by Shaun Hamill
I was torn off the Beast’s back, dangled in the air, and then tucked against My Friend’s body, its weak arm soaking my shirt with blood. The Gray Beast dived toward us again, and My Friend dropped me, braced itself with bent knees, and caught the Beast by the open jaws. My Friend howled as the Beast’s fangs impaled its paws, but it kept its grip. The Beast’s long, purple tongue waggled almost comically in its forced-open mouth, flapping against My Friend’s paws as though it might be able to knock them loose.
My Friend leaned forward and stood up, driving the Beast to its knees. The Beast slapped at My Friend, its blows bouncing off as its mouth was pulled open wider and wider. I should have looked away then. Instead, I saw My Friend rip the Beast’s jaws apart, separating the bottom part of its skull from the rest. It flung the pieces to either side. The jaw joined my assailant’s knife in the dark, and the Beast’s body collapsed in a pile, a mess of cloth and black blood, its orange eyes extinguished.
My Friend thundered a cry of pain and furious triumph. The remaining glass in Eunice’s car and the VW bus burst and the streetlights shattered, plunging the immediate area into darkness.
“Holy cats. None of your business.” It was the filthy man, voice small and shocked. “Holy cats. This isn’t how it goes. I want to do it again. Start over.”
At last I recognized my would-be murderer. I’d seen him only once before—the day Mom’s car caught fire in 1989. He’d put out the flames. Holy cats. Small fucking world.
My Friend started toward him, probably meaning to finish the job. Somewhere nearby, sirens wailed. Vehicles with flashing lights were coming, full of people paid to restore at least the illusion of order in the mundane world.
“Stop,” I said, and My Friend did. “Leave him.” Let him explain the car crash, the monster fight, and the lump of garbage bags in his van. It would serve him right.
My Friend knelt to lift me. It winced and gave me a questioning look. Where to?
“Far away,” I said. “Not home.”
18
The wind tore at us and then it didn’t. The air took on a sulfurous smell. I tried to lift my head and look around, but My Friend gently pushed my face back into its chest. I was nearly asleep when we landed in a small clearing in a dense forest, the trees so thick around that I couldn’t see anything but darkness between them. The trees and grass were inky black, and, above, the sky was a dark greenish shade that felt somehow familiar. A low, wide, grassy mound stood in the center of the clearing, with a door in one side. The mound was encircled by ebon kindnesses like the one I’d given Donna.
“Where are we?” I said.
My Friend carried me through the door and down a short, winding staircase. The door shut itself behind us, and candles flickered to life, lighting the way to a single large room with a wooden floor and walls. The creature put me on a large bed covered in thick, furry blankets, and moved into what looked like a small kitchen. The walls were decorated with paintings, starting with simple depictions of cars, buildings, and people, and moving on to more complex, abstract pieces featuring meshes of color and shadowy figures out of focus. A rough-hewn easel and stool stood in one corner, and a stained palette sat on the stool, alongside a tankard full of paintbrushes. Canvases leaned in a pile behind the easel. The one on top depicted two hideously distorted faces, layered so that they stood out in three dimensions.
“Is this where you live?” I said.
The creature didn’t answer. It worked in a hurry, crunching up something and stirring it into a mug of water. When it turned to face me again, it held two mugs in one paw, its injured arm tucked against its body. It crossed the room and offered me a mug. My arm shook as I reached for it.
The creature set the mugs on the floor and wrapped me in a blanket from the bed. It picked up one of the mugs and put it to my lips. The contents were dry and bitter as dirt. I tried to turn my head but met My Friend’s eyes and read angry determination. I forced myself to swallow the dirt tea. Gradually the shakes subsided and pleasant, numbing warmth spread through my body.
When my mug was empty, the creature drained its own. It extended its injured arm and pulled up the sleeve. The hair was still missing, but the wounds had faded to light pink scars. Most of my own pain had faded, but my left eye still showed nothing but gray.
“My eye,” I said. “Will it be okay?”
My Friend shook its head.
I started to cry—over the eye at first, but then for my fight with Eunice, the awful names I’d called her, the accident, the other driver, the lump of foul bags in his van, and the other monster.
“That was them in his van, wasn’t it? The missing kids.”
The creature nodded.
“So they’re both dead,” I said.
The creature nodded again.
“That man killed them. Maybe he killed Sydney. And he meant to kill me, too. And even though I accused you, you still saved my life.”
The creature touched my face, turned my chin so that our gazes locked. In the space of a few seconds, its frame narrowed and shortened, the broad shoulders drawing in and coming down to my height, the snout retracting, the eyes changing from bright, pupilless orange to a soft green. The fur went last, drawing in through pinkish flesh to reveal a pale woman with high cheekbones, a strong chin, and a small, determined mouth. Her long red hair was tied back in a ponytail.
She cleared her throat. “I love you,” she said. “And I would never hurt you.” Her voice was hoarse and carried an accent I couldn’t place.
