“It’s not your fault.” You force cheer into your voice. “You were right; the ice isn’t smooth at all.”
“It’s a death trap!”
“Anyway, why don’t we get outta here and head to that party instead…”
* * *
Go to the party already! Click HERE to continue.
You run out of the room.
You rapidly down beer after beer, trying to process what you saw. As much as your sister pisses you off, it brings you no pleasure knowing her marriage is a farce.
“Whoa there, save some for the rest of us,” Jim French says with a phony chuckle.
You stare at him, dead-eyed, until he’s so uncomfortable he walks away.
Twenty minutes later, Gregory reappears, acting as though nothing happened.
“Ready to head home?”
You nod, silent. You have nothing to say to him.
On the way, Gregory starts talking. “So, I guess you know Sarah?”
You say nothing. Finally, getting the picture, Gregory shuts up, too.
Christmas morning you wake up hungover and depressed.
The world feels flipped on its head.
Your almost pedantically perfectionist sister is in a sham marriage and probably doesn’t even know it…
* * *
If you want to tell, go HERE.
If you want to bury this secret deep in the pit of your stomach, go HERE.
Christmas morning.
You still feel a little shaken from losing Otto yesterday. If Lauren ever finds out…well, she can’t.
“And then we petted some reindeers,” Harrison tells your sister. “Their noses were wet and funny.”
“All right, boys, your mom doesn’t want to hear about…reindeers.” You laugh awkwardly.
“Of course I do,” she says, frowning at you.
The boys run around like madmen after every present. They’re screaming and jumping all over the house.
“I’m not sure if it’s the excitement, or if it’s the sugar cookies we gave them,” Lauren whispers.
“I thought you said you don’t allow sugar?”
“Well, it’s a special day, isn’t it?”
Harrison runs by and pulls on your hair.
“Owwwww, what gives, little man?”
“HAHAHAHHAH!”
Otto follows his older brother’s lead, nearly ripping out a hunk.
Their maniacal laughs are becoming deafening. Every second with them is torture. But you have to stay in earshot at all times. They can’t talk about yesterday.
They just can’t.
The End.
The desperation in the hotel restaurant is palpable. You dial Lindsi right there.
“Hello?” She sounds like she doesn’t know who’s calling.
“Lindsi, it’s me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“So have I.”
You scan the diners again, stopping on an old man working to fish his dentures out of his oatmeal with a fork.
You shudder and turn away.
“…And I think we should get married!” you say.
“Oh…” She sounds extremely caught off-guard. “I was thinking maybe things between us weren’t really…and I’ve been hanging out with my ex a lot here…still, that’s not important. Yes! Totally! We should totally get married.”
You hear her family erupt joyfully in the background.
“Ohmygah, just like in my horoscope!” Lindsi screams.
Horoscope? She really thinks marriage proposals can be determined by horoscope?
“Of course, you’ll have to do a proving before it’s official,” she continues.
You hear voices in the background echo “proving” in unison. Maybe it’s just a bad connection?
“I’m hashtag so EXCITED!” You cringe. “I have a venue booked for June!”
“Wait. What?”
“Yeah. I got it after our third date. Just in case.”
“Oh…”
“Also, I’ve planned a way you can for-real propose. With a flash mob. I’ve choreographed most of the moves already.”
“Okay…”
“I’ll keep practicing looking surprised.”
She continues to ramble on. Forget 60/40, you’re now at 30/70 on Lindsi, and dropping fast.
You look around again. The old man looks like he managed to get his dentures back into place. Now he’s trying his best to stuff jelly packets in his pockets without anyone noticing.
He shoots you a dirty look. “Mind your own fucking business.”
“Sorry.”
It’s probably better to marry someone you’re so-so about than end up like that lonely fuck, right?
The End.
You look out the window. Snow is falling lightly, dusting the fir trees with picture-perfect clumps of white. You haven’t seen another car for at least fifteen miles. You can’t remember the last time you saw a house.
“Where are we, exactly?”
Lars laughs. He’s been driving for almost an hour, and he’s barely spoken a word. This “proving” idea is starting to seem extremely ill-advised.
“We’re in the real wild. I shouldn’t give you the advantage, but I like you.” He thumps you heavily on the shoulder. You force yourself not to wince.
“Cool, thanks,” you murmur. “And…what am I supposed to do?”
“Simple: just track a full-grown animal—deer are easiest, they’re a good-sized target—kill it, and skin it. Usually we’d have you find your way home with the carcass, but since you’re new, you can call and I’ll pick you up.”
Oh dear god, you’re in winter Deliverance.
“Okay. How do I do that, exactly?”
“I mean…you just do.” Lars frowns, obviously confused. “That’s what you’re proving. I don’t know what to tell you.” He shrugs. “I promise, though, it’s not hard. I did mine at nine.”
You focus on not pissing yourself. That definitely won’t make Lars think very highly of you. Plus, animals can smell pee, right?
