FATE'S PAST

by Jason Huebinger

  “What do you mean, your husband? Your children?”

  Christine smiled and put a warm hand on Carrie’s shoulder. “You’ll meet them soon enough. But for now, I must go. Thank you so much, Carrie.”

  Christine wrapped her arms around Carrie’s waist and buried her head in Carrie’s chest. Carrie did not know how to react for several seconds before she returned the embrace. When Christine let go, she looked at Carrie, placed her open palm on Carrie’s face, and walked away, shutting the curtain behind her.

  Carrie stood for several moments, paralyzed. When her sense returned, she stepped out of the shower and pushed back the curtain, but there was no sign of Christine or her trail of blood.

  But Carrie realized that there was something else to the air. A potent smell invaded the staleness. The odor was inescapable and tantalizing. She could not determine what she smelled, but she knew that she wanted the wafting scent.

  The smell exacerbated Carrie’s already stupefying hunger, and she knew she needed to find the source of the aroma as soon as humanly possible. And so she began to follow the smell as she was once following the blood trail, but this time, excitement underscored her pursuit.

  She walked out of the shower area and up to a door near the back of the locker room. The door locked like the one she had entered to get to the locker room. She twisted the door’s knob, pushed, and walked into the school’s hallway.

  The hallway’s feces-colored floors accompanied the vomit-tinted lockers, and a stream of blinding fluorescent lighting that illuminated the hellish memories. But Carrie had no time for casual reminiscing—she had to find sustenance so she could refocus on finding Cameron.

  Carrie walked down the hall and recognized the passing lockers. She saw Jack Seymour’s and Gretchen Christine Grissel’s lockers. Each instigated its own unique form of mental torture.

  The scent bent its path and Carrie followed. Soon, she was standing near the glass doors that provided entry into the Cliff. The Cliff was a beacon of social status in her high school. Those that could afford to pay full price for food could choose what food they desired in the Cliff.

  Beyond the Cliff was the Pit, where the school served free and reduced-cost lunches. Far larger than the Cliff, Carrie rarely ventured into the Pit.

  Carrie walked up to the windowed, closed doors of the Cliff and stared past them. Inside the Cliff, savory items of all varieties covered the tables. She saw plump whole chickens, three-tiered cakes, decadent chocolates, large bowls of chips next to small bowls of guacamole and chile con queso, several pepperoni and mushroom pizzas, plates of sizzling steaks and mounds of potatoes, and an entire table filled with meaty hamburgers and home-cut fries (which happened to be Carrie’s favorite). The smells drifting from the food culminated into a singular, irresistible perfume that tickled her nose and caused her taste buds to twitch.

  In her excitement, Carrie rushed towards the door and pushed. The door did not comply, and she hit her head against the glass. After gathering herself she tried pushing again with sustained force, but the door did not budge. And though she knew that she had to push the door to open it, she tried pulling back with great force, but again, the door was unyielding.

  Carrie could feel an unfamiliar anger building in her chest. She frenziedly pushed and pulled in rhythm, but the door stayed shut.

  “Please stop that.” The flat and deep voice startled Carrie. She looked to her left and saw the old man inside the Cliff.

  Carrie pounded against the glass. “Please, sir, let me in! I haven’t eaten in a long time and I am so hungry!”

  The old man stared back emotionlessly. “I’m sorry, Carrie, but I cannot allow that. You do not belong here.”

  Carrie pounded the door with greater strength. “What the hell do you mean, I don’t belong in there? I ate there every day in school! Let me in now, dammit!”

  “Sorry, Carrie,” the old man said. “I cannot let you in. If you are truly hungry, you should try down there.” The old man pointed to the Pit and walked away.

  Carrie kept pounding and shaking the door, unmoved by the old man’s suggestion. After a minute, she fell to her knees, her body weak from the impact of the hunger inhibiting her vigor. With her energy drained, she had to crawl a couple feet before she could prop herself up to a standing position. When upright, her vision was wavy, her equilibrium unequal. Every step was a battle and each moment she had to fight to retain consciousness.

