I joined the Army for a reason.
Sure, lots of people join the Army for lots of reasons. I remember serving with one guy, Chandler. He told me he got into it because his wife was pregnant and they had no choice but for him to "go in," because they'd have no other way of paying for any of it. That, and he wanted to try to give a little something of hope for his upcoming little girl.
Then, there was Davis. That guy? I think in a subtle way, he was a bit of a psycho. Just a little too on edge. A little too "happy" to hold a rifle in his hands.
Sure, lots of them. As many different reasons as there were people, and, I suppose, most of them would have their own stories to tell.
But, this is my story, and my own reason for joining was to get revenge.
During my childhood, I came to believe my mother was actually a good person. Looking back on it now, I wonder how long it took my small self to be snowed like that. I don't know.
All I do know is that overarching thought was always there in my head. Mom's a good person, and she would always do anything to keep her child well.
It wasn't until I was in my late teens that I realized how much of both a lie... and a truth... that was.
I'd been sitting in the doctor's office for over an hour and had, I am sure you can imagine, grown completely bored. Sure, I had my phone, but that can only really hold the attention for so long before you finally take note of your surroundings and realize just how claustrophobic the whole place can be.
I've never really been comfortable around people who are sick, and always claimed I was probably at least a little germophobic. Probably everyone is, to a certain extent. A throwback, perhaps, to our ancestors seeing people fall in droves as plagues wrecked entire civilizations.
There were definitely plenty of sick people in the office that day, and no amount of distraction from social media and searching through random memes could wash entirely away the thought that I really didn't want to be there. But, I needed the physical for a new job I'd be starting, and I really wanted to get it going.
When I was finally called into one of the rooms, I fairly leapt to my feet, grabbing the bottle of soda on the floor and hoofing my way through the solid doors between the long hallway and the sick room I'd left behind.
My doc had known me since my very early years, treating me for everything from a random sniffle or two to that one time I broke my arm. He never really failed to make me feel good about myself, too, making sure to explain everything to me as if I was just another person instead of some bratty kid sitting on his table.
"Well," he said, as he threw away the rubber gloves, "everything seems just right."
I nodded, expecting nothing less. I'd never really felt better, from what I could remember.
"You know, it's going to be a shame not being able to treat you anymore." He pulled up my chart on his computer as he talked. "With you turning 18 soon, I guess you'll probably be off to college and into bigger and better things."
"I suppose, sure." I hadn't really decided if I would be college-bound, but I'd applied to a few, just in case. "I don't really know what I'd like to end up going with for a major."
"Well, you could always try art." He chuckled. "You always used to be so good at painting, before..."
He cut himself off, and I could almost audibly hear his jaw clamp shut.
I shifted up in my chair. "Wait. Before what, doc?"
He sighed. "Kiddo, I don't really know if it's my place to say..."
That really got me. If there's one thing I really dislike, it's secrets. If they're about me, that goes double.
"Hey, this is my life we're talking about here. I think I have a right to know anything relating to it." I leaned in. "Don't you?"
His eyes remained glued to the screen, and it took him a full minute before he finally sighed and spoke again.
"It's just... you were so sick back then. Even I wasn't sure there'd be any way for you to come out of it." He finally peeled his eyes from the monitor. "It was hard for me to think I might end up losing one of my first patients, let alone such a young child."
My heartbeat began to speed as the words fell from his throat. "What the hell are you talking about? I don't remember anything like that."
His mouth agape, he shook his head. "Really? You spent so much time in the hospital..."
Was he trying to pull my leg here or something? I never really knew Doc Williams to be a joking kind of guy, but what he was saying meant absolutely nothing to me.
I hadn't been in any hospitals, other than maybe having to go to the emergency room because of the arm break or some random scrapes and stitches. Nothing outside of ordinary kid stuff.
Certainly, I hadn't had any kind of extended stays. I'd have remembered something like that... wouldn't I?