“All right, here we are!” Lars says cheerily, pulling off to the side of the road. “Tools are in the back.” He points to a crossbow and a Bowie knife. You’re already dressed in a white jumpsuit they had at the house—Mom called it a “first-timer’s bonus.”
You grab the weapons and step out of the car. You’re about to ask Lars where deer hang out when you hear him slamming the door from the inside. He speeds away before you have a chance to react.
You turn, but there’s nothing in sight but trees and snow. Uncertain what to do, you walk toward the nearest clump of forest. That seems right.
You’ve only made it about twenty yards when you see it. A full-grown deer stepping out of the woods carefully, stopping every few feet to nibble at branches. It’s a lady deer. You can tell because it has no horns, and because there’s a tiny Bambi behind it.
You grip the crossbow tight. Now what?
* * *
Kill it, obviously. Go HERE.
There’s no way you can kill a deer. Go HERE.
“Oh, man,” you say through gritted teeth. “I must have over-rotated on that one. HA. HA.” You bark a few laughs out and roll over, your face contorting in pain as soon as it’s facing the ground. “I told you, I’m not used to this woodsy stuff.”
You scramble up with the help of a nearby tree, barely repressing a cry of anguish.
“That’s okay,” Lars says, sounding supremely embarrassed. “I’ll take over from here.”
You step to the side, smile-grimace firmly in place, as Lars fells the tree in one massive swing. You’ve never felt more emasculated in your life.
“You’ll help to carry it, though, yes?” Dad just looks confused, as though he’s not certain what kind of creature you are.
“Of course, sure. My aim isn’t that bad!” You force out another laugh, stopping abruptly as you feel it ripple through your kidney.
Dutifully, you help hoist the tree overhead, biting your tongue almost in half in your e
ffort not to shriek.
Every step back through the woods is agony. You’ve never walked a longer half-mile. Why in god’s name did you agree to this ridiculous expedition? Lindsi’s family sucks. She should have warned you.
By the time you make it to the car, you’re shivering all over. You feel weak, achy, and mildly feverish. Did you somehow explode a virus that had been safely stored in your kidney lining until now? That would be just your fucking luck.
* * *
If you need to lie down and rest immediately, go HERE.
If you want to soldier on in order to maintain some modicum of dignity, go HERE.
You’ve never been in so much pain. Through gritted teeth you manage to whimper, “Please, take me to the ER.”
“Really? On Christmas Eve?” Dad sounds skeptical. Isn’t it obvious you’re probably dying?
“I need a doctor. And help getting to the car.”
Lars bends over and hoists you up like a baby, one hand beneath your knees, the other under your arms.
“I’ll take him,” he says. “Michael can drop a car by later.”
“All right,” Dad mutters. “If you insist.”
You take back any thoughts about loving this family.
Thirty minutes later, you check into the ER. Lars helps you to a seat. Nearby, an old woman is weeping openly, snot and tears running down her chin, but you can’t see anything wrong with her. Do ER doctors treat the misery of old age?
Minutes tick by. A man hugging a bucket vomits twice, loudly, before they’ve even finished checking him in. Luckily, he decides to camp out in the bathroom after that. Unluckily, you’re afraid you might need to pee some blood soon.
After what feels like hours, a nurse calls your name. You hobble over—actually, most of your pain seems to have disappeared now. Will you get out of the bill if you just turn around and go—
“I’ll come too,” Lars says, stepping up to support your arm.
You’d love it if Lars came. Right now he’s your only ally in this family, and he’s so freakishly strong and handsome everyone seems to just…do things for him. While you were waiting, a nurse gave him a pair of scrubs “for a souvenir.” He’ll definitely score you the good pain meds. Maybe he’ll somehow bring down the bill?
Still, it seems like too much to ask. He already thinks you’re such a pussy.
“No, that’s fine,” you force yourself to say. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“I don’t mind. You probably want the moral support.”
* * *
If you’d like to graciously agree, go HERE.
If you want to insist on going it alone so he doesn’t think you’re an even bigger wimp, go HERE.
You don’t care how much pain you’re in, there’s no way you’re letting this “chiropractor” touch you.
“You know what?” You make a Herculean effort not to grimace as you push yourself into a sitting position. “I’m already starting to feel better. I think the walk over must have really helped.”
“Sure you don’t want just one realignment? It did wonders for Sparky,” he says, pointing at a picture you couldn’t see before. To be fair, you’re not certain Sparky wasn’t always one of those wheelchair-hind-leg dogs, but the curve of his spine doesn’t look natural.
“No, no.” You stand. You feel a blood vessel in your eye popping from the strain of holding in all the pain. “I don’t want to waste your time, especially at the holidays. I’ll just head home. Thanks for your help!”
You somehow manage to make it past his hedge before you collapse onto your hands and knees, crawling through the gray, mucked-up snow the rest of the way back to Lindsi’s parents’ house.
