by Erin Lee
MINUTES LATER, AT THE end of the lane
I hold the contents package, wondering if it will really take me back. History repeats and tells me every action has a consequence. Back to the future means facing the very things that threw me in this spiral of insanity. Yet, there, where I am confined, I cannot hurt those I love...Death is a bitch. Marriage is too.
2019
Present day – quite literally
“NAME PLEASE.” A FAT-faced woman with perfect teeth and a forced smile who smells of peaches and mango stares through an opening in thin glass out at me. She appears to be oblivious to the scratches – not only on the glass but all over my face. By the key-card badge that hangs from a lanyard around her neck, I can see hers is Betsy but she reminds me of Fanny – a woman I’ve oddly missed from three lifetimes before who looks like Mistress Death.
“Ingrid A. West. Iggie for short,” I say in a mumble I wish wasn’t so flat. I smile at her, even though I’d rather be anywhere but here – the freak at the nuthouse in paper slippers waiting in a line for another cup of meds. Why doesn’t she know my name by now? We’ve only been through this a million times. Must be protocol. Everything is protocol. I hate protocol. The other lady knows my name and doesn’t even ask. The other lady watches the news... The other lady would have listened. She’d have known better. She would have left the package alone. She’d know what she was.
Betsy clicks her computer mouse three times. I can’t help staring at her through the crack. Her too-long purple nails make a clicking sound that makes me want to turn around and punch the life out of the girl behind me who can’t stop waving her hands in the air. I need fucking out of here. I need to go back to fix the past! The garage. The Christmas gift. Those things came first!
I bring my own nails to my mouth, grateful for the blood still under them from last night’s picking spree on my thigh. It will ultimately get my nuthouse privileges taken away. But right now, I don’t care. It’s not like I eat the shit they serve here anyway when I can help it.
“Date of birth.”
I suck on my index finger, mumbling “9-8-84.” Don’t do it. Don’t mention 1820. Another life. Before you even knew you were a Wendigo. It only makes you sound crazier than you already are.
“Ah! A Virgo. Me too.” This time, though she’s told me this useless information before, her smile at least seems sincere. And Virgo is probably the most normal word I’ve ever heard to describe the creature that I am.
I nod, wondering what sign Fanny was and deciding for the tenth time against telling her it’s only a guesstimate for legal purposes. There’s no reason to get into another family history with her. My history, the origin of my birth, my tribe, my birth name and mother. For all intents and purposes, I do look perfectly normal. It doesn’t matter. She won’t care. I plead with myself, thinking of history: don’t tell her the reason Mom walked ten miles to town to dump me off at a fire station with duct tape over her mouth. Who really even cares? It just sounds, well, crazy.
Crazy. It’d be easier that way. If I could think of myself as insane like the rest of them, I might to able to live with this in all the centuries. It’s why I’m here, of course. I’m a lab rat to doctors who openly admit they haven’t met anyone with my condition before. It’s easier for them to label me as the loony chick with low standards and insatiable cravings for human flesh than to call me what I actually am: a Wendigo. But how did I get here? The package was clearly marked. I’m too far into the future and somehow managed to skip Christmas. How do I go back to where I was?
The woman behind me—Mollie—smacks me in the back of the head with one of her flailing arms. It takes everything in me not to throw her on the ground, rip the fucking thing off, and start gnawing on it. I’m fucking hungry and the fact that I’ve been standing in line for over twenty minutes—never mind time lost chasing Christmas through the centuries—for a med that won’t even touch me is helping absolutely nothing. Determined to at least make her calm down, I spin around.
“Cut. It. Out.” I spit the words out my teeth in short bursts.
“Oh, chill out! It was an accident. Why you always gotta be so mean?”
“Put. Your. Hands. Down.”
She sticks her tongue out at me and twirls in full circles, hangs out perpendicular from her body, smacking the girl behind her in the chest.
“Ouch! Knock it off, freak!” the black-eyed teenage cutter behind her barks.