No. This had to be some kind of prank. Something maybe Doc did to all the kids "graduating" from his practice.
Still, I pressed him further. "C'mon, man. You're just joking with me, right?"
"I'm surprised you don't remember it," he finally said. "Though, it is true the mind can do some funny and fuzzy things when it comes to what we don't want to hang on to, if it's troubling enough."
He adjusted his coat a little, gathering a bit more composure, I guess. "When it all first started, your mom was so worried. I thought, originally, that it was nothing more than a cold, but when you still had the symptoms after a few weeks, I referred her to a specialist."
He stared into my eyes. Maybe he was looking for a spark of recognition, but I had none to give. I shook my head. "Nope. Still nothing."
"The specialists did a lot of tests," he finally continued. "And when they found the cancer, even I was surprised. Your mother -"
"Cancer!" I leaped from the chair, the metal legs rattling behind me. "What the hell are you talking about? I never had cancer!"
But, according to good ol' Doc Williams, I certainly did, and a pretty bad form of it, too. He described to me, in detail, all of the events that he was privy to over the next fifteen minutes.
Somewhere along the theretofore unbroken line of my past, I had been diagnosed with cancer. I'd spent months in a hospital ward, with everyone fully expecting I'd never walk out of it again. And then, one day, I started feeling better, and they weren't able to track down any trace of the tumors that had been plaguing me.
There, and then gone again.
I was sent home with smiles, pats on the back, huge stacks of candy and plushies the nurses had signed, and, apparently, not a single memory of any of it happening.
By the time he was finished, I was numb, and I barely remember his nurse coming in with my paperwork to send me on my way back home.
My mind was a bit clearer by the time I made it home, but searching my brain did absolutely no good. As far as I could tell, there were no gaps in my memory anywhere. I'd have remembered something this monumental. There's no way possible someone would not remember something this drastic and major happening in their life.
Right?
Thankfully, mom wasn't there when I finally pulled into the driveway. I needed to ask her questions, desperately needed answers, but I had no idea how to even begin such a process. I was in overwhelm, analysis-paralysis, the words the doctor told me swirling around with echoes of my times spent on playgrounds and sitting in classrooms, instead of months in a ward full of dying children.
But he had been too serious, too filled with ready and at-hand information to be merely making it up on the fly as some sort of sick prank on a dumb teenaged kid. I didn't sense a single lie from him, and I've always been pretty damn good at telling when someone's not telling me the truth.
No. What he said had to be the truth. Somehow, his memories and those of my own now-addled mind didn't match up, and someone, somewhere, was lying to me.
I just couldn't accept that that someone was my own self.
We were halfway through dinner, with mom sitting across the table from me, when I finally asked, "Why didn't you tell me about my cancer?"
She hesitated, but not in one of those long kind of ways where you can tell someone has been shocked by something you said. It was more subtle, just a little dip of her fork in her fingers as she raised it to her lips. I probably would have missed it, if I hadn't been watching so close.
"Why would you ask me that?" she brought out as a response. "It's not something you ever talk about."
The bite went in and she began chewing anew.
"I didn't know anything about it until I saw the doc today. Why should I ask something I don't know I need to ask?"
"If you don't remember, it's not my fault." She dropped the fork to the plate, clattering lightly. "It was a hard time for all of us, and it's just not something I like to think about."
"But what happened to me?" I admit my voice broke a bit, with my trying to hold back a strange sense of ... resentment? Yeah. I guess resentment is the best way I can put it. "I don't know anything about any of this, and I want to know what happened to me."
With that, she stood, dropping her napkin on the table. "I said I don't like to talk about it." She turned and rushed toward the hall out of the dining room. When she reached the doorway, though, she hesitated for a moment, her hand resting on the edge. Without turning her head, she said, "I am just glad you are here."
The door to her room closed and I heard the lock snick into place a moment later.