Maybe it was the shock of the evening, or the simple declaration of love after our estrangement, the joy of being reunited after a near-death experience. Whatever the reason, I leaned forward and caught her mouth with my own. Her kiss was forceful and confident, her hands cool and callused as she cupped my face. She pushed me onto my back and pulled the blanket off so I could move. I grabbed her face, her hips, her thighs beneath her now-oversize robe, my hands too excited, too hungry to stay still. She straddled me and ground down against my groin. My body responded to the pressure, effortless and free, full of blunt desire.
She opened her robe and let it fall off her shoulders, revealing her alabaster skin, her heavy, round breasts, her thatch of red pubic hair. She bucked into me, pushing against my erection with a gentle smile.
She unbuckled my belt, popped the button on my jeans, and yanked my zipper open. I lifted my ass, and together we wiggled my jeans down around my knees. Then she took me in her hand, gave me a squeeze, and lowered herself onto me.
Like my first kiss, my first sex ended before it really began. I was embarrassed, but the soft, kind look never left the woman’s face. She gently rode it out, easing my humiliation on waves of pleasure. When I finished spasming and started to soften and slide out of her, she placed her hands on my chest and said, “Again.” Golden light spread in my mind’s eye, and I was ready, the suddenness of the erection like a thrust as I slipped back into her. She gasped a little.
The second time lasted much longer. She rode me hard, rubbing herself with her hand, eyes closed, head thrown back. As she came, she shouted words I didn’t understand, repeating them again and again until she collapsed against my chest and forced a second, almost painfully powerful orgasm from me.
After, she lay next to me with one arm and leg over my body, and pressed her face against my neck.
“You can change shapes,” I said, stroking the milky thigh across my middle.
“Yes,” she said, lips tickling my ear.
“Can you turn into anything? Or anyone?”
“No. Just this.”
“Why didn’t you show me before now?”
She didn’t answer, but held tight, as though afraid I would leave. I was too exhausted to move, and happy to stay put, far from the complicated troubles of the real world.
19
> There were no windows in the little house, so I had no idea if it was day or night when I woke and found her staring at me, stroking my face.
“How do you feel?” she said.
“Hungry,” I said. “Do you have any food?”
“Nothing you’d like,” she said. “But I can bring you whatever you want.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I should probably be getting home. I’m going to be in a world of trouble for wrecking Eunice’s car. Also, I need a doctor. And some clean clothes.” With reluctance, I climbed out of bed and began to dress.
She sat up and leaned against the wall, unkempt and lovely. “You don’t have to go.”
“Of course I do.”
“You can stay here as long as you want.”
“What, and just abandon my whole life?”
She cocked her head. “I can bring you anything you want or need.”
“Where is here exactly?” I said.
She acted like I’d said nothing, and watched me dress in silence.
“I like you better without your clothes on,” she said.
“Will you send me home?” I said.
She stood and walked across the hut, kneeling before one of the cabinets. Watching her naked body perform these casual gestures started my excitement all over again, and I was about ready to go a third time when she returned to me with a small black stone in her hands. It was tied to a thin length of leather.
“Take this,” she said, slipping it over my head. The stone lay cool against my chest, and I lifted it for examination. It was perfectly smooth, without flaw.
“Whenever you want to come see me,” she said, “just clench the stone in your fist and think of me. No matter where you are, the stone will bring you right to my front door. And when you’re ready to go back, clench it again and think of where you want to go. It’ll take you there.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She smiled, but there was something pained in it. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Do you promise to come back?” She tilted her head down and looked up at me with heavy-lidded green eyes.
“As soon as I can,” I said.
20
My first trip using the black stone deposited me on my family’s front porch in bright morning sunlight. I could hear dogs barking and kids laughing somewhere down the block. I fumbled for my keys before remembering I’d left them in Eunice’s car. Without much hope I tried the door. To my surprise, it opened.
I stepped inside and called, “Hello?”
The word hung in the entryway and died in the still air. I walked into the dining room and found a half-eaten bowl of Cheerios on the table. The cereal was mushy, as though the bowl had been left out for several hours. I found other things amiss—a picture frame that usually hung at the foot of the stairs, lying on the floor, the glass cracked and broken; a single drop of blood in the cream-colored carpet; the telephone receiver on its side at the base of the couch.
I found Eunice’s note about halfway up the stairs, where Mom had probably dropped it as she barreled toward the locked bathroom door. The bathroom door was kicked in, the water in the tub pink, the porcelain stained red above the waterline, the razor dropped carelessly on the rug.
I sat on the toilet. My left eye pulsed and the world swam.
Downstairs, the phone rang. Its shrill trilling filled the house. It sounded impossibly far away, a cry for help I could never answer in time.
Eunice’s Last Letter
Dear Noah,
The first thing I want you to do is put this down, and I don’t want you to pick it up again until you’ve forgiven me. I mean it. Go.
Okay. Maybe it’s been six months and you’re curled up in your bed, taking a break from homework while Mom watches TV in the next room—or maybe it’s years and years later and you’re sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of some idyllic nursing home with tall windows and vast green grounds. Maybe your hair has gone white and your skin’s taken on that spotty, lived-in quality. I don’t know; I can’t see it, and that’s the problem. I can’t see you. I can’t see anything anymore, except here, now.
