Chapter 30 #2
His irises brightened to a brilliant silver, and the colors around me turned solid white.
“Sleep,” a deep voice whispered inside of my head.
Austin
Every day was the same. I didn’t care what Adam did to my body as long as I couldn’t feel. Since I’d been here, locked in my blue box, there had been no more sleepless nights. There had been no more waking nightmares.
I was unlovable. If the kuu didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have anyone, and there were times I wondered if that would have been so bad.
I let my guard down with Adam. When we met, I felt something for him, but he ended up being like everyone else.
If he was going to hurt me, I’d hurt him.
It made me feel better to make him hurt, but he set me free by putting me here.
My comfortable blue box where people can’t hurt me anymore.
With a wave of my hand, the handle of a cleaver materialized, and it was heavy against my palm. I swung the blade, hewing my left arm until it lay lifeless on the blue floor. I couldn’t feel anything; the arm turned human and faded away before reappearing back on my body.
The person who hurt me most was me, and I couldn’t stop crying. Hurting this body brought me short-lived vindication. Whenever I’d want to feel it again, I’d remove another limb. They always grew back.
I didn’t know reality anymore, and I would see faces and hear voices. Most of the time, the only face that came through was Cody’s, so I’d claw out my eyes. I’d opened myself, and he’d rejected me.
I lopped off a leg, and it fell with a muffled thud. As expected, the limb turned fleshy before disappearing and reappearing on my body.
This place was like purgatory. Terrifying but comfortable.
Every so often I’d come to the realization that this may have been death, but the moment I started to feel anything, another dismemberment would make me forget about it.
When I’d see the blood drip from my wounds, I didn’t feel relieved.
I kept reliving that horror over and over again until I wasn’t afraid anymore.
When Adam put me in my blue box, my mother came, and the gun I remembered from then appeared in my hand.
I aimed, and she fell lifeless to the floor, disappearing and reappearing.
I’d scream each time I relived it until the tears stopped.
Then another phantom would surface. My brother—still frozen as a child.
Again, I’d pull the trigger, and again I’d scream.
Over and over, people I’d once loved would visit only to die, and now all that was left was me. I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d finally be able to put an end to this, but something kept me from doing it. No matter how many times I tried to stop crying, I couldn’t.
Why couldn’t I stop?
Cody
I woke once more in front of a fire. The four of us lay in a row next to one another, but we weren’t at our campsite. Above me was a rocky ceiling partially obscured by smoke; toward the entrance of the small cavern, dappled sunlight danced its way along the smooth floor.
“Roscoe,” I said, trying to shake the werewolf awake. He didn’t respond. I turned to Adam, who was lying on his stomach, and rolled him onto his back. He was like a breathing corpse, not waking no matter what I did. I gently pried one of his eyelids open with my thumbs, revealing a pale, blue glow.
The scent of herbs mixed with morning breath hit me as I separated Adam’s jaws and discovered a wad of saliva-soaked greens along his black gum line. A small sack fell to my side, and I turned toward the elder I’d encountered last night sitting in the shadow of a rocky pillar.
Eager for an explanation, I pinched the herbs and tucked them between my cheek. Reality morphed into a burst of colors, and heightening senses enough that I saw more feral werewolves sitting along the back wall of the cavern.
“Where did you bring us?” I asked, resting against the warm cave wall.
“Home,” the elder said, his giant maw slowly forming a grin. He was so huge, it was almost unsettling. We were warned they might not let us leave, but it was too early to jump to that conclusion.
“We didn’t come here to live. We came here for help.”
“If you have come here for help, that means you are helpless. The Whasha are your family and your salvation. Why would you not want to stay?”
I gave that question a lot more scrutiny, careful with my response.
“It’s not the right time. I’m not ready to give up my memories or my way of life.”
“That all depends on you,” he said, his speech meticulous. “When everything is complete, I will know.”
“When what is?”
The giant werewolf pointed to the other three lying unconscious on the floor.