I wanted to rush at her, needed to get her attention, to rail at her for all of the things that had been tormenting me that day, but I held back. I'm not really sure why, though, I guess, looking back on it, I don't think she would have answered, anyway. When she got into her "No Speak" modes, I don't think even being drawn and quartered would have gotten anything out of her.
Still, I couldn't stay there. Not in that moment. I grabbed my keys and took off through the front door, and didn't come back for a few hours. I spent that time just driving, aimlessly, and am probably lucky to have not accidentally killed someone because of the lack of attention I was actually paying to the road.
The next few days are hazier than that first, spent with her avoiding me and me avoiding her. Her part was easy. She just hid in her room, and only came out once in a while to grab a bite to eat or go to the bathroom. I didn't bother confronting her, my own thoughts flipping from anger, rage, and disappointment at the whole situation, to depression, confusion, and a sense that nothing in the world was ever going to be right again. Sometimes it all happened within a matter of a moment.
By the time Monday morning came around, she just went to work without saying a word.
I was supposed to go to school, but, when I crawled my way out of bed, groggy from the hours spent arguing with my thoughts, I decided to try to find answers on my own.
It wasn't the first time I skipped school, but this one felt a lot different. Before, it was because of boredom or some weird sense of anarchy.
This time, it was with a purpose.
I waited for almost an hour after I heard her car leave before I came out of my own room and headed for her small office.
Mom kept a filing cabinet in there, filled with the random bits and bobs, papers and collections, that one does over the years of living in the same house. If there was something to be found, I was betting it would be in there.
I'd never really looked in it before. Never had the need for it, if I'm being honest. I figured most of it was nothing more than tax papers, birth certificates, and maybe random newspaper clippings she thought were important enough to keep.
Sure, those turned out to be there.
But it was a packet of papers inside of a large, worn, white envelope deeply buried beneath the stacks of other pages and dust, that caught my attention the most.
On the front was my name, written in ink so worn it was barely legible, and nothing more.
When I pried it open, and shuffled through what it contained, a lot of my questions were answered.
An unfortunate number of new ones crept up, too, though.
There were letters from doctors to my mother. Names I didn't recognize at all, giving her breakdowns of information about my condition, the prognoses, how treatments might be handled, and more. There were bills from a hospital whose name I'd never heard before, and even some hand-made crayon pictures apparently created by a kid. My own name was etched into the bottom of each of those.
Those were just as new to me as the rest of this insanity.
How the hell could this be happening? How could I have gone through something so god damn drastic as this and have no recollection of it in any way, shape, or form?
Was I crazy? Was this all a dream? Was I even real?
The only thing any of it could confirm was that, indeed, a child of my name, birthed to a mother with my mom's name, and apparently with the same name of my own doctor as the primary care physician, went through something horrific, and then, somehow, came out of it all alive and no worse for wear.
Well, other than having no intact memory of the whole freaking thing, apparently.
There had to be something more. Something had to give in this situation, but I didn't know what or how.
I shuffled through all the pages once more, searching for some kind of clue as to what would cause the turnaround on my apparent cancer diagnosis, but the little bit of gain I made was that they were just as confused as my teenaged self now sitting on the floor of a dusty home office.
In the best imitation of a detective from one of those stupid shows, I started feeling around the inside of the file cabinet, fingers tracing the edges and along the sides, hoping to feel something else hiding there.
No luck. Nothing more than old cobwebs and grime.
Then I stood, feeling along the outer edges of the thing, and it was when I got to the back of it that I hit pay dirt.
The taped envelope came away with a soft tear and I crumpled back down to the floor with it in my hand.
I could feel from the outside that there was something solid contained within, though I couldn't tell what it might be. I ripped the thing open with a fury, exposing a piece of parchment and a ring.
Well, ring is maybe an odd choice of wording for the thing. Round, sure, small, yeah, but I don't think anyone would actually put it on one of their fingers.
