State police recovered the enclosed journal a few miles from the murder scene and thirty minutes from the station near Timberdoodle trail. They have not publicly connected it to the crime, but staties filed it into evidence. Please advise.
Entry 1:
Found a dead fox only 30 feet from camp, its entrails spilled on melted snow. Must’ve caught scent of the food I’d left out.
[Did I leave any food out? I’d fried several strips of Farmer’s Fresh Bacon, but can’t remember if that was last night or the night previous.]
Vowed to be more careful with food. Stupid mistakes get you killed. Even found scabs on my ankle – still can’t really tell what it is. The skin’s red and swollen but doesn’t hurt to touch. No impact on walking or any other motor functions – shouldn’t be of any real concern.
The disemboweled fox blocked the exit to camp on the path that winds around the boulders and away from the Cartesian forest. Had to clear the carcass out of the way. Got a branch and used it like a shovel—hoisted the corpse in the air, minded the ice, found a smooth uncovered 4×4 plot of dirt and grass a few hundred yards from camp. Sun lit up through the canopy like light pouring through a cathedral window onto an open casket. Dew dripped from the tips of frozen branches and tickled the ground: tap tap tap.
Took a fist-sized rock and dug a shallow grave down to my wrists. It was all the earth would allow. I lowered the body inside and pushed the pile of dirt over it. I had all but ran out of food from my last excursion, but was not about to risk illness with a dead animal.
Said a few words of remembrance – reflected on the struggle for life, survival of the fittest, etc. The speech was rousing / impressive but I don’t remember a word of it now, or else would have rewritten it verbatim.
[Not sure if I spoke anything aloud or just thought of it all in my head. I read in the latest Time Magazine that the brain cannot distinguish between real time occurrence and post-hoc recall, or so a study shows.]
After the business with the fox, I crawled back to camp and laid in my tent for over 20 mins mulling over the whole ordeal. Tried to break the ice in the bucket. Bashed it repeatedly without any promising results. Figured that it’d thaw enough by sunrise to get a pot of boiling water rolling, and then could dunk my socks and remove the filth caked to them. They still retain the stink of unwashed feet—like moldy jam and sweat. Remove socks when wet, not shortly after, but immediately.
QUESTION: How’d it die? Did it catch my scent, climb the hill, and split its stomach on a jagged rock? Did something kill it and leave it to die, got bored with its meal, or just killed it for the sick pleasure?
Doesn’t help being alone while parsing such questions. Can only write by the light of the moon these days.
Remain humble esp. when confronting the unknown.
Won’t spend much longer pondering the situation. There’s blood on the side of my hand from burying its body. Going to wash it in the stream 1 mile down the path, listen to the world around me: squirrels’ll bicker b/c I’ll be too close to their tree/home; birds’ll dart around above to find somewhere warmer—a tree’ll moan and crack, shedding one of its limbs and a sheet of snow. There won’t be anyone for miles.
TO-DO:
Need more food; supplies are low.
Need to make double-sure that I’ve cleaned up after myself at night.
Wash hands in the stream even when I’m too tired.
Conduct a second sweep of the path that leads out of the camp.
Need to devise a way to keep water from turning into a solid block of ice overnight.
Entry 2:
Found an actual working wrist-watch so waking has been much easier: 2:10 AM in the crisp air at God’s hour: the trees hold their breath and nothing dares break the perfect stillness ‘neath the stars [WHITMAN YES].
Spring’s rounding the corner and so a change is sweeping through. It’s probably warm enough now to sleep into the coldest nethers of the night but can never be too careful. I’ll continue rising early to keep the blood pumping through the veins/arteries and not let the pipes freeze. I have awoken encased in a sleeping bag, ice crawling across my chest like a straight jacket, immobile and faltering pulse etc. Enough to adopt a nocturnal lifestyle, ensure that I’m safe and surviving.
I’ve spent several hours peeping in the bushes outside a rich cabin getaway, eavesdropping on a husband&wife – they’ve been discussing travel plans south. Said they’d be gone for the next week at least. It’s the best chance I’ve had in months.
But couldn’t just go trudging up to the front door like a belligerent freeloader. I had to prep.
Lit the bunsen burner and did 72 laps [counted each one] around the perimeter of camp to get the liquids moving from toes to cranium, and back and forth.
Strapped a screwdriver to my hip, and layered up—long underwear, 4 pairs of soleless socks [one tied around the neck], night-sky pajama bottoms, Highland boots, extra hoodie, ski jacket, emergency hand/feet warmers, beanie, gloves, two pairs of boxer briefs, and what was left of the jerky I’d saved. Felt like a marshmallow man underneath it all. Imagined rolling across the ground like a rock collecting moss, tumbling and hurtling down a hillside in an anonymous plot of land. While strapping up, I noticed an unsightly pelt of hair on the backside of my hand. At least it could help insulate the heat.
Be grateful for what you have.
Set off with a dull pain in my lower back [age is outrunning experience].
The boulders had become slick with ice. Butt-crawled most of the descent. Worked my way down the incline and onto flatter land.
Checked the watch: a brisk 60 mins had already passed.
