“Oh God.” I hear her gasp. Her coffee cup clinks on the table.
“It knocked the whole tent off the mountain. I don’t know how far we fell, but the snow hadn’t been as liberal there. It barely padded the fall, and there were so many rocks. I broke my legs and hit my head hard enough that I must have been unconscious for a little while because the sun was setting when I woke up My mother had a huge gash in her head, and stuff that I didn’t want to think about was leaking out.” The thought is enough to make me salivate. Breathe in, breathe out. Another whistle on the exhale. Crying and hungry, what a fun combination. “She wasn’t moving. Unfortunately, my father wasn’t quite dead. He had a bad black eye and was covered in blood.” It looked almost like a snow cone, but I leave that detail out. “I just remember him glaring, the one eye almost swollen shut. I knew he blamed me. If I hadn’t told him, we would’ve all lived.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” I had no idea I still felt so guilty. I don’t feel guilty about eating them, so why do I feel guilty about killing them?
“You only wanted to be yourself, for them to accept you. There’s nothing wrong with that, Abby. I’m so sorry that happened. Did you end up in a hospital? How long were you there?”
She’s still trying to figure out why I hadn’t contacted her. She would’ve been there for me, nursing me the whole while if it had been that simple. “I didn’t. I was buried up to my shoulders under what must’ve been a hundred pounds of snow. Maybe more. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t drag myself free. I could reach my mother, barely, and that was it. I held her hand, her cold, lifeless hand, as I watched my father deteriorate. His injuries must’ve been worse than they looked—internal bleeding, probably—but he refused to talk to me. He died before nightfall. I made it two more days.”
“Before rescue came?” That hope in her voice, that optimism…I should just lie to her, let her think I was just too traumatized to talk to her, that her friend is still out here, even if I can never see her. I should let her believe that Abigail Larson is still alive.
“No. The blizzard kept going. There weren’t any more hikers coming, the river was frozen over, and I hadn’t had a thing to eat in three days.” I hold back a laugh. Three days? That’s child’s play. “I was still holding my mother’s hand, and I was so hungry.”
“Oh.” She sobs, sounding as if she’s trying to hold it back. She doesn’t want to let me know how much this is upsetting her. I’m going to upset her either way, so it might as well be sooner rather than later.
“I ate it. With a newfound strength, I dragged her toward me. I wanted to wait, to not give in to that hunger, to just believe that rescue would come, but I was starving. I didn’t know where the food we’d brought was, but I couldn’t move, and I had all the food I needed. I ate my mother. I ate every last bit of her. Then, when I had the strength, I pulled myself through the snow to my father. My legs were still broken, but I had other options. I didn’t have to eat him. Our supplies must have been somewhere. I could’ve looked. I finally had the strength. I didn’t want to; something inside me had broken, and I gave into it. I ate the miserable bastard. He tasted amazing.”
Liz has the decency to gag. Maybe she threw up in her mouth. Now she knows what kind of monster I’ve become, but I haven’t gotten to the real horror yet. “Abby—”
I don’t let her continue. I need to finish my story. “Something changed within me. I don’t mean my mind; that had already happened at that point. My body felt wrong. The bones seemed to be not only mending themselves but growing. I could walk again, but my legs seemed longer than before, my feet were bursting from my hiking boots, and my shoulders were ripping my coat. I didn’t need them anymore. The clothing was restraining me, and I ripped it off.”
She makes an odd sound. I suppose she must’ve always pictured me naked when we were younger, but there’s horror in it too, as if her dream and nightmare have been mixed into one. She’s not scared of me yet, I don’t think, but the story is definitely getting to her.
“It hurt so much. I thought I was going to die. I think I did. My body tore itself apart; my skin ripped and cracked. My lips were so dry and cold, I couldn’t feel them. I think I’d eaten part of them with my father. My head, my chest, my hips, every inch of me was stretched and contorted until I didn’t even resemble myself. I ran, trying to escape from the pain, but it kept tearing me apart from the inside, remaking me as something new. I collapsed as my body writhed and reforged. I tried to find help, though I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d found anyone. Maybe I’d have eaten them too. It must’ve been hours, maybe even days, but when the pain stopped, or at least subsided enough that I could think again, I wasn’t myself anymore.”
“Abby? What do you mean? None of that makes any sense.”
This is what the script is for. “I wasn’t human anymore. I tried to eat some berries that were buried under the snow, but I threw them up. The rabbit I caught was the same, but I caught it without even thinking. I saw it running, and I snatched it out of the air. It must’ve been yards in front of me, and then I was right there. I was larger, fiercer, faster. I was a monster.” I hate that word. “I could barely think. It wasn’t like I was any dumber or like I had brain damage. I just had so many instincts fighting for control. I let them control me, Elizabeth. For four years, I hunted and killed what was once my own species. It’s why I couldn’t let myself be around you. I knew that if I saw you again, you’d just be food. I couldn’t do that to you. I don’t know at what point I finally gained control of myself. I want to say it was four years, but I don’t think it was even a month. I remember everything I did, and I remember loving it. That’s why I can’t be around you. I’m in town right now, but if I see you, you won’t be safe, and I will never let myself hurt you, even if it means I can never see you again.” The tears start up again, trickling around the matted clumps of my fur, falling onto the floor beneath me with a light patter that’s almost deafening.