It seemed to be made from something like pine needles, wrapped tightly within each other over and over like a weave, though that, too, didn't seem to be quite... right. I twirled it around in my hands, feeling the thing out, but it seemed like it was not quite there. There was an oiliness to it that made it hard to keep hold of, as if it was some alive-thing that wanted to get away now that it had been exposed to the light of day.
Maybe it was, at that.
It was woven so strong that, though I tried to pick apart a piece of it, none came away.
And, there was a sensation, when I held it certain ways, that reminded me of static. Not quite the crack you get when you set off a spark on someone's arm after walking around in socks, but, more like the feeling you get on your skin just before you do that releasing touch.
I kept it in my left hand, holding it tight, as I unfolded the parchment that had been hidden with it.
This was even harder to glean anything from. There were words on it, but they were in a language and lettering I didn't recognize in any way.
Of course, that's probably not much of a surprise. The most I'd been exposed to was learning some Spanish from mandatory classes I paid little attention to in Freshman year, and a smattering of German cuss-words a friend learned from his granddad. It's not like I was some kind of archaeologist or something.
Still, the lettering seemed even weirder than just a language I didn't recognize. The way it was set on the parchment, old and almost rust-colored, it was like the unrecognizable words were trying to sidle out of my vision, blurring and hazing when I wasn't paying full attention to the center part of the page.
What the hell were these things? Where did they come from? More importantly, why the hell did my mother feel the need to hide them on the ass end of some dusty file cabinet that she barely got into, even during tax time?
None of this made any sense, but the disquiet in my soul was thrumming ever louder with each passing moment.
Looking at the parchment made my stomach queasy, so, finding no apparent answers within it, I shoved it back into the envelope it came from. The ring, however, remained oily in my hand, and I couldn't resist looking at it again.
Something... instinct? Curiosity? A sense of "well this shit is all weird, anyway"? I don't know. Something, though, made me extend the ring finger on my right hand and slip it on.
It took a small amount of doing, being ever-so-slightly too small to go on comfortably, but I managed to pop it over the final knuckle and let it rest in place.
Gods, I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd put that thing back into the envelope and walked away from all of this as one bad fucking deal and gone back to school.
The regrets of youth, I guess.
The light from outside dimmed almost immediately.
You know that feeling that happens just before the breakout of a series of tornadoes? There's this weird pervasiveness in the air, a heaviness to it that something has been brewing and is about to let loose one hell of a blast on anything that gets in its' way. The air gets thick, with an almost greenish-glow to it all, and you know - just know - that if you don't move now, you're not gonna move again.
The air that day had a similar feel, and it came on within seconds of that ring going on my finger.
The hell of it is, I also felt this strange compulsion to go outside into the middle of it.
Almost automatically, on autopilot, my body rose from the floor and I stepped through the door, into the hall, and toward the back door. A little voice inside of my brain was telling me, screaming at me, to not go, and that in that direction be only dragons.
But I couldn't help myself. I was moving whether I liked it or not.
A moment later, I was in the backyard, facing the small woods behind our house, with a whipping wind that had come up out of nowhere and the skies darkening more quickly than I'd ever seen happen before.
And then, the thing was there.
It hadn't stepped out of the woods. I would have noticed it immediately if it had, as hard as my eyes were glued on those trees.
No. One second there was nothing more than branches and leaves. The next, the figure took up space in my vision, and Gods I wish it hadn't.
Sometimes, if you listen to old people tell even older stories, or you pay attention to the teacher giving lessons in mythology classes, you'll hear about something similar. A primal force, an animalistic entity that seems like it's made from the magic fabric of nature, itself. They look human. Ish, anyway. They might feel human, might even talk human, but they're something else, entirely.
That was this thing, and more. But it wasn't a story. it was as real as you or I in the here and now.
It seemed to stare at me, or, maybe more accurately, stared into me, softly, subtly turning its head from side-to-side. When facing forward, it looked just like a man. Handsome, even, if in a sort of brutish way.
