by T. S. Ryder
“Yes,” I lied for the last time.
She got up from her desk and sat on the chair beside me, and handed me a pamphlet. She recommended some breathing exercises, meditation, yoga, workouts, all the usual stuff. I nodded my head, said ‘yes’ over and over again, pretended I was listening and waited for the session to be over.
I wasn’t going to come back to this. Therapy wasn’t for me, it wasn’t going to work. I knew what I had to do, so I thanked her and left the room.
Chapter Two - The Rich Dude
Siobhan
As I walked to the computer lab, I saw Harrod pacing the corridor. I knew who he was, everyone in the class did, but I doubted he knew who I was — it didn’t bother me, though. He hung out with the people who were his type, children of the government big shots, politicians and billionaires. I preferred keeping a low profile, but I knew who everyone was. Not that I’m shrewd or anything, I just think it’s safer that way, if you know what I mean. Girls are like that, they keep an eye on their surroundings and are well aware of everything happening around them. Well, some girls are.
“You must be Siobhan,” he said. He said it like Si-aw-bhun.
It sounded so ridiculous that I almost laughed out loud. I did laugh in my head, cackling boisterously. To him, I just nodded.
“Looks like we are partners in Programming,” he said, waving the list in the air. I wanted to take the list from his hands and read it myself, but I didn’t. I didn’t want him to know how I felt about being paired with him. For the time being, I didn’t know how I felt about it. I knew what my friend Lana would say: “He’s a catch.” She would have said it out loud if she were here, so I was glad she wasn’t. There was no point in looking at the list anyway. If he was mistaken, my partner would call me out or come get me anyway. There weren’t any other Si-aw-bhuns in my class, anyway.
I smiled tightly at him. He opened the door and went in, without holding it for me. Jerk! But then again, what was I expecting? I pushed open the door and joined him as he took a seat. I didn’t look at him, though. I’ll do that on Facebook on my way home. We are both in our class’ group on there.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little under the weather. I don’t know how to do this.”
“Oh,” I said. That was all I could say, to be honest. I finally looked at him. He appeared a bit frowzy, which was indeed unusual for him. He was usually very well dressed, neat and dapper — a politician in the making. “We can do this later,” I said.
“Oh no, I don’t mean that. We have to sit through this class. I just…” he trailed off. I didn’t bother asking him to finish saying whatever he had to say. He was probably having a hangover.
“You should take an aspirin or two,” I said. “It helps with the hangover.”
He looked at me as if I were a clown. His cold blue eyes turned almost white and his pupils dilated, giving me goosebumps on my arms. “I don’t have a hangover,” he said. “I don’t drink on weekdays.”
He said it with such ferocity that I was caught off guard. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“It’s alright.”
“Show me your notes,” I said, reaching for the journal in his lap, “and let me see what we have and where we are. I’ll draw the —”
He reached for his journal at the same time as I did, and for the briefest instant our hands touched — or my fingers touched his hand. His skin was burning.
“You have a fever,” I said. “Harrod, you need to go see a doctor.”
“I am fine,” he said.
“No, you are not!” I don’t know what happened, maybe my maternal instincts took over. He looked like such a beaten dog.
“Siawbhun, let it go,” he said, as I reached for his hand.
“No,” I stated sternly, and grabbed his hand. I picked up his bag, stuffed his things in it, and led him out.
“Siobhan,” the professor called out from behind.
“He’s burning, professor. I’m taking him to the doctor,” I said. He nodded his approval. Once we got outside, he stopped and turned to look at me.
“So, Shivon,” he said.
“That’s close,” I said. “Better than Siawbhun.”
“Why didn't you correct me?”
“I don’t really bother. Almost everyone gets it wrong. I only correct the ones who matter.”
“So I don’t matter,” he said, giving me half a smile.
“Of course you don’t,” I said, before I could think. “I mean…I don’t know you. I’m undecided.”
“What’s gonna help you decide?”
“Quit stalling,” I said. “You need to go see a doctor right now.”
“I just want to go home.”
“No, you need a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” he said, and walked off.
I stood by the window and watched him leave the main doors on the floor below. Light blue jeans, white tee-shirt, a black bag slung on his back. At the university gates, two men — dressed in black, wearing black shades — flanked him, and led him to the waiting car. There are two vans that accompany his car from front and back. All three vehicles have black tinted glasses. I know all this because I have seen him come and go several times. Like I said, I observe things. But I don’t know what or who is in the vans; their doors never open and the windows never roll down. But all of this is enough to suggest that he’s an important person, or his father is.
I think I’ll ask my mom about it. She knows so much stuff, I’m sure she’d know about this, too. She’s a senator in Congress, but she also worked as the Chief of Staff for the former President. Back then, I had the chance to get similar protocol, but my mother wanted me to have a ‘normal’ upbringing and I agreed with her. I didn’t want to attract too much attention to myself. I still don’t. If I get any attention of that sort, it will be because of myself, because of what I have done or achieved, not because I am linked to someone in a higher position.
