The Stories We Whisper at Night

by Sky Corgan

  “You have to get them.” She practically hops with the bag in her hand, her boobs bouncing crudely in the low-cut shirt she's wearing, drawing my attention down momentarily.

  “So I can make mutant carrot stew?” I give her a queer look. The idea of using the carrots in anything makes me uncomfortable. Even though they're on sale with the rest, it irks me that they're different, like it was a mistake on the grocer's part for setting them on display.

  “They're the same price as the others,” She points out. “More carrot for your money.” Martha waves them at me before she tosses them into my basket. With that out of the way, her attention immediately switches to something else. My cheeks turn beet red as she grabs her breasts and squishes them together, making super muffin top cleavage. “Want to touch my boobs?” Her eyes light up again. “I saw you looking at them.”

  “Oh God, just stop.” I take a few long strides, trying to get away from her. She's so embarrassing sometimes, but she's always been like this. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

  We've been friends forever. And by forever, I mean since I tortured my parents into allowing me to go to public school. And by torture, I mean by being the child from hell. When my parents first moved to Alaska, they decided they wanted to do the whole homesteading thing, and that included homeschooling me. I don't think they ever suspected I'd have other plans.

  When I was small, I had no choice but to follow their way. Life is all about work when you don't have electricity or other modern comforts. At night though, when the work was done, I'd sit on father's lap in front of the fire while he told me stories about how their lives used to be, while mother would knit or sew. It seemed so much better than how we live now, though they insisted that it wasn't. I was never able to understand why they had moved away from civilization.

  Life was lonely out in the middle of nowhere with no one to play with. We live three miles away from the nearest village, so it was extremely rare that my parents took me with them. If I saw another child once a year, I was lucky. When I turned eight though, my father began taking me to the village more often, and that's when I realized I could end my loneliness if I started going to public school. That's also when I began rebelling like mad.

  Most kids don't rebel until their teens, but I'd had enough of being stuck at the cabin doing chores from sunup to sundown and not really getting a decent education. Of course, I wouldn't have any idea how far behind I was in my learning until I actually started school. That was yet to be seen. I certainly wasn't stupid though.

  Knowing that there were better options for me than being lonely all the time, I put on my brakes. My attitude changed drastically, and my parents practically had to drag me kicking and screaming to do my chores everyday. Brat was an understatement for what I'd become.

  Of course, I told my parents that my acting out was because I wanted to go to public school. They insisted they could educate me just as well as any public school teachers, and that I'd thank them when I was older. That wasn't the issue though. I was beyond lonely. Heck, my best friend was our dog.

  Eventually, my parents began to lie to me to get my behavior back in order. They told me they'd enroll me in school the following year, so I straightened out until the next semester rolled around and I realized that all the other kids in the village were going to school again, but I wasn't. That's when I really turned into a hellion.

  Not doing chores was no longer enough to get my point across. I had to be bad. Really bad. Like peeing on my mother's sewing supplies and putting dog poop in their bed bad. My father whipped me so good for that last one that I didn't think I'd be able to sit for a whole week. It didn't stop me though. The misbehaving continued until finally we had the fight that turned everything around. It had all the dramatic bells and whistles. The 'I hate yous' from both sides that stick to the soul and never go away. I told my parents that if I wasn't allowed to go to public school, then they weren't allowed to go to the village. If I had to be lonely for the rest of my life, so did they. My father gave me the classic 'try to stop me' answer. He never suspected I'd go as far as to put twigs and snow in the gas tank of our snowmobile.

  I swear, I've never seen anyone get angrier in my entire life than when he couldn't start the snowmobile and figured out what I had done. His head was like a cherry from all the yelling, the veins bulging out of his forehead like they might burst right from his skin and strangle me. The sheer terror in my eyes must have been enough to keep him from hitting me.