“I have reached in and pulled to the surface each of your pasts.” He slowly climbed to his feet, taking care not to hit his head on the rocky ceiling.
With a few strides, he sat directly in front of me and pointed at Roscoe. “Starting with him.”
“How is this going to help Austin?”
“You are all corrupted, and no amount of barriers or wards will prevent the inevitable.” He ran his fingers over Austin’s leg.
“This one is lucky, but you all have heard the voices. The coven knows when they see weakness, and they will come for you again. You will endure the ritual. Whether you fail or succeed, time will tell.”
“What happens if it fails?”
“Then each of your memories will be sealed, and your pack will remain with us.”
A feral sitting quietly out of sight padded over and handed the elder a smoking pipe. The giant werewolf drew in deep and exhaled a puff of pastels that sparked like a damaged electric wire.
“I do not know what past has been locked away in your friend’s mind, but whatever is there, you must help him heal. You are the leader of your pack, and your strength is their strength. If they fail, you fail.”
“Wait a minute—”
With a deep draw, he exhaled into my face. The last thing I remembered were two silver irises turning a deep shade of red.
If they fail, you fail. Your fate is their fate.
The muggy, stale air wrapped around my body like a still damp blanket that had been in the dryer, my bedsheets drenched in sweat.
I examined my surroundings. Sluggish mosquitos made their way in and out of the screenless window of a run-down bedroom.
A tan teenaged boy in faded overalls stood in front of a dusty dresser mirror, brushing the knots out of his unruly brown hair.
He looked to be about fifteen and was a few inches shorter than me.
He stopped brushing and examined his chin, picking at the darker bits of facial hair that stood out among the peach fuzz.
The most striking things about him were his eyes.
One was hazel, the other a golden amber color.
His appearance must have been unusual to him as well considering how long he stared at himself.
“Yer gonna be late,” came a female voice from down the hall.
“Why do I gotta go to school, Ma?” the boy asked, dropping the brush onto the scratched-up wood of the dresser as he walked out of the bedroom.
Confused, I jumped from the bed and made my way through the old, wooden house until I was in a small kitchen with a rusty, cast-iron wood-burning stove.
The boy sat at a crooked table, and a young woman with long, red hair and fair skin walked over to him while holding a plate.
It held a single hoe cake with a tiny dab of butter.
“Hello?” I asked, trying to get their attention, but neither seemed aware of my presence. I walked up to the woman and waved a hand in front of her face, but she walked through me as though I were made of mist before setting the plate in front of the boy.
“You should be lucky,” she said, turning back to the stove. “Your pa left us just enough to get by, and you should finish yer education.”
“Ain’t no point. You can be an educated war hero in this country and still die not havin’ enough food.”
The woman dropped a bowl in a wooden tub filled with dingy water. “We may be hungry, but we ain’t starvin’. Yer pa’s parents came to this country from real poverty, and even the worst times here don’t compare to other places. We’re free here.”
“Free to starve.” The boy quickly devoured the fried dough and stood from his chair. “If this is the best there is, then I don’t want to be a part of it no more.”
“Roscoe!” the woman shouted as the boy darted from the house, letting the door slam behind him. Even though I’d heard Roscoe, she’d uttered something else. Roscoe wasn’t his real name, but I couldn’t understand what it was.
He was so different, not just physically, but in the way he spoke. There was this anger as well as hopelessness. It was as though I could feel his every emotion. The room faded and I followed the boy along a dirt road with a dried-up cornfield on one side and dying rows of sorghum on the other.
The sun blazed overhead. Roscoe wandered off the path toward the shade of a huge oak, the Spanish moss hanging from each branch like graying wizard beards. There was no wind and hardly any clouds to provide relief from the sweltering heat.
The boy’s stomach rumbled as he sat on a knobby root and folded his arms over his knees, laying his head against them. It was odd to see Roscoe so thin—way too thin. I could feel his hunger as a dull but persistent pain.
I sat next to him as he softly cried, and gently placed a hand on his back.