  Twenty paces later, she arrived at the steps that lead to the Pit. As she approached, foul odors replaced the alluring aromas. The Pit smelled like a combination of dirty socks, hydrogen sulfide, and dog farts. And as she walked down each step that descended into the Pit, the repulsive smells defeated any former pleasantness, and soon Carrie’s head was aching from the harshness of its disgusting odors.

  When she reached the bottom, Carrie fell, but braced herself with her hands. She sluggishly crawled to the serving area of the Pit. Once inside, she grabbed onto a ledge and pulled herself up.

  White bowls and silver spoons were stacked in front of Carrie. Next to the bowls and spoons were the origins of the terrible smells. Three silver trays rested next each to one another, and each contained a separate collection of slop. The slop nearest to her was colored vomit green, the middle slop was excrement brown, and the slop farthest from her was blood-colored. She nearly threw up from the smells emanating from the slop.

  Carrie held her breath and scooped several spoons of the excrement colored slop. Feeling a sudden burst of adrenaline, Carrie sprinted out of the serving area and into the depths of the Pit.

  The sitting area contained rows of long tables abutting other long tables, and no table looked any different from any other. In an effort to escape from the terrible smells, she sped to the table farthest from the serving area. As she walked, she saw another person.

  Her ex-boyfriend Jack sat at the table, his eyes staring lovingly at Carrie. For a moment, she considered sitting elsewhere. But she decided it was time to have the conversation that was a decade overdue.

  She walked to the seat across from Jack. As soon as she sat, he said, “Hey, babe.”

  “Hi, Jack,” she said in response.

  “Thanks for meeting me. We need to talk about everything.” Jack’s pregnant pause lingered for several moments. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like, one-hundred percent sure?”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “How do you know? Are you late or something?”

  “Yes, Jack. I was late, but I also took a test. Two, actually, and different brands. So I was certain.”

  “I don’t understand. How did this happen?”

  Taken aback by his ignorant question, Carrie said, “What do you mean, how did this happen? You know how this happened. Don’t act dumb.”

  “No, no, sorry. That’s not what I meant. Not what I meant at all. What I was trying to say was, you know…what do we do now?” Jack somewhat stuttered as he asked this, which was not a common quirk of his.

  “Listen, Jack. I decided we were too young. There was no way we could have been parents. It wouldn’t have been fair to the baby. Especially because I didn’t have my mom to help. And you know that.”

  “I don’t!” he exclaimed. “I can be a good dad, I swear!”

  “I’m sure you will be, Jack. Someday. Because you’re a good person. But you’re just too young. We were too young.”

  “So, what I feel doesn’t matter?”

  “It does matter, Jack. That’s why I should have met you years ago, after I found out. I should have told you my decision in person, but I was just too chicken.” Carrie gazed around the lunchroom and said, “Remember how we used to sit together in the Cliff? You had your seat, and I had mine, remember?”

  “What do you mean, remember? I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter. After I first told you I was pregnant, we were supposed to meet for lunch to talk about what
to do. Remember?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Yeah, thought not. Anyway, I ditched you, didn’t show up. I wanted to Jack, I did. But I couldn’t handle it. Part of it I think was that, inside, I had already made up my mind, and I didn’t want you confusing me. Really, though, I was chicken shit. I just wanted to get it behind me without seeing the pain my decision caused you.” Carrie took Jack’s smooth, youthful hand and continued, “That wasn’t fair to you. Wasn’t fair at all. You deserved better than that. I shouldn’t have ditched you. I should have heard what you had to say. I’m so sorry.” Carrie let go of Jack’s hand to wipe away a tear. Thinking of Gretchen, she said, “You want to hear a story?”

  Jack nodded.