  That night, I went to bed without supper and cried myself to sleep. The following day, my father was somber. He pulled himself out of bed and told me not to do any of my chores. This, I didn't understand. Usually, after a bout of being bad, my parents would hound me about my chores relentlessly. Not that day though.

  After my father finished his morning chores, he came to fetch me. He knelt in front of me, telling me that I had been so bad that him and mother had decided he would take me out into the woods and leave me there. I think he expected I would cry and beg him not to, promising I'd be forever good and drop the subject of wanting to go to public school, but I was just as fed up with them as they were with me.

  My mother gave me a few slices of bread, and father and I headed off into the forest. We walked for two hours before he found a spot in a small thicket of barren trees where he decided he would leave me.

  “Ferne, this is your last chance,” he told me, giving me his sincerest look. “You do understand that what you did was bad, don't you?” The way he gripped my shoulders made it seem like he was almost begging me to break down.

  “No worse than what you've done to me.” There was an apology in my eyes, but it would never make it to my lips.

  The lines in his face grew deeper as he frowned, realizing I wasn't going to give. “You'll stay here all day and think about all the trouble you've caused us. Maybe a few hours out here will show you what being alone really means, and you'll appreciate everything we've done for you.” He stood and turned from me, looking stiff for a moment before he took off back towards the house. I was too proud to act upset, and too smart to give him the upper hand.

  He thought I was just some defenseless, emotional little girl. That I would sit there and cry and reflect on everything I had done and pray he would come back to get me. That I'd be frightened, jumping at every little sound. But he was wrong.

  I waited there in the cold with my arms wrapped around myself, watching him walk out of view. Then I gave it another five minutes before I followed his tracks in the snow back to the cabin, making sure to stay out of sight. It was still cold and miserable, and I found myself hovering behind the treeline for a good extra hour while father worked on the snowmobile before he finally went inside and I was able to sneak into the shed and away from the elements. Lord knows how long it would have taken him to come back for me, but I certainly wasn't going to wait. I curled up in a pile of old blankets and fell asleep. Then I woke up several hours later in my own bed. Father had gone inside the shed and found me there.

  I thought he would be angry, furious even, but he was more proud than anything. Amazed that I had been able to track him back to the house, even though it wasn't much of a feat. I was nine years old, after all, and way smarter than either of them gave me credit for. That was the day they decided to relent and start sending me to public school.

  About a week later, I met Martha. Having almost no social skills from being raised away from other people, I was the odd kid out. No one wanted to play with me because I acted so strange. I wasn't the only oddball though. Martha was a force of uncontrollable energy. She played too rough, screamed too loud, and had no filter between her mouth and her brain. We hit it off instantly—the two kids no one else liked. It didn't matter though, because we had each other.

  We were constantly bullied growing up, but that never kept us down for long. Martha was good at ignoring everything but her own interests. I was a bit more socially conscious, which I think only hurt me in the end. Kids are cru
el, but we somehow managed to survive high school and still emerge best friends through it all.

  Two years later, we still spend as much time together as we can, though our lives are vastly different. Martha grew up into this gorgeous busty blonde, and I turned into a lanky stick-figure of a girl, flat-chested and unspectacular. I had wanted to go to college, but our high school was so small that they didn't offer scholarship opportunities, and my parents refused to save up for my continued education, saying that college doesn't matter when you live where we do. I had wanted to get a job in the village after high school, but there were too few jobs and too many people needing them. That left me stuck right back where I started, at home.

  Martha, on the other hand, got married six months out of high school to a much older man, a banker, and became his trophy wife. Then she almost immediately popped out a kid and just recently found out she's got another bun in the oven. Busy busy, those two.

  Even with no desire for an education though, her life seems better than mine. She has freedom, modern conveniences(since her husband isn't interested in homesteading), and a family and life of her own. I have...well, this.

  I look at the unusually long carrots in my shopping basket and scowl. In truth, I should be happy. My parents are gone for the next two weeks celebrating the honeymoon they never had when they first got married. This is the freedom I'd been dreaming of, to a small degree, though I would have much rather experienced it at college somewhere far away from this frozen hellhole.