I wonder what’s wrong with Harrod; I do hope he gets better soon. If I had his number, I would call him, but I don’t have it and I won’t ask anyone for it. A lot of girls ask his friends for his number under various pretenses, just as they do for the other guys in his group. I don’t want to appear clingy or attention hungry, or a gold-digger, as they call it. I know because I heard them talking in the cafeteria once, right after a girl asked for Timothy’s number.
Chapter Three - A Long-Overdue Conversation
Harrod
I sat outside on the stairs of the main entrance, waiting for dad to come home. Gabe, the butler, had retired to his quarters. I was alone in the whole house, as I usually was, but since the sleep terrors the house felt small. I longed to be outside, to be free, although I didn’t know what freedom meant for people like us. The guys in the black suits had been there since I opened my eyes, and I doubted they would leave before I closed them forever. They were one of the perks of having the Director of Central Intelligence Agency for a dad, and a billionaire oil tycoon for a grandfather.
I watched the sky change color as the sun set behind my back. Blue at first, then motley hues of orange, pink, red, purple and finally black. I gazed at the void above me until tiny specks of starlight appeared. I knew my dad was coming when I saw ten headlights heading this way from afar. The road was long and winding, but it only headed one way — to my home. There was a security check post at the far end of the road, and the next one was at the gates. As he arrived, the other cars headed toward the parking lot while his car crawled slowly to the front of the stairs.
He was talking on the phone when he stepped out of his car, but clicked his phone shut as soon as he saw me.
“Harrod,” he said, arms opening wide.
“Dad,” I said, getting up reluctantly.
He hugged me. We hadn’t seen each other for five days.
“I heard about your visit to the therapist. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“Sleep terrors and panic attacks are not nothing
. Anyway, I am your father, Harrod,” he said, in that bossy tone of his. “When something like this happens, you should talk to me first.”
“Who told you that? That was confidential!”
He gave me a look, a look I know all too well. It speaks of things that shouldn’t be spoken of. It tells me that I know better than to ask. I do know better, but I’d like some privacy.
“Come with me,” he said. “I want to hear all about it.”
It wasn’t like him to be so interested in mental health problems all of a sudden. He was very dismissive usually, apathetic about my life and problems, always giving me the same look. Hell, he never even asked me to go hunting with him, although he went every month on the farmlands my grandfather lived on. After retiring, my grandfather had taken up residence in the lands that had been in our family for generations. I remember asking my dad to take me with him when I was young, but he had refused. I knew better than to ask again.
I followed him into his study, a room where he usually spent his time alone. He poured himself a drink, set up the chess table, opened the window and told me to take a seat. “Always better with fresh air, no?” he mused to himself, before turning to me. “So, about this visit. Why did you lie to the doctor?”
“Isn’t that what you told me to do?”
“I did. Good, that’s private stuff. But I think it’s finally happening.”
“What is?”
“We’ll get to that. First, tell me about the dreams.”
“They are nothing, really,” I began. “I see these mountains full of snow, tall trees, giant feral dogs…it's stupid stuff. They started with the mountains. The next dream zoomed in a bit, and then there were trees, then dogs, then the moon.”
“They weren’t dogs, they were wolves,” he corrects, almost offended. “What does the moon do, does it change or anything?”
“No,” I said. “It’s a full moon, and it’s always full. But I think I am trapped in the body of a dog in the dreams, looking at the moon, barking or crying with the other dogs. Sometimes I see eggs hatching, wombs, veins…something trying to break free.”
“Go on,” he says. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s even listening to me talk about my dreams, but his eyes are fixed on me intently.
“That’s about it,” I tell him. “You’ve read the rest, or heard it, or whatever.”
“Harrod, what I am about to tell you won’t be easy to digest, but I need you to man up and listen to me. You will have questions, but I need you to understand. Take your time to process everything.”
I just nod. My dad has been possessed.
“Remember what your mother said?”
“Yeah, all those delusions she had,” I say.
“They weren’t delusions. She was telling the truth.”
My jaw drops and stays that way. I forget how to speak at first, because I think my dad has followed my mother’s lead and gone nuts.
“You lied!” I finally manage to say. Whether it’s a question or statement, I don’t know. “You mean Harris is alive?” I had always been told that Harris, my brother, had drowned in the pool one day when my mother wasn’t paying attention, and that CPS would take me away if I told anyone the truth.
He nodded. “He’s with Grandpa. I see him every month when I go hunting.”
“But I don’t understand. Why?”
There’s a sudden surge of emotions, feelings I don’t understand. I have been wronged, I feel. My heart expands and contracts heavily in my chest, ready to explode.
“Why did you put my mother through all that?” The words aren’t even mine. “Why, if she was telling the truth?”
He looks at me again. It’s the same look, but now it has a different meaning. There’s power in his eyes, something that makes me want to curl up under the bed.
“Your mother wasn’t quite there after what she saw. She wasn’t prepared for any of that. It was a lack of foresight on my part, but I did what had to be done. It was for the best.”