  “That day I was supposed to meet you, I didn’t just skip lunch with you. I skipped all of lunch. The entire period I sat in a stall in the girls’ bathroom and cried, hating myself for not having the guts to talk to you. Funny thing was that I practiced hard that morning and was really hungry. But I didn’t eat the entire day. Not even dinner. I told my dad I felt sick. I went to bed starving, holding my stomach, rolling around. Almost like I was punishing myself, you know? I sent myself to bed without dinner.”

  Jack stayed quiet.

  Carrie said, “Seems dumb thinking about it. All that pain just to avoid talking to you. Anyway, the point is that I’ve always regretted not talking to you. Avoiding you in the halls and ignoring your calls. You were really good to me, and I’m sure you will be a great dad and husband to some lucky girl.”

  “You’re right,” Jack said, his voice much deeper.

  Shocked by his response and voice, Carrie muttered, “What do you mean?”

  “I did end up being a good husband. And dad. A lot of that was because of what we went through.”

  Carrie tried to respond, but could not think of anything appropriate.

  After an awkward silence, Jack pushed Carrie’s plate towards her and said, “Enjoy your lunch. You still got a little ways to go.” He then stood and walked away, leaving through a back door near the kitchen.

  Unable to process what happened, Carrie instead focused on her meal. The brown slop was lumpy and bubbling. Under normal circumstances, Carrie would never dream of eating such filth. But she knew that she had little energy left, and if she didn’t get food in her system soon, she would not be able continue much further.

  And so Carrie placed her spoon in the slop, scooped a couple ounces, and reviewed what remained on her spoon. The slop sat motionless and defiant against her spoon manipulations. After studying it, she closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and put the spoon in her mouth.

  The slop was tasteless, but its texture was that of a smooth snake. It slithered over the roof of her mouth and down her throat, and quickly spread throughout her body. After one bite, Carrie felt her energy returning, but she also sensed that the energy stemmed from an alien source.

  A sharp pain stabbed her stomach and she had to move her hand from her ears to her midsection. She felt pain shoot throughout her intestines, and it digested throughout her organs. The pain was greater than any she had ever experienced. It was as if her guts were pressing against her skin and trying to force their way out. She fell to her side and screamed in agony, but there was no one around to hear her pleas.

  “Help me! Help me, please! God, please help me!”

  Carrie looked down and saw her stomach stretch and enlarge before she passed out.

  IX.

  Cameron knew there was no use in trying to find his fingers or save his eye. They were gone, but the journey remained. He lay unclean, no longer whole, and he thought of the letter he wrote when he was eleven but never sent.

  Dear Dennis,

  I heard you moved away and aren’t coming back. I wanted to say that I am sorry for what happened on the field. I really wish I had never thrown that ball. I was angry, but I also knew it was your special ball. Everything that happened to you is completely my fault and I will have to live with that the rest of my life.

  I always wanted to tell you sorry, but the guys didn’t let me talk to you, and you avoided me in the halls.

  I think a lot about what that dog did to you. What it did to your hand and face. I wake up sometimes at night sweating. The bad dreams won’t go away. I dream that the dog is chasing me, and no matter how fast I run or where I hide, he always finds me. And I hear him growling a lot at night. It makes it hard to go to sleep.

  Anyway, I really am sorry Dennis. I mean that with all my heart. I hope you are doing great and I hope we can be friends again soon.

  Love,

  Cameron

  Cameron meant to send the letter but he never did. One reason he failed to place the letter in the mail was that he had difficulty finding Dennis’ new address, but he also did not try hard to find it. In truth, Cameron considered the letter an admission of his fault, and yet it was Dennis who wouldn’t admit Cameron had thrown a strike. If Dennis had just ’fessed to the strike, none of this would have ever happened. Dennis would not have gone after the ball and Cameron and Dennis would have remained friends for life.

  Cameron understood that these reasons were nothing but excuses. It was his unrestrained and unreasonable anger that had caused the horror. He knew the problem was that he refused to admit the consequences of his actions. He was too cowardly to expose himself to such harsh and unrelenting realities.