It’s October 28 and I’m in the computer room with the lights off. It’s a clear night outside, and a sickly-green finger of streetlight pokes through the blinds. It wrestles with the light from the computer monitor on the floor behind me, fighting for my shadow. I’ve packed all my books and CDs and clothes in marked boxes. All that’s left is the final chore. Although there were some tempting alternatives, I’ve chosen the old-fashioned method. I want to leave a little bit of a mess, but not much. When all the wailing and gnashing is finished, you can open the drain, run some fresh water, and use the scrubbing bubbles on the porcelain.
I did this because I love you.
Please don’t think this is your fault. I’m sorry about what I said to you, and I’m not mad that you took the car. It’s important to say these things, because there’s only one word that matters in these situations: Why? If you don’t lay out your answer (or answers) with lawyerly precision, the people you leave behind blame themselves. People are selfish and self-centered that way.
When I wake up in the morning, I hurt all over. It’s like I have the flu, but without the fever and puking. Just an overwhelming ache, and sorrow at surviving another night. I know what you’re thinking: Eunice, we’ve known about your depression for years now. That’s why it’s important that you take your medication. The problem is that the medication doesn’t work anymore. I take it every day and still I hurt. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see my own face. I see a slowly disintegrating thing with dark circles under bleary, unfocused eyes and cracked lips that bleed when they try to smile. Sometimes when people talk to me, I can’t hear them, and when I do, I don’t know what to say back. Usually it’s the wrong thing. As I demonstrated tonight.
I don’t mean to be like this. I’ve tried to get better, but I’m never going to be normal. There’s always going to be something wrong with me. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, I will always fail. I won’t be pretty or athletic, and boys won’t like me. Worse, I won’t like boys. Noah, if you ever run into her, and it somehow comes up organically, tell Brin that I’m sorry I wasn’t born a boy. Not that I actually want to be a boy, but that I would trade my entire identity if it meant it was okay for me to love her.
I keep pausing whenever I hear a car door. I get up and go to the window, thinking it’s you, cooled off and ready to try and talk to me again. I picture our muttered apologies, the worry on your simple, open face, my courage and resolve faltering as we build the awkward bridge that will reconnect us. I see myself giving in to your need for everything to be okay, and trudging on for another day, or week, or month. Maybe trudging through a whole life for your benefit. But then I look out the window and it’s not you.
Probably not long from now, when you put on my funeral, some teary-eyed person is going to stand up behind a pulpit next to my casket and speak at great length about my selfishness. How dare I? What right did I have? To that person I say (and I hope you’ll pass this on): shame on you. Kierkegaard said (I think) that society has always put a taboo on suicide because when a person kills herself, the people around said person start to question the value of their own lives, and that makes them uncomfortable. Figure it out for yourself—what makes your life so great?
What makes my life so great? The swell of Brin’s hips. Her laugh. The faces you made when I used to read to you. Seeing Dad make Mom laugh—the way her whole body convulsed. Seeing Sydney dance, the way the movement seemed to set her free and make her whole. The way it felt to type so fast my Commodore 64 could barely keep up. Brin’s mouth on mine.
I’m trapped here, in our family’s home office, far from all those things (except the typing, of cou
rse). Trapped in this body, in the gridlock of linear time.
I had an interesting dream recently. I usually dream about boring things like losing my car keys or forgetting to study for a test—but the other night I dreamt that Brin showed up on our front doorstep and asked me to take a ride with her. We got in her car and drove through the night, across strange mountainous country. The torn pleather upholstery of her car seat scratched at the back of my neck. The engine puttered along like the world’s most agreeable senior citizen, and the whole time, Brin just watched the road with a strange Madonna smile. We didn’t stop for food, or gas, or to use the bathroom. We didn’t need to.
Eventually, we pulled up into a gravel parking lot at the crest of a hill.
“Stay put,” Brin said. “And keep your eyes shut.”
I did as she said. She came around, opened my door, and took my hand to help me out. She guided me off the gravel and into the grass.
“Okay,” she said. “Open your eyes.”
I stood on the hilltop, the stars bright, fat bulbs above, a crescent moon tucked into a halo. A brown tree stump sat to my left. I reached to touch it, and I realized that I looked like a living Impressionist painting, the brushstrokes of my body vibrating and shifting, not smooth in motion but still somehow pleasing in their disregard for things as simple and boring as consistency. I looked up at the sky and saw a beautiful garden of stars, like dandelions caught in a visible, unfurling wind. They pulsed in sequence, as though communicating some coded message.
The visible wind above furled and then unfurled. Furled and unfurled. Furled—held it—then slowly and luxuriously unfurled. It was moving in time with my lungs. I looked back at Brin, and she’d changed out of her punk costume. She wore a black and green dress that clung to her figure and pushed the tops of her breasts up toward her chin. Her hair hung free around her face, a loose confederation of dark curls suggested in broad strokes that danced around her head, changing its configuration from second to second.