  “I still can't believe they spent that money on their honeymoon instead of my education,” I grumble, more to myself than anyone else while we're standing in the checkout line.

  “Oh, Ferne. I'm sorry.” Martha gives me a sympathetic look. “Just think though, you're already rebelling, spending your emergency money on food from the store instead of cooking what you have at the house.” Her face is so bright with happiness for me that I can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not.

  “Such a rebel,” I huff, thinking about how my desire for something other than potatoes and cabbage had spurred me to go to the store for some carrots for my stew. Not to mention I just wanted to see Martha. Staying at the cabin by myself gives loneliness an entirely new meaning, and while Martha had offered to let me sleep at her place while my parents are gone, I want some space. It's stifling being cramped up with people all the time, even if they are the only two people usually around me.

  I pay for what few groceries are in my basket, and then we load up on our snowmobiles and head back out to my house. The weather is fairly calm right now, but tonight a snowstorm will be blowing in. As I look to the east, I can see the ominous clouds bunching up in the distance. Thankfully, my father spent an entire day chopping firewood before they left for their vacation, so I should be alright.

  When we get back to my house, I put a log on the fire in the wood burning stove, and we sit next to it and warm up for a while. I glance down at Martha's stomach. “Do you think you're ready for another one?”

  “Do I have a choice?” She looks up at me, though she doesn't sound like she particularly minds being pregnant.

  “I can't believe you're on baby number two, and I haven't even found a man yet.”

  “I know.” Her eyes go wide. “You'd think that with the ratio of men to women here, you'd be married and knocked up too.”

  I can't help but laugh. “It's not that I can't find a man. It's just that I don't want any of the men around here.”

  “Ah yes. You're waiting for prince charming to come charging in on his white steed and rescue you from the evil clutches of your wicked parents,” she teases. “Sorry to tell you, Ferne, but anyone that fancy would probably freeze to death and eat his horse.”

  “That's a bit out of order,” I point out, knowing that she won't get it. How can one freeze to death before he eats his horse.

  “I'm just telling it like it is.” She shrugs absentmindedly, standing to put her gloves back on, which must mean she's about to leave.

  “I'll never get out of here,” I sigh miserably.

  “Come on. Let's go build a snowman.” She motions towards the door, her eyes lighting up again.

  “Like I have time for that.” I cock my head to the side, showing her that I don't.

  “If you have time to sulk, then you have time to have fun.” She grabs my hands and pulls me up and towards the door. I can't help but follow. It's like her touch has passed off some of her energy into me. Suddenly, the idea of being childish and silly is a lot more appealing than getting ready for the long night ahead.

  By the time I get my gloves on, Martha is already packing snow in her hands for the base of the snowman. “I'll work on the bottom layer. You work on the middle layer,” she tells me enthusiastically. Soon we're side by side, rolling our snowballs across the ground to make them even bigger. It expends far more energy than I should be wasting, but it's fun, laughing and pelting each other with handfuls of snow every now and then while we work. It's a feat that we ever get the thing finished, but we do. “Do you have any coal?” Martha asks when we're done.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  Remembering our snowman building from the past, Martha starts searching the ground for stones, and I join in, collecting enough for the eyes, nose, mouth, and buttons. When it's done, we admire our work. Two hours of wasted time to build the monstrosity that stands before us with a sinister grin, its back to the east as if it's little stick hands are ushering in the storm.

  “It's missing something,” Martha says thoughtfully.

  “Your banker husband is making you fancy.” I quirk an eyebrow at her. “I can't put a scarf or hat on it. It would get lost in the snowstorm, and then my parents would be pissed.”

  “Aren't they going to be pissed when they find out you took the snowmobile to get carrots. It's not like they won't count the money when they get back.” She rolls her eyes at me, then she jumps and points at the snowman, which about scares me to death. “That's it!”