I can hear her breathing, sobbing, her grip tightening on the phone, but she doesn’t say anything. After a few minutes, I think maybe she’s going to hang up. I wait for her to do so. I won’t say another word, I’ve already hurt her enough. “I’m so sorry,” she finally says, her voice cracking as she heaves out a sob, collapsing back into tears.
I freeze and stare at the phone. “What? Why are you sorry?”
“You had to go through all of that alone. Your father’s rejection, the avalanche, everything that happened after. I’m so sorry, Abby. You’re my best friend, I love you, and I wasn’t there for any of it.” Love? That must’ve been a slip of the tongue. It’s been six years. I’m sure she’s moved on by now. She can’t still love me, not after everything I’ve done, after what I’ve become.
“I’m glad you weren’t there.”
Whimpering, she gasps, “Why?”
“I already told you. I don’t want to hurt you, and I would have.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Even when you were doing all of that, you kept away from me. That’s proof you can control yourself. You would never hurt me. I know you wouldn’t.” That makes one of us. “You’re home, right? Where? Let me come see you. We can figure this out together.” She takes in another breath as if collecting herself, her hand brushing against flesh as she wipes away tears. “You’re not a monster.”
The tears stop, my mouth runs dry, and I can barely say a word. She wants to see me? After all that? “No. I can’t. It’s not safe.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
If I keep talking, I’ll tell her where I am, and she’ll be here. It’s too risky. I can’t. I hang up.
She calls me at least a dozen times, but I resist. I won’t answer. I won’t hurt her.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth
I have to get her help. She’s lost her mind. My poor Abigail, let me look after you. I should get her to a hospital. No, if I do that, she’ll tell them that story, and they’ll thin
k she’s a murderer. There’s no way she really did all that, is there? Having to eat her parents to survive certainly could have messed her up. She said she died. Does she have Cotard delusion too? Well, I was reviewing that anyway. Maybe I can help.
I call again, and it goes straight to voice mail. I leave yet another message. “Abby, please call me back. I promise, I can handle everything. I just want to be able to help you. You mean the world to me, and I hate that you had to go through all of this alone. Call me, okay?” I hang up and check the time. It’s a little past seven, and I have my first appointment at eight. Normally, I don’t open until nine, but it was an emergency. Abby, just fucking call me! I need to know that you’re okay before I leave. I need to know you’re not running away again.
I finally found her, and now this happens. I don’t know how much of what she said is true, but she seems to believe it, and I have to help her. Wiping away tears, I try to focus on anything but this. My client needs to be my focus. I’ve been self-involved enough. Maybe I should just cancel.
I splash some water on my face. I can’t cancel; my client is having an emergency. It’s my job to put away my own shit and help them with theirs. This can wait. At five o’clock, I will do whatever I have to do to find Abby, but until then, work calls.
I check my phone again, hoping that I somehow missed a call amid the few dozen times I called her. Nothing. I throw on a blouse and pants, finish getting ready, and send her another quick message before I leave for work. Please, Abby, call me tonight? I have to head to work, but I’m worried about you. Don’t run away from me again.
With only five minutes to spare when I arrive, I throw the lights on in the office, make sure the room is clean, and set my bag in the corner. The second I’m done, the front door opens, and my eight o’clock steps in. “I’m sorry to make you come in early, Ms. Rousseau.”
“It’s fine.” I take the short redhead’s hand and lead her into my office, letting her take her normal seat on the couch. “Would you like to tell me what’s bothering you?”
She chews her lip, looking everywhere but at me as she scratches her wrist, her leg tapping a steady beat. “You can’t have me committed without my consent, right?”
“I don’t think that would be best for you either way. Please, tell me what happened.”
She’d barely said anything on the phone last night, just that it was an emergency, and she asked how soon I could see her. I told her I could talk on the phone, but she didn’t seem to want that, so I agreed to open early. “I was going to kill myself last night. Maybe I would have if you hadn’t answered. I needed to hear a friendly voice, so thank you for that.” She sighs, clutching her wrist and holding it to her leg. It continues to tap occasionally. It’s a little more distracting than when it wouldn’t stop.
I keep my expression placid. She’s clearly fragile, and I don’t want to risk upsetting her. “What led to that, Cindy? Was there a reason?”
Her foot beats rapidly again, and the scratching starts back up. “It wasn’t even anything that important. I was overreacting.” She stares as if expecting a response. I don’t oblige her. “I just felt so alone. My husband hasn’t been around much, and work has really sucked. I could’ve tried calling a friend, but I felt like I would be a burden. Why would anyone want to deal with me? It started weighing on me. I started thinking how no one would miss me, they don’t want me around anyway, and I’m just this useless bitch they put up with because I never leave them alone.”
“You’re not useless.” I should have insisted on talking her through this last night. She’d been doing so much better. I had no idea she was having this bad an episode.