  Doesn’t matter now, he thought. There will be time for regret later. Now is the time for action. He knew where he had go next, and he had an innate understanding of how to get there.

  He pushed himself up to a sitting position; the holes in his right hand stung from the invasion of dirt. His hand bled all over the lawn. He removed his shirt and wrapped it through the crevices of his fingers and over his hand. He did not understand what he was doing, but he figured that shoddy and haphazard suture was better than none.

  Adjusting to his newly limited vision, he turned his head to the left so he could see the dog. He saw the hindquarters of the beast, but they soon disappeared into the distance, out of the realm of his sight.

  He tried to stand, but realized that he was unable to because of his ankle, which lay twisted, bloodied, and useless. His destination was too far to crawl, so he would have to resort to hopping as much as possible.

  A voice behind him said, “Here, use this.”

  Cameron turned and looked up at the old man. With his hand extended towards Cameron, the old man offered the craps stick, which could double as a walking stick in Cameron’s condition.

  Cameron took the stick, pushed to the ground, and used it to prop himself up. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Do not thank me, my child,” the old man said. “I just want you to finish your journey. You know where to go, right?”

  “Yeah,” Cameron said. “I know exactly where to go.”

  “Good,” the old man said with a smile. He turned and walked away, his body disappearing in the light.

  Cameron stopped for a moment to dull the pain from his left eye hole, his missing fingers, his ankle that hung by a few threads of skin and veins, the welt left by Frank the pimp’s punch, and the gash left by his knife. There was no dampening the multiple assaults on his nerves. He was fine with the pain. It rejuvenated him and kept him focused on the task ahead. Every flicker of discomfort was the adrenaline felt by a marathoner passing mile twenty-one.

  As he stood, he rotated the ball in his left hand. Though it was marked by a large letter “C,” he knew the ball did not belong to him. The ball had a different master, and he knew where that master stood.

  Even with halved vision, he could see the silhouette of a person in the distance, standing in the middle of the field. It was not the silhouette of a boy; it was much taller and wider than what could have belonged to a child.

  As Cameron hobbled towards the stranger, the silhouette materialized. The man was about six-foot-two in height and built like a tank. His shapely biceps and broad ches
t stretched the limits of his Bagwell vintage t-shirt. Passion radiated from the man’s eyes that peered from below the curved bill of his ball cap. The stranger’s eyes were both brown, but only one moved as Cameron approached.

  “Well, hey there, stranger,” Dennis mused. “Long time no see.” Dennis’ voice was low and filled with purpose. It was the voice of one who found great pleasure in overcoming the obstacles flung at him by life. It was the voice of a real man.

  “I’ve had better days,” Cameron joked.

  “I can see that,” Dennis said as his one functional eye looked Cameron up and down. “Looks like you’ve been through the mill.”

  “That’s one way to put it, I guess,” Cameron said.

  Dennis looked at Cameron’s nearly-severed ankle, shook his head, and said, “Shouldn’t have run, man. Wouldn’t have been as bad.”

  “I know, you’re right. Couldn’t help it.” He balanced on the craps stick, took a couple steps towards Dennis, and asked, “How are you?”

  “Me?” Dennis smiled with energy and love. “Never been better, buddy.”

  Cameron couldn’t hold back any longer. “Dennis, what happened to you? Where the hell am I? What is all this?”

  Dennis patted Cameron on the shoulder. The pat was firm but tender. “Nothing too exciting happened. Moved away with my mom, and went to Penn. Got an MBA and worked as a trader for a while before I got burnt out and became the executive director of a nonprofit that advocates for people with disabilities. I also married this really pretty brunette. I think you’ll like her. She’s a lot like Carrie.”

  “What?” Cameron asked. “How do you know about Carrie?”

  “I know everything there is to know about Carrie. And about you, for that matter. But that brings me to your next couple questions, neither of which I can really answer. And anyway, it’s better if you answer those yourself.”

  “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”