But when that head turned, there was much more animal to it. In ways, it resembled the skull of a deer, and in others, a bear, depending on the glint of what light was left surrounding this little pocket of reality I'd stepped into.
I have no idea how long the two of us stood there, judging one another in sarcophagus-silence, but when it finally turned and began to walk away, that compulsion to move struck me again.
My feet rustled the fallen leaves softly, and once in a while the subtle crack of a breaking branch under the soles of my shoes resounded in my ears. But this thing made no sound at all, beyond a tiny whisper of a scrape as its feet shuffled along.
The woods darkened even deeper around us as a hiss of the wind traced through the leaves above, and we moved slowly, but straight, as the trees seemed almost to shift sideways to let us through without interruption.
That voice inside me was still screaming, urging me to turn back and never take another step forward again.
I couldn't obey. I could do nothing more than hope I was not taking my final steps into my doom.
Small forms darted around us now, shadows snaking amongst the trees as we stepped. They were formless, but I caught tinkles of tiny laughter and sighs as they faded in and out of view. Once, I felt something scrape across my leg, but I couldn't bring myself to look down to see what it was. Fleeting as a breath, and then gone.
My own breath halted in my chest when I stepped on stone.
There wasn't any sign of it coming. Ahead, all I could see was more of the forest, and then, just like the man-animal-thing I was following had apparated from nothingness, so too, did the stone. A forest floor, and then a sudden path, without any indication it would be there.
The same could be said for the mansion that suddenly engulfed my vision.
It was as if I were looking through one of those old ViewMaster toys, with different images on a paper dial you could turn. The world looked one way and then - snick - it was suddenly an entirely different picture, and without any warning it was coming.
I should have been frightened. I should have been terrified. That voice inside of me was. But, somehow, there was a sense of calm over me. It wasn't something I controlled or even wanted. Yet, there it was, and I wondered if, without my noticing, the creature had injected something into me.
Regardless, I kept following the thing as it silently stepped across the stones and up a small staircase leading to a huge set of wooden doors. Torches bloomed to life as it got closer and I twisted my eyes a bit as the brightness cut through the darkened and misty atmosphere.
The doors creaked open and it stepped through, with my own paces following closely behind. We entered into a large hallway with more torches lining the walls and, as we stepped into the glowing murk, the doors closed once more with a deafening clatter.
The walls were wood, as were the torches, and what small bits of furniture I could see, but the floor remained that same stony texture as outside. My sneakers squeaked across the dampness of it once in a while, but the thing ahead still made almost no sound.
Ten, twenty, and finally maybe thirty feet we paced, until we came into a large chamber.
The thing went to the center of the room and stopped, and for the first time raised one arm above its head.
My eyes darted around, and I could see others standing along the walls, each staring into the center at the figure who had come in.
Finally, my eyes came to rest upon her.
She was raised upon a throne of wood, its height almost to the ceiling of the room. Naked, her skin nearly a translucent blue, her eyes watched the figure I'd been following for who knows how long.
On her head was a crown which came forth into the shape of horns, surrounded by the deepest and longest black hair I've ever seen. That hair cascaded down from the top of her head and along her stomach and breasts, trailing down to nearly her feet. It seemed to sway in the creeping light of the torches in the room.
She was... beautiful? I suppose, in a way, that word will do. But she was both more and less than that. There was, like the man-thing I'd been following and others of which now surrounded me in the chamber, an animal quality to her, though I think she could be considered more human than not. Her skin was so thin, so surreal, that it seemed to almost glow in the light.
Maybe it actually did.
The smile she bore, though, had no trace of sympathy or humor. It was more like a mask, a show, for the human who had entered her throne room.
She did not speak, but snapped her fingers together, the sound of it echoing through the chamber. When she did, the figure I'd followed lowered its arm and it sidled sideways to take up an empty space along the wall, joining in with its' fellows.