“No, I am. I really am. I gave it a week. Just after our last session. I know you said that people really do care about me, and you almost had me believing it, but I thought I’d test it first. I didn’t contact anyone, I didn’t talk to my husband without him starting it, I didn’t approach any coworkers, and I didn’t call anyone. I let the whole world wait. Guess what? Not a single person tried to talk to me. I gave them time, and none of them cared.”
There was so much more I could have done. Damn it, I really thought she was doing better. “I’m sorry, but just because they didn’t contact you doesn’t mean they don’t care. I guarantee, you could call any of them right now, tell them how you’re feeling, and they’d drop everything to be with you.” Don’t offer a guarantee like that. I’m acting as desperate as she is, and it’s not helping.
She shakes her head, staring at her open palms, her eyes wide. “Then why didn’t they call me?”
“Cindy, people can be busy. Maybe they don’t always take as much time for their friends as they should, but it doesn’t mean they don’t care. Take a minute to talk to your husband or friends, and they’ll make the time for you too. I know that sometimes it feels like you have to start every conversation, but they might be worried they’re being a burden to you if they contact you. Some people have trouble starting conversations or showing that they care, but none of that means they don’t.”
She takes a tissue from the box but doesn’t cry. Instead, she holds it a few inches from her face as if she’s forgotten what it was for. “If they cared, they would go out of their way to show it. I wouldn’t always be the one to start everything. My husband wouldn’t spend all his time at work or playing golf, and my friends wouldn’t be too busy working and going to parties without me.”
“Do they ever invite you?” I know the answer, but I want to lead her to the conclusion herself.
“No!”
I take a deep breath, and she does the same. “Why did they stop inviting you?”
Her foot taps a single time. “I don’t like parties, and I kept telling them I didn’t want to go. They’d still invite me some, but I’d rather be at home. I told them I had a book to read, and they said they understood. It didn’t mean I didn’t want to spend time with them.”
“Do you think that might be why they stopped inviting you? Maybe it wasn’t that they didn’t want to see you, but they knew you didn’t enjoy going out. Does that seem possible?”
She hesitates, the crumpled tissue falling to the floor. “Maybe.”
“Then maybe you should find something you could do together and invite one of your friends to do it with you, or maybe you could invite your husband on a date. Do either of those sound doable?”
“They’d say no.” She bites her lip hard. I’m a bit worried it might start bleeding. It’s the first time my mind has started to wander back to Abby’s story since I got to work. She might have eaten part of her lip with her father? How would that even happen? “Ms. Rosseau?”
Shaking my head, I reply, “Sorry. How about this? You agree to try inviting a few friends and your husband out on different nights. If they all say no, I’ll admit you’re right.”
“I am right.”
“You don’t want to prove me wrong, then?” I meet her gaze, allowing the slightest cocky smile. I know she can’t resist that.
Her eyes narrow as she stands. “I know what I’m talking about. No one cares about me, and they’d be better off if I was gone.”
“I care about you.”
She pauses, sinking back onto the couch. “Oh.”
“They do too. Give them the chance to show you.”
One more tap of her foot. “Fine. But you’re wrong.”
“We’ll see.”
She glances at the clock. She still has twenty minutes left. “We still have an appointment for Wednesday, right?”
“We do.”
Another tap. “I didn’t really have anything else I needed to talk about.”
I allow myself a light chuckle. “That’s a good sign.”
She doesn’t smile, but she nods. “I guess. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
I’m still worrying about her. “You don’t need to be sorry; just take care of yourself. If you feel like that again, know that you can always call me.” I’m glad I gave her my cell number. It would’
ve been awful if she’d only called the office.
“Thank you.” A tear finally trickles down, clinging to her nose, and she grabs another tissue. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t answered.”
I don’t even want to think about it. I’m not sure I could handle losing a client like that. “Any time. I’m happy to open early or see you after hours if need be. Just as long as it’s actually an emergency.”
She nods. “I understand. It’s not like we’re really friends.”
Shit. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to be your friend, but I can’t help you without keeping it as a professional relationship. I do genuinely care about you, but violating those boundaries by having a dual relationship like that makes it so that I can’t be objective and could end up with me losing my license.”
“Oh.” She places her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“It’s okay. I’m just explaining why. You’re still a dear person, and I’m happy to help you as much as I can.” I think that saved it. I need to watch my mouth today so I can stop sticking my foot in it. Maybe it’s because I didn’t sleep.
Letting out a shaky breath, she glances back to me. “Okay. I understand. Thank you, Ms. Rosseau. I’m gonna go, and I’ll talk to my friends like you suggested. I’ll see you on Wednesday?”
“I’ll see you then.” I walk her to the door and wave as she drives off. I can’t let myself get distracted like that. It’s unprofessional, and if I hadn’t caught myself as well as I did, it could have done some serious harm.
I manage to make it through the rest of the day barely thinking of Abby. That is, until my interesting new client goes out of his way to remind me.
* * *
“Can you really still see me?” Dennis asks the instant he walks in.
“Yes. You’re right in front of me.”
He breathes out a sigh of relief and takes a seat on the couch, shrinking to the side and pressing up against the armrest. “That’s good. I was worried. No one else is able to still. They look right through me.”
My Date with a Wendigo Page 5