“Mollie. That’s enough. Do you need to go back to your room for a time out?” Chris, one of the only security guards I can tolerate in this place, rushes over to the forty-something who mostly acts like she’s no older than three.
She crosses her hands over her chest in defiance. “Fine. I’ll be good. She’s mean!”
“Hands to yourself, please,” Chris scolds her.
“I said I would!”
I have no idea what’s wrong with her. Frankly, I don’t care. It’s hard enough living in a place where the shrinks don’t know what to do with you. And it’s not like I can leave. I’m here by my own will. I’m too afraid that if I’m let out of this place I’ll do something to hurt someone or figure out a way to get back to the time machine. I need them to find a cure or treatment or something that works. So far, no dice. And the cravings are only getting worse. I promised Ron.
“Iggie? You want these?” Betsy opens the Plexiglas window wider and holds out a paper cup with my usual eight colorful pills toward me.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I say, taking the cup and moving out of the line to the next window, where I’m greeted by the nurse who will watch me take them and make sure I swallow. I try not to roll my eyes as she counts them, hands me a plastic cup of water, watches me do my thing, and makes me stick my tongue out. With a purple plastic glove the same color as Betsy’s nails, she runs her index finger along the insides of my cheeks. When she’s satisfied I’ve taken all the pills, she dismisses me.
It’s fucking humiliating. In this lifetime, I’m thirty-two years old. I should not need a “team” to help me take medicine. I shouldn’t need medication at all. Until not so long ago, when I thought I’d found Jack and before I tasted blood, I was perfectly fine. Hell, I was basically one of the very staff that is now looking after me. Working as a phlebotomist in modern day time, I was on my way to a nursing degree.
I was taking a class on human anatomy. I was sitting there on an ordinary Thursday with one eye on the clock hoping to get to work on time when the horrific battle I’ve since been fighting first came on. I sat there, reading about the epidermis, thinking skin for the sake of skin was merely a waste. I sat there, while my professor went on and on about dermatology, thinking how skin could be used for better things – like survival. And that’s when the first craving came on.
At first, I thought I was just overtired or something. I tried not to think about the past or anything that came before. Between work and school, I knew I wasn’t getting enough sleep. But it wasn’t that easy. Nothing really is with me. I have an uncanny way of making the littlest things hard. And after a week of cravings and eating two full pounds of hamburger raw to be sure, I knew there was no denying what I was.
I’ve done my research. I don’t need a doctor or psychologist to tell me what’s wrong with me. Wendigo Psychosis is a very real thing and it sure as heck doesn’t help when you’ve spent the better part of three years in a time machine chasing a killer. It’s not that I don’t get it. It’s not that I don’t know this is in my head. The problem is, I can’t shake it. I truly believe, if I don’t eat flesh, I won’t survive. Just like Jack. No different. Logically, I can tell myself I’ve done just fine all these years. Hell, I was the chick who even went vegan on a thirty-day bet. I could live with diet changes – this I knew. But when you start staring at the people you love like they’re a late night snack you can’t talk yourself out of, well, it’s just not cool.
My husband, Ron, should be put up for sainthood. He’s stood with me through all of this. We’ve only been married two years. I
doubt many men would stand by the wife they caught peeling sunburn off their back and eating it at night. I can’t even begin to think about our daughter. It’s just too hard. But he has. I’ve explained it to him the best that I can but I’m not sure how much longer he’ll put up with this. Six months in and out of nut houses and to every doctor we can possibly find or afford is getting old for both of us. Sometimes, I think we’d both be better off if I just ended it. Or, better, get that time machine back. If I could go back, things might be different. Ron doesn’t know about that. He never will.
I’m not suicidal. I can assure you of that. Frankly, I’m not brave enough. And so, for now, that’s the reason I’m here. I’m afraid if I go home after Christmas and the stupid ‘gift’, I’ll do something else I regret. I don’t want to hurt Ron either. I’d never be able to live with that. Currently, I’m in a stand-still situation. Be present. Be where you are. The time machine wants you here for a reason. What else have you got? Maybe it’s a gift after all. I hate myself for my inability to believe the lies I tell myself. Truth is, I’m waiting for my psychologist, who is apparently on Christmas vacation for three weeks, to come back with answers. He’s assured me he will. As for me? I’m not so hopeful.