I wanted to speak. I wanted to scream. But nothing would come out, my throat locked down tight and dry as a husk. I could do nothing more than watch helplessly as the woman rose from her throne and floated down toward the stone floor, that trace of a horrific smile still plastered on her face.
She never actually touched the stone, instead hovering just slightly above it, toes facing downward as if lazy in the gravity. Her hair weaved around her in a strange simulacra of a dress, shifting this way and that as she approached.
Her scent wafted into my nose, breaking through the moldiness that had been so pervasive in this place. Sweet she was, almost sickly so, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Strange, given the situation and how repulsed I otherwise was at her presence and appearance. An earthy overtone, with the musks of the ages glittering within.
She didn't speak. There was no noise from her throat as her head bent side-to-side, mimicking the actions of the man-thing that had met me at my house. Unlike that thing, though, her demeanor didn't change. Still the odd beauty to her face as she stared into my eyes.
Then her hand raised, long, almost bony fingers stretching out toward my face. Her index came forth the most, coming ever closer toward my cheek.
The touch was cold. Oh, it was ice, so chilling that a trill ran up and down my back as her finger traced the line of the bones of my right cheek.
The terror enfolded me at her caress, and though I desperately wanted to run away, to go back the way from which I had come, there was no moving my feet. I couldn't turn, couldn't speak, could barely breathe as her hand met my skin. I was transfixed, cemented in place by whatever strange hypnotism this creature, this beauty, had upon me in that moment.
Her finger reached the bottom of my jaw and, with a twisted little smile, she pushed my face sideways. My head followed her lead until I was nearly looking backward, the pain in my neck throbbing with the strain.
That's when I saw... it.
"It" is, perhaps, the best word I can use to describe the pitiful thing pinned to the wall.
It was a human, though I can't say how I knew that for sure in that moment. Instinct, perhaps. But the outstretched arms, legs almost gently placed so they overlapped at the feet, and downward facing head all were a horrific parody of some crucifixion gone wrong.
Dirt covered it from head to toe, the muck barely showing in the murk of the chamber. I could see glints, though, of skin beneath it all, especially around the limbs where the vines holding it in place wrapped too-tightly together.
I wanted to avert my eyes, but couldn't. I wanted to force this woman's hands away from my face, but was powerless.
What the hell was all of this?
Finally, the first real noise from her throat escaped, a hiss-tick extremely short chatter I could not quite catch, and the closest of the man-things along the wall moved.
It trundle-danced its way toward the figure embedded into the wall, and mirrored the woman's own actions happening to me by raising its arm and extending out a hand. It was not for me, though. Instead, it gripped the bottom of the "its" jaw and lifted upward.
There was no mistaking it, even in the dim light. Even through the dirt and mire of being in this place, I could see it clear.
The pitiful creature pinned to the wall bore my own face.
My face.
Gaunt cheeks, almost lifeless and parchment-like skin, and naked, with only the filth to "hide" anything, sure. But I could see, regardless, this being before me, strapped to this silent and mucky hell, still bore the face I saw in the mirror every day.
They gasped as their head was forced upward, though they did not open their eyes. A small squeak escaped my own throat as I wondered how this thing could have any life in it at all.
The man-thing used one of its nails to scratch at the skin near the base of "me's" neck, and a small glint of blood edged out of the fresh wound. As it dribbled, the being before me cried, an aching sob that wrenched at the pit of my guts instantly.
That blood mixed with what I now saw were dried rivulets that had flown down and across the chest before.
When the sound escaped from it, the beings around us swayed a little, and continued swaying as the cries went on. Moment after moment, the sound of it echoed through the chamber and wrapped around me like a sick embrace. I wanted to heave, to bring everything I'd ever eaten before up and splatter it across these hideous creatures, but I could do nothing more than allow a tear of my own to join that of "me."
Their terrible dance continued as my head was wrenched away from the sight, pulled back by the bone-hard fingers of the woman. Her other hand reached down and grabbed my own, and the skin around my wrist instantly began itching and burning as if exposed to a light acid.