Had to hurry—the moon hung like a flickering and dying lamp, a patchwork of early morning clouds passing over, energy waning and waxing with it; and by the time I arrived, the sky was placid as a lake. Body heat was up from the jog, so I returned the beanie to the pack. Flicked up my hood, a lone bead of sweat snaking between my eyes. Cool air rushed in, tickled the beard, made my eyes water.
I crouched—waited 20 min, peering down the winding, forested road leading to the garage door. Waited for strange shapes to resolve themselves into bushes, trees, and snow piles. Caught a few phantoms in the peripherals, and a closer look revealed them for what they were – just a bit of photopsia and faint reflections of the moon. Noticed that husband&wife had left their BMW parked in the driveway, encased in ice, but I immediately dashed the thought of carjacking.
Breathing slowed—waited til silence remained constant for several minutes [counted prime numbers to 167, then backwards from 31]. Got to work.
Jammed the screwdriver into the back doorknob. Jiggled but it wouldn’t give.
Got frustrated/careless and tried to take the damn thing off its hinges. Refocused and self-corrected.
Never lose your cool esp. during a break-in.
Inserted the slot-head at a 45 deg. angle, rotated the knob to the left. It clicked. I turned it to the right and the door swung inside the living room.
Stench of pine-scent and lemon assaulted the nostrils right away. The place had been cleaned within the past 24 hrs. Someone else had a key and access to the premises.
I couldn’t waste any more time.
I found the pantry and took the non-perishables on the shelf: black beans, beef chili, “homegrown” corn, green peas, sausage gravy, tomato sauce, pan noodles, french onion soup, Cape Cod chips, crunchy peanut butter, paper towels, silverware, a painted plate [for the collection], and an oven mitt.
Checked the fridge. Found a dozen eggs—not sure how long they’d been there or if they were far past their expiration date [nothing on the carton], so I took half of them for frying.
I ventured into the bathroom and found several rolls of toilet paper. Stuffed the only two that would fit in the pack, now heavy. Quite heavy. Set it on the bathmat.
Caught sight of the shower curtain. It’d been pulled closed. I eased it open, half-expecting that something hidden inside waited to pounce on me.
Empty—of course.
Then I had a short-lived debate:
Yes
No
Yes. Your feet are filthy. Your hands, too.
Almost black!
Gave into temptation so I shed my clothes and stepped inside. Grappled with the curtain and steadied myself on the slick floor.
The water spat forth as soon as I touched the knob.
It stung and I howled—jumped away from the stream of boiling water. Amazed that it had been hot so immediately. I eased myself back into it: first a foot, then a leg, then arms, stomach, and head. It was numbing. I laid my head against the tile, let the steam rise all around, watched torrents of dirt/excrement rinse off of my body. Lost all control and peed into the drain; it was tinged red with blood.
But I hardly acknowledged it, and almost fell asleep anyway. There were tiles with yellow lilies painted on the porcelain and they formed a complete portrait around the half-moon of the shower; I followed the patterns for a time and forgot about myself, the winter, etc.
Heard a creak in the floorboards and my body jolted to attention. I shut it off, scrambled out.
I pulled one foot out of the steam and landed on the shag bathmat. I drew the rest of my body out of the shower and stretched my limbs.
Saw a figure at the door, swallowed in shadow – a misshapen savage. It must have been waiting the whole time to slit my throat.
Heart dropped to my stomach. Half-digested food threatened to spoil the floor.
I held up my hands in pathetic self-defense, and I yelped. Saw the figure shrink, aping my movement.
Just a reflection: a body-sized mirror bolted to the back of the door.
Flushed hot with embarrassment, I got dressed, unable to look myself in the face. I hadn’t seen myself in three years and I wasn’t about to start then. I packed my things and ran for the door.
It was an important lesson in not wasting time, especially for an unnecessary shower.
But I had to stop for one last thing: the bookshelf. That was a non-negotiable. I nabbed a few for the collection: book called Station Eleven, the latest Dean Koontz, and ah! the holy grail—a copy of Ulysses [my second one!], this edition with Joyce sporting an eyepatch for his glaucoma: leeched, rugged and life-worn.
Made for the door after these last few luxuries but was stopped again. All these delays! What sloppy work.
There was a note resting on the breakfast bar that I’d sworn hadn’t been there before:
DEAR HERMIT,
Please don’t break in again. Leave us a list of what you need and we’ll be happy to provide it for you.
Best,
Mr. and Mrs. Linderman
I had the distinct feeling of being watched—dropped the note like it was poisoned and rushed for the exit, peering over my shoulder, desperate to spot my pursuers.
Forgot to even close the door and couldn’t shake that sick feeling until I was home again, panting and exhausted. The sun was cresting the horizon and as soon as I laid my body on the floor of the tent, I fell asleep.
I woke, began writing, and prepped the eggs for dinner.
TO DO:
Never go near the husband&wife cabin again. Triple underline.
Entry 3:
Sick. Sick. Very sick. Retching, fever, sweats, shaking, etc.
A struggle just to catch an hour of undisturbed sleep.
Must have been the eggs. Tasted like spoiled meat.
QUESTION: How does one. . .
MUST THINK PAST
Entry 4:
Can see a man leaning over me. He smells like burned meat and body odor. Can’t verify if hallucination or. . . telling me my ex-wife’s maiden name?? FOLLOWING ME THIS WHOLE TIME.
Entry 5