  “What's it?” I touch my palm to my chest, calming my racing heart.

  “Bring me a carrot.” Martha holds her hand out to me as if I could make the bag magically appear out of thin air.

  “I'm not wasting a carrot on the snowman.” I scowl at her.

  “Oh, come on. Stop being such a tightwad. Live a little,” she whines, jutting her lip out into an exaggerated pout.

  “Fine,” I relent with a sigh, going back inside to fetch one of the freakishly long carrots. It will make a funny looking nose, I think, smirking as I return to her and hand it over. To my surprise, she takes the carrot and jams it, fat side first, right where the snowman's crotch would be. “Martha!” My mouth falls agape at her crudeness, and she instantly guffaws at my reaction.

  “Don't be such a prude.”

  “My parents would be livid if they saw that,” I burst out into laughter of my own. My God, she's something else. Her husband really must have his hands full, and I don't just mean with her ginormous boobs.

  “I guess it's a good thing your parents aren't here then.” She smirks at me.

  Just then, we both see a shooting star streak across the sky. It's a reminder of how late it's getting, that the fun is almost over, and I'm about to be alone again.

  “Pretty.” Martha stares up into the sky with the wonder of a child. When the moment passes, she turns back to me. “Did you make a wish?”

  “Yeah,” I huff, though in truth I hadn't. It's easy to come up with a wish though now that I'm thinking about it. More than anything, I wish a hot guy would come whisk me away from this frozen wasteland, that I could move somewhere warmer where there are actually people, that I can see more of the world than expanses of snow and forest.

  “Tell me.” She steps in front of me and shakes me by the shoulders.

  “What I've always wished for...To get away from here,” I can't hide the disdain from my voice.

  Her happy expression sulks for a moment. “If you left here, you'd leave me.”

/>   “Your family is here. You have a life here. I don't.”

  “You have a life here too.”

  “You know I've always wanted more than this.” I gesture to everything around us.

  “I know.” She frowns, obviously thinking about her own self-interest, as usual. If I moved, she wouldn't have any friends here. Almost the second the thought passes over her, it leaves. The fact that she can recover from depression so quickly is one of her endearing qualities. Nothing hangs over her head for very long. “Well, I've got to get back. Have fun making your stew, and try to stay warm tonight.” Martha hugs me briefly before skipping to her snowmobile. How she can have so much energy for a pregnant woman, I'll never understand.

  “You too.” I wrap my arms around myself and watch as she climbs onto her snowmobile and drives out of sight, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the snowman. Even after she's gone, I just stand there for a while, looking up at the sky, wondering if I made the wrong choice by staying home instead of going with her. It's not too late to change my mind, but time is ticking.

  After a few more minutes of contemplation, I go inside, deciding to start on supper. This isn't the first snowstorm I've weathered. Protocol doesn't change just because I'm alone. Stay inside, keep the fire burning, and I should be alright.

  I listen to the wind picking up just as my stew finishes cooking. It's getting nasty outside now. The snow has blown in, bringing with it a chill as the temperature quickly drops to well below freezing. I feed the wood burning stove another log, eat my dinner in silence, then curl up on the couch with a book of old folklore tales. It's one of the very few books I own, and probably not the best to read when I'm by myself.

  Inside are five old Inuit legends about the mythical beasts who roam the expanse of Alaska. My father bought the book when I was a small child as a Halloween present, since they never took me trick-or-treating. Every Halloween, we used to sit in front of the fire, and he'd read me stories of the Tizheruk or the Tornit, and I'd go to bed shivering from fear. He especially loved to tell me the Qalipalik story when I was bad, saying she would come carry me off, and I'd never see them again. Fear is a great motivator for children who are disobedient, but it only works until the kid realizes that the monsters in the stories aren't real. No Qalipalik ever came to take me away, no matter how bad I was.