Maybe it was.
She forced my hand up and let go of my face, only to have that same finger that had caressed me catch my eyes and draw my attention to the ring around my own.
She touched it, the single long, black nail scraping along its edges. As her finger ran along it, I could see parts of it turn to an ashen color, bits of it falling away into nothingness.
When the bulk of the ring was gone, the hand holding my wrist let go, and the world changed.
My eyes seared with the brightness of the sun, piercing into the depths of my soul in an instant as the call of birds in the distance rang out loud and clear.
I wrenched my eyes shut, gasping deep, the clean and fresh air permeating every fathom of my lungs.
That's when my stomach finally let loose, and I profoundly and profusely vomited across my back yard.
I'm not sure how much time passed with my laying on the grass, my back to the ground as I let the heat of the sun burn away the remnants of the chamber of horrors I had been in. Perhaps it was the whole of the afternoon. It took a while before I could find coherency enough to even begin to check myself over.
There were red etchings along my wrist, though they seemed to be fading quickly. No other wounds anywhere, other than a hollowness in the depths of my spirit.
The ring was still wrapped around my finger, though little of it actually remained. The bulk of it had been burned away at the woman's touch, and it no longer had the same oiliness it had when I first put it on.
I was able to remove it easily and slipped it into my pocket.
What had happened to me? Was what I experienced even genuine?
It had to be, but it was unlike anything I'd ever encountered, a nightmare becoming a horrific parody of reality, somehow. I could not shake the sensation that all of it had been quite, no matter how bizarre, real.
And who was the person I had seen? They bore so much of a resemblance to me, if one from some seventh circle of hell. I couldn't shake the feeling that they were, somehow, as much of a part of me as I was of them.
How long had they been there? Days? Months?
Years?
When the next thought trickled through my mind, I almost vomited again...
Since the cancer?
Had they been there that long, taking part in the twisted embrace of the woman and her clan? What were they to those beings? A form of entertainment? I couldn't help but think about the way those things moved as if they were swaying to some demonic beat, and the mirror of me was their orchestra.
I managed to guzzle some water from the kitchen sink and clean myself up in time for mother to get home from work, waiting for her on the couch as she walked in.
"Hi," she said, noticing I was there.
"I met the other me today." I tried to get it out in the calmest tone I could manage, but my insides were writhing, seething with the memories of that pitiful thing in their custody.
I brought what was left of the ring up, looking at her through the circlet it formed.
The groceries in her arm slipped to the floor with a clash, resounding through the room.
"Oh, honey -"
"Tell me the truth," I interrupted. "Now."
Her hand raised to her face, and she seemed to almost bite at the back of her wrist, her eyes instantly reddening with damp. It took her only a few seconds to cross the room to the couch, where she knelt before me.
"Please. You have to understand." A heave came from her chest. "You were never supposed to know..."
"Know what?" I shouted, rising to my own feet. "What the fuck happened? Who are they?" I nearly spat the words out, one after the other, barely even giving her a chance to breathe, let alone answer. "What the hell were those things?"
"Baby," she plead. "You have to understand. Things were supposed to be taken care of. I just wanted you safe. I wanted to see you well."
"Safe? Do you think I'm safe? Those things took me today!"
"But they gave you back." Her voice cracked. "They always give back. That was part of the bargain."
My mind reeled. "What did you do?" My fists were clenched so tight I could almost feel the nails piercing the skin.
Her head turned, facing away from me for the first time since we began.
"You know your grandfather came from the old country." She sniffled as she spoke. "I know you never had the chance to meet him, but he'd talk about the old ways a lot."
"So?" I was so angry I had trouble keeping track. "What does that have to do with this?"
"He'd talk about the things others don't. The ways our ancestors would sometimes leave things for them. Gifts, or offerings." She looked at me again. "Or sacrifices."
What? Wait. What was she saying?