The answers won’t be in Aruba on a late December honeymoon with a third wife. The answers aren’t going to come between happy hours and swimming with dolphins. From what I could tell, before I got here and cut off from the world, the answers lie with my birth tribe. To figure out how to even attempt to tackle the monster that lives inside me, I have to get to her origin. I have to go all the way back to the beginning of my story. I need to meet my birth mother from God knows how many lifetimes ago and hope she’s found a way to control this. I must meet my birth father and see if he, too, craves flesh for survival. I have no idea where to even look. I’m lost. It’s the only word for it. And going back isn’t an option anymore. Not now.
“Twenty minutes.”
I have no idea what Chris is talking about. I ask him to repeat himself.
“Are you okay?”
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
“Any cravings today?”
“Aren’t you a security guard?”
He smiles. “Sorry, word gets around.”
“What’s in twenty minutes?”
“Meeting. In the lounge. Kim’s stuff went missing again.” He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head in the direction of Mandy, a girl who is convinced she’s a cat and has a pension for kleptomania.
“Fabulous. Can’t wait for that. Is it mandatory?”
He nods.
What a waste of fucking time. This place isn’t worth it. When Dr. Brady comes back, I’m getting the hell out of here – Christmas past, present, future or not. Ron has to be having a heart attack trying to pay the condo alone. Wasting my time chasing a kleptomaniac through another theft spree is going to do zero to fight my cravings. This just isn’t worth it. I don’t have to be here. It’s voluntary... For now. It’s not like they’ve caught me. I’ve chose to come back. And I still have the time machine.
SCRATCHING MY HAND keeps my mind off the piece of skin that’s hanging off Mollie’s finger. Who would even care if the nuthouse’s nuttiest, blood thirsty resident disappeared? They don’t know.
I sigh and mentally scold myself for letting the thought cross my mind. I distract myself by looking at Chris across the room, standing by the wall motionless but poised in case any of us decide to let our demons take over and start fighting like rabid dogs.
“Ingrid?”
Dr. Patel’s voice brings me back to the white, dull room. “Nothing to share today.” I make my answer short and snappy so she doesn’t probe. She likes to probe. It only took seven trips through the centuries to learn that.
She gives me a look.
“Nothing at all?”
I shake my head and maintain eye contact. I wonder if she realizes I’m imagining how her brown skin would feel between my teeth. Thankfully, she turns her attention to the woman next to me who’s been gazing at the small window across the room for the last hour.
I’m grateful when they dismiss the group, which they never say as much but is, in fact, mandatory.
I trudge to get my medication when a little girl’s voice sounds behind me. “Miss?”
My eyes widen. What the fuck is a child doing in here? Shouldn’t she be off somewhere playing with her opened-on-time presents?
“I’ve lost my mom.”
I look around. This can’t be happening.
“How did you get in here?”
She points behind me at the door which has been left open by one of the residents sticking an old nightgown in-between the door and the wall. I look around frantically for a security guard. The one time we really need security and there’s no one.
THAT WAS THE PROBLEM. It was a collection of coincidences that led to what happened next. I close my eyes and remember back:
One – the security changeover had just happened and the new security guard was occupied with Mollie who had smashed her head repeatedly onto a wall. The rest were huddled, swapping notes on what had happened on the last shift.
Two – Olivia, a woman who creeped even the best of us out, had left her room for once and spotted the little girl who looked, from what I could gather by the screaming that followed, like the daughter she had lost in a fire – we all knew Olivia’s story all-too-well.
Three – The mother who had stupidly taken her daughter to visitation and not kept an eye on her.
Four – Me.
