, feeling silly and then pushing past it. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m not exactly talking to the bear, or to any particular one of the long-dead animals gathered around me. I’m talking to the bodies. All the bodies.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, unable to hold back any longer as tears spill from my eyes.
The animals don’t forgive me, just stare down and bare their teeth in endless snarls.
A strange hollow thump pulls me back into focus, possibly the echo of a door closing somewhere within this vast structure. I perk up a bit, listening closely as I dry my eyes, a horrible sting radiating across my face every time I touch it.
The sound came from upstairs.
Leaving the animals behind, I carefully ascend a large wooden staircase that leads to the main floor of this beautiful building.
Here, the ceilings are high and vaulted, with thick wooden beams that run the length of the structure.
To my left, the entire wall is made up of glass panels that extend from floor to ceiling, providing a wide-open view of the valley below.
This vista was little more than a flat plane of twinkling lights and the darkness of night, but I now find myself greeted by an incredible blooming sunrise. It looms over me, a watercolor sky in brilliant pink.
The city is waking up, phones and televisions powering on to witness one of the strangest local news reports of all time.
Everything is out in the open now. Eddie’s twenty minutes of control don’t make people forget, so this time there are finally survivors.
For centuries, Eddie worked hard to hide his presence, but I doubt he managed to cover everything up before plummeting from that gondola.
I press onward. Most of the main floor is a dining hall, dozens of tables and chairs positioned throughout the wide-open space.
At the other end of the room is a massive approximation of a fireplace, which usually offers up videos of a roaring blaze, but the screen has been turned off.
Nearby is a café with tea, coffee, and grab-and-go snacks.
There’s something eerie about this vast room—which has clearly been designed for socializing—now so starkly vacant, but there’s also a strange peace to be found. There’s nobody to impress here.
I continue through the dining hall. At the far end is an open passageway that leads to another section, a restaurant with fancier food options. This little corner has the nicest view, no massive pines shooting up to obscure the landscape as they do in other sections of the main area.
The second I walk through the restaurant door I spot Marlo, her presence halting me in my tracks and flooding me with the sweetest relief I’ve ever felt. She’s sitting alone at one of the far tables, gazing out at the morning sunrise with a pilfered chocolate milk before her.
Marlo turns her head, locking eyes with me, and suddenly I’m running toward her.
I throw the one arm I’ve got left around my daughter, pulling her tight and erupting in a howling, uncontrollable sob.
After so much time spent regulating my emotions—of exemplifying brutal, efficient stoicism—the walls have fully crashed down.
I can’t even remember the last time I cried this hard, and it suddenly feels as though I’ve been transported to another life.
I feel like a child.
For a brief moment, the pain that has so thoroughly integrated itself into my body just disappears, buzzing nerve endings replaced by a much grander stimulation.
“I love you so much,” I sob. “You’re okay now. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Marlo is crying, too, her body heaving against mine.
Finally, I pull back to get a look at her.
Marlo is bathed in the warm morning glow, and it’s impossible not to smile through the tears as I witness this illumination against her beautiful face.
But my joyful expression falters when I’m struck by a sudden realization.
This is the first time Marlo has seen me—really seen me—with my new, distorted appearance.
I can only imagine the horrific monster she’s witnessing, a mess of open wounds and broken symmetry.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, immediately turning to face the window.
The sun has crested over the distant horizon, a huge shimmering orb that spills golden light across the entire valley below. There are no more shadows to hide my new body. In the window’s reflection, I can see the faint image of an unrecognizable face, a face that’s now my own.
“Mom?” Marlo asks.
I don’t move. “Yes, sweetie?”
“Mom,” she repeats.
Finally, I turn to face my daughter again. I force myself to hold steady, every part of my being pleading to turn away, but I refuse to submit to the braying self-conscious voice. We stay like this for a very long beat.
“I just …” I finally start. “I don’t want you to be scared of the way I look.”
Marlo’s expression falters, shifting in a completely unexpected way. She crinkles her nose up, the clip still exactly where it should be, and for a moment I actually think she might start laughing. “I’m not scared of the way you look,” she scoffs. “You’re my mom.”
I’ve cried enough already, and I don’t wanna start again. Instead, I reach out and place my hand over Marlo’s. We turn back to the window, watching the sunrise together.