"He would show me little tricks. Bangles, or fobs you could make from the forest. Rings, too. And he would talk about the words they would use, if they'd need a call." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I never really believed it, until..."
"Until I got sick?" It was starting to come through the thickness that had overcome my brain. "Until you didn't want to deal with me anymore?"
"No honey, wait -"
"Is that it? Was I not good enough? Was I some kind of sacrifice?"
She came to her feet quickly, pulling herself up as she sobbed. "No. No, baby. You were the gift they gave me."
"So that thing. That... other me..." The wave of sickness hammered through me again. "That?"
"They always ask a price."
My fists balled again. I wanted to lash out, to take the whole day out on the tear-filled face before me. But, instead, I whirled and my feet stormed to the door.
"No! Wait!" she shouted behind me. "I just wanted my child well! That's not too much to ask, is it? For such a small sacrifice?"
So many words wanted to spill from my guts, but I couldn't open my mouth. I couldn't speak, because I knew - knew - that if I did, the day would end in more than mere bloodshed.
The door slammed closed behind me, the entire house vibrating with the force, as I ran down the road and didn't look back.
II could hear her wails echoing in my ears the entire way.
I stayed with a friend that night, begging them to not only not respond if mother called, but to also keep from asking me questions. They agreed, and I ended up hiding out there for a few days more.
Just until I could put together a plan.
I didn't go back to school either. Thankfully, our state allowed kids to drop out if they were old enough, and it didn't take long before I found a simple job to do and occupy my time while I thought of what I could do.
Thankfully, few questions were asked there, too, as long as you got your job done. It gave me enough to find a tiny place and keep the lights on.
Good enough.
I spent a lot of time at the libraries in town. Thankfully, the city's a big enough place one can easily get lost in, and it's doubly-so for those intending to lose themselves. Far more than I had been eaten by those streets over the decades, and I was just another face among the masses of others wanting to not be found.
It gave me enough time and emptiness to research. I went into it with relish.
I learned there were a lot of names for those things. Most of the time, humans have avoided speaking them, for fear of calling them out of the darkness.
Old Ones. Good Neighbors. Manitou.
I learned as many of them as I could, because I knew there was something I had to do.
I ended up getting my GED and managed to get myself enlisted. Nope. Not because of the money or the benefits; those were just a bonus.
I did it so I could learn. I had to learn, because there would be a time and a place I'd need it most.
So, I did. I learned how to fight, and how to take care of myself in ways I wouldn't have been able to otherwise. I managed to finagle my way into the metallurgical side of things, too, because there was one special thing I picked up from all of those books.
See, the thing they hate the most is iron. Cold, hard iron.
You'd be surprised at how much iron there is just laying around, waiting to be picked up. You'd also maybe be shocked to know how easy it is to build something simple to break that iron down and form it into other things. Things much more useful than a bannister or a fence.
In the years since, I've kept the image of that other me in my mind. I don't know exactly who they are, or how I got here was accomplished, but I think I understand better who and what I am.
Sure. "Mother" lied to me. She lied to me about the very basic fact she was even my "true mother." I know, without a spark of doubt in my mind, that I am somehow one of their children.
The humans always called us "Changelings."
Those hideous creatures in that strange mansion would learn what real change was. I'd do it for myself, as well as that pitiful mirror of me they left hanging on that wall. I can still hear the cries of that thing winding through my mind damn near every night when I sleep.
Maybe it really is them, and now that I knew they exist, we're connected even more.
I don't know.
I do know the ring has been growing back again. It's slow. It's taken a long time for it to get nearly to the point it was at when I first put it on. Every time I pull it out again, I can see more of the wrappings have appeared anew, the oiliness just a little more there.
Maybe another month or two, it'll be enough that when I slip it on again, I'll find myself facing that creature that met me in the back yard.
This time, though, I'll be more ready for it than it will be for me.
Then, they'll all pay the price for what they did to both of us.