• • •
You should call out to cousin Jimmy to close the door to the bedroom you’re sharing—he left it open behind him—but the effort of yelling that loudly might permanently cripple you. Even speaking shoots lightning bolts of pain around your ribcage, like some sort of corset of fried nerve endings.
“Some stock is just weaker.” Mom’s voice drifts up the stairs. Is she talking about tasty Christmas stew? Or livestock—this is rural country. “It’s not his fault, of course; it’s his parents’. They should have forced him to develop better musculature in his youth.”
Wait, is she talking about…
“You can see it in his eyes.” Dad’s voice sounds kinder, mostly sad. You imagine his beard shaking back and forth regretfully. “That color of brown is a sure sign of faulty genetics. And his feet? I saw those shoes in the hallway and I thought they belonged to you, Linds. You can’t trust a man with feet that small, I’ve always said that.”
If only you could walk down there and defend yourself. But Lindsi will stand up for you. She has such a temper; she’s probably fuming, ready to—
“I should have listened, Dad.” Her sigh heaves up the stairs into your room. “I should have known the first time we went out and he passed on the steak for—” her voice breaks a little. “The fish special.”
You hear a collective gasp. Oh, for fuck’s sake, that place is renowned for its seafood!
You hear footsteps nearing your door. Maybe this person can help! Or at least bring you water—you have to fortify your vocal cords to shout loudly enough for the Judases to hear you.
“Who’s there?” you call.
Lindsi’s brother Lars sticks his head around the door.
“Lars! Perfect. Would you mind bringing me some water, or something to eat? I just need a little food to help my body—”
You stop short. His sneer is so vicious it’s literally left you speechless. Shaking his head, he slams the door. You hear his heavy, manly feet tramping down the hallway, but you’re powerless to follow.
The End.
If you don’t go through with it, Mom will never forgive you. She called ahead, after all, and you’re already up against such virulent disgust on that front.
How different can dog spines really be?
“Let’s get started,” you say, trying to keep the fear out of your voice.
“Great!” You hear him approach the couch.
“Should I be on a table, or…”
“No, this is fine. I’ll just compensate for the sag in the springs…”
“Maybe I should remove my sweater.” Your voice is getting nervously high. “So you can see my spine?”
“I know about where it is.”
You feel a heavy hand on the lower part of your back, and another one gripping around your neck. Oh, Jesus, you’ll never walk again.
“Do you think this is a good idea? I’ve had some serious—”
You can’t finish the sentence because suddenly he’s ripping you in two.
You feel something pop deep in your back, then a series of crackles all along your vertebrae, then your muscles tearing away from your bones.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” You shriek in pain.
“Good, that’s good. That’s how it should be,” he says.
You’re still screaming a minute after he’s let go of you.
“Well, uh…” He sounds slightly abashed. “I guess…go home now.”
You’re physically unable to stand. Instead, you crawl on all fours out the door. Maybe now he’d be able to find your spine.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
Whatever it is, it’s more than you want to find out.
“I’m just going to dress this,” you say, backing away slowly, like you would from a rabid animal. “Upstairs.”
She nods, her face supremely calm.
Back pain totally forgotten between the aching, pulsing inferno that was your hand and the fear creeping up from your stomach, you head upstairs. You run cold water over your hand and wrap it in gauze from the medicine cabinet, then pack your things as best you can one-handed.
“I just got a call from my mom,” you say as you walk through the kitchen, looking at no one. “My dad has had a health emergency. I have to go home.”
You
glance over at Mom, but she’s still weirdly calm, like a partially sedated frog enjoying a day off. Before she—or anyone else—can change your mind, you run out the door.
• • •
Why are you feeling like this?
The pain in your hand makes sense. And the loneliness of the empty city at Christmas explains the melancholy. But this is more than that. It’s almost a hollowness. Like everything you’ve done before, even the big things—family weddings, the time you got that promotion at work, games of croquet with your college roommates—was empty. Meaningless.
Your phone buzzes on the bedside table. You don’t recognize the number, but the grisly picture of an oozing, puffy hand can only have come from one person. You scroll to the message.
I’ve absorbed you into me. Now you’ll always be a part of the VanWhittington family line.
You should be horrified—how did she even get your number? But strangely, that’s not how you feel at all. No, you feel comforted. Gratified.
Before you can think better of it, you’ve snapped a picture of your own destroyed hand. It’s grisly, what with the missing skin and the raspberry-jelly-like section on the palm, but there’s something fiercely beautiful about it, too.
You think you see a spot where a pale piece of skin is still clinging to the raw pink flesh below, a lake of oozing yellow encircling them both.
You hold up your other hand for comparison. Yes, your first inkling was right: it’s far too pale to have come from you. It must be Mom’s skin. VanWhittington skin. Grafted into you by fire, never to be removed.
You gaze at the picture.
You shouldn’t send it, should you?
No, you should. You definitely should. And you do.
The End.
You look around, smiling contentedly.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 15