This time, I was able to touch him. He was so emaciated that I could feel the bumps along his spine.
The overwhelming misery coupled with the hunger and heat made me want to do anything to put an end to it.
This memory faded as though I were in a play, and I was once again in Roscoe’s bedroom.
He stood in front of the mirror, a little older but just as lanky, his darker and thicker facial hair taking over the prepubescent lighter hair from before. Both eyes were now a deep gold, and he brushed the frizzy knots from his longer brown hair.
There were no sounds from the kitchen or any other part of the old house, only the incessant buzzing of cicadas from outside.
Roscoe laid the brush on the dresser and slowly walked into the kitchen, me following close behind.
The wood stove looked like it hadn’t been used in a while, and the young man leaned over the wooden tub.
He stared out the kitchen window to a clearing in the yard at two piles of stones.
As if following a path of habit, he sat at the table with an empty plate, pretending to eat.
“I ain’t goin’ to school no more, Ma.” Roscoe pushed the plate away and looked up at no one. “I don’t look right, do I?”
As I went to say something, he spoke again.
“This don’t feel like home no more. I always get this feelin’ like maybe I ain’t supposed to be here. I know you didn’t mean to leave me, Mama. You didn’t wanna leave me.” Tears fell from his face, pattering against the rough wood of the small table. “I sure miss you.”
My eyes watered as I approached him.
“Roscoe,” I whispered, placing my hand on his head. “Can you hear me?”
He smiled through the tears but still didn’t acknowledge me.
The room faded away and another memory played out.
This time, I was in a strange rural area, surrounded by flat, dry land, the sky choked with brown dust. Roscoe was older and slightly thicker as he walked along a dirt path, his upper body and head covered in a ratty coat that almost resembled a hoodie.
Dirty cloth covered his nose and mouth, but he couldn’t hide his eyes.
Two irises glowed a dark orange and the whites had darkened to black, giving his shrouded silhouette a demon-like appearance.
Though he seemed less starved than before, I could still feel his hunger as he pushed onward with no destination in mind. He was looking for something, but he didn’t know what. It was close, and that was all he knew. That was what kept him going even when he wanted to stop.
The poverty and desolation coupled with the suffocating dust storms made me realize what time period we were in. Roscoe must have been around seventeen or eighteen, given the fact that he was approaching the final stages of his transformation.
He pushed on, but his legs trembled with each step through the howling winds. Ahead was a billowing wall of brown dust as a strong haboob sandblasted the plains. Visibility soon dropped to nothing, but Roscoe kept going, taking one trembling step after another before finally falling to the ground.
“Roscoe,” I shouted, kneeling next to him.
I tried grabbing his arm, but he wouldn’t budge.
Hunger, dehydration, and exhaustion overwhelmed me as I tried to speak, getting a mouthful of sand.
I understood the spell I was under. Everything he felt during these memories, I also felt.
Hopelessness nearly engulfed me until a large figure appeared feet away.
It was hard to make out at first, but as the figure approached, it took on the form of a feral werewolf clad in leather harnesses and feathers, his paw-like feet making easy work of the sandy terrain. He knelt next to Roscoe, holding a bladder of water to his mouth.
The young half-turn gulped it down and looked up at the startlingly huge creature, knowing he had finally found what he had come all this way for. The memory went dark, but another soon took its place. Roscoe was underneath the feral who had rescued him, barely lit by the moon.
He writhed in pain and pleasure as they both mated, and I could feel Roscoe’s transformation.
It didn’t last long, and when it was over, two werewolves licked at each other.
The face of a newly turned Roscoe looked more familiar now, but his fur was dark brown, and his feet were large paws.
They spoke to each other in a series of familiar grunts, growls, and whines as they stared up at the sky.
These visions had one thing in common: they were tragic. As Roscoe grabbed the feral’s hand, I knew this wasn’t going to have a happy ending.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I shouted. “I can’t.”
The scene faded to a cold and grainy black.