“According to who? Who decides what’s best?” I shouted at him.
“Harrod, do you remember what your mother’s delusions were?”
“No, I don’t.” It was so long ago that I couldn’t actually remember anything.
“This is going to be really hard to explain, then. You are a werewolf, Harrod!” He said it in the same way that Hagrid told Harry that he was a wizard, except that Harry was a child and I was a twenty-five-year-old man. “We all are,” he continued. “Except your mother.” He got up and paced around the room. “I should have told her, prepared her somehow, but I didn’t. I thought she would never find out.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“Language, Harrod,” he chided.
“You think you’ll tell me I’m a werewolf all of a sudden and I’ll believe you?”
“That’s what I’d like, yes.”
“Do you know how crazy this sounds? Do you want to send me to the loony bin too? Is that what this is about? Why are you telling me all this now?”
“When we live in cities, these are the sorts of problems we face. I was waiting for your inner wolf to come out. Werewolves who live in packs don’t have to wait so long. They can shift at a very young age. Your brother could shift easily when he turned nine. With you…I have been waiting for this to happen.”
“I don’t want to be a werewolf. I want a normal life. I don’t want to be a freak,” I spat. “What’s next, you gonna tell me that grandpa is a werewolf too?”
“Everyone in our family is a werewolf, except for your mother and her side of the family. In time you will learn to appreciate and respect who you are,” he said, keeping his voice gentle.
“Fuck this,” I said. “I want to go see Harrison right now!”
“Leave,” he said. I could see anger rise suddenly in him. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he barked through gritted teeth, and closed the door as I left.
Chapter Four - The Cat’s Curiosity
Siobhan
When I got home that day, I found Harrod on Facebook. Imagine my disappointment on finding out that his profile was completely private, save for the photo. It was a nice picture, though. He was stood next to a couple of older men at some sort of official dinner, the type that my mom goes to. I never get to go with her, not that I want to.
The next day, when he didn’t show up to class for the project, I got curious. I decided to give him a visit. I could say it was for the project or that I was worried about his health. I got his number and address from one of his friends, Jacob, when I found him alone. I know, I know I said I wouldn’t, but the project thing is not entirely an excuse. I have a GPA to worry about if I am to get somewhere in life.
It was almost evening when I reached home. For some reason, I wanted to look good. It’s not that I have a crush or anything on Harrod — I just wanted to look good in that way girls want to look good around guys. And Harrod didn’t really seem like a bad guy, unlike his friends who were snobbish jerks. But then I barely knew him. I took a cold shower, braided my curly hair and tied it into a knot. I slid into a gray, knee-length skirt, which I paired with a white blouse, a white pearl necklace, classic, black pumps and a cream cardigan, which covered my plump derriere. I know what I sound like, but that’s how my mom dresses and that’s how she taught me to dress. I looked fine, my face didn’t betray me: subtle makeup, pearl earrings, no lipstick. I was going to surprise him.
I asked my mother if I could have the driver. She agreed, without asking me where I was going. So I headed towards where Harrod lived, uninvited. This would all be a huge waste of time if he wasn’t home, but he was so sick yesterday and missed university today, so I was sure he’d be home. On the way to his place, we were stopped at the start of the road that led to his house. There was a checkpoint, and an officer walked over. I rolled down the window.
“Ma’am, do you have a pass?”
“No,” I replied.
“I am sorry, you need to have prior clearance to go beyond this point.
”
“I am here to see Harrod. Harrod Ford.”
“What’s your name and the purpose of your visit?”
“I’m Siobhan. Like I said, I want to see Harrod.”
The officer whispered into his walkie-talkie and signaled another officer. “I need to see your ID.”
I handed him my ID and he walked away with it. He returned after above five minutes and gave back my ID. “You are cleared to go,” he told me, then turned to the driver. “Stick to the main road. Once you reach the residence, wait for clearance outside the gate.” He nodded and stepped back as the car lurched forward.
I knew Harrod was super rich, and I did expect him to live in a mansion, but I gawked when the car stopped outside the gates and I waited for clearance. This wasn’t just a mansion, it was the mother of mansions. He lived in a mini-freaking-city. There were roads inside the gate! A guard directed us to stop in front of the stairs that led to the house. Once I got out, I was greeted by a butler, who took me to the drawing room.
“Wait here,” he told me. “Mr. Harrod will be here shortly.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you could take me to his room. I know he isn’t well, so I don’t want to get into all the formalities and all. I just want to see him, then I’ll let him rest. I am sure he won’t mind.”
“If you insist,” he replied. “Follow me.”
The mansion had really high ceilings, like a museum. Tall, stone columns lined the corridor. My heart was thumping. The butler left me outside Harrod’s room. Once he was out of sight, I went in. I caught him just as he was pulling up his pants.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry. I should have knocked. I got so nervous.”
“It’s okay,” he said, as he zipped up his pants. “Come on in, have a seat. Sorry my room’s a mess.”