It was only five minutes. It wasn’t like this place was maximum-security, no one was enough of a risk or so they thought.
“What’s your name?”
The little girl with perfect braids on either side of her head, soft brown eyes to match her hair, and a little red coat that reached down to her knees, screamed.
Olivia, who was known as ‘butch’ here, ran at her. The girl was on the floor, crushed under the weight of the two-hundred and fifty-pound Olivia. Olivia was smothering her, trying to cuddle her and panicking when the girl tried to get free.
I jumped down, trying to pull Olivia off her as the staff and security ran into the room. Olivia grabbed a clump of my dirty-blonde hair and ripped it right out of my head. I screamed – it was worse than any other pain I had experienced.
I fell to the floor and watched as Olivia was finally pulled off the now lifeless girl.
Crimson covered the white floor. Her head had cracked when she had hit the floor.
“Fuck!”
I breathed in the smell of iron as I sat up. They were taking everyone out of the room and the staff were panicking, shouting at each other to do something because it happened on their watch and they would be liable for this. Someone, I think Chris, grabbed my arm to take me to my room, but I could not oblige.
My eyes, like those of a hawk, had found its prey. My stomach growled in protest as I was pulled away.
She was dead. It didn’t matter now anyway. Her body would be left to rot when I could have it! When I needed it.
Screaming, I wriggled out of Chris’s grip and flung myself over to the corpse. I didn’t look at her face.
I had only mere seconds.
I bent down and found the meatiest part of her – her leg. I bit through her tights and felt the flesh touch my teeth.
Ripping off a chunk, I felt the insatiable hunger and desire ease for the first time in months.
“NO!”
Hands gripped my arms and waist as I was pulled back, the flesh falling onto the floor – left to waste.
“PLEASE! LET ME GO BACK!”
I fought hard. I needed her flesh. I needed it. Did they not understand?
“GET OFF ME! GET OFF. GET OFF.”
I screamed until my screams dried up.
I felt the straps as I was forced onto a cold, hard bed and closed my eyes.
I rolled my tongue along my teeth until I found bits of flesh that had got stuck and savored them.
<
br /> It was the first time I had actually taken a chunk of flesh from someone here.
Now I understood what Dr. Brady meant when he had said I could never satisfy the hunger.
Now that I had chewed another chunk of flesh, I could never return to normal. Never in this lifetime anyway.
Still, because ‘back’ seemed too far, I slowed my breathing and did what Dr. Brady had told me to do. I thought back to the trigger of the psychosis – what had caused me to completely lose it. I had been a normal girl – even one with an acquired taste for flesh – who could control her cravings. It wasn’t until the stupid time machine – all of my lives flashing before me. There was only one way to take it all back. I had to get back to the garage. I had to find the present, read the words, and listen. It was the only way to throw off the ghosts of both my pasts and present. The only way to a future.
“Do not open until Christmas.”
Chapter Six
Hudson
I stare at Brown unsure of how to even respond. After keeping me up all night in a monologue about babies, the pros and cons of opening stupid Christmas presents early and renewing vows, it didn’t take long for crazy Mary to rope my boss into allowing us to use the lounge. And judging by his Cheshire Cat smile, Brown didn’t exactly put up a fight.
“...put it in the newsletter. I can get Blaine to write up invitations too. Barbara can print them out. Was Mary serious when she suggested waiting for Christmas? Or was that a joke? ...It seemed – off. Either way, I can get Barbara to write the newsletter announcement up... That is, if you are inviting the whole company?”
Jesus. It’s like an interrogation. “Oh. I was thinking of something simple. I think my wife is getting a little ahead of herself. Just excited. Our wedding was really small. She’s making up for lost time. Maybe we should just hold off.”
“I know. She told me all about it.”
I can imagine she did. Since our tiny ceremony all those years ago, I haven’t heard the end of it. Mary’s always wanted the frills. And while it’s true that I always promised we’d do it up when we renewed our vows, the idea of doing it in front of coworkers and with Kate in the fringes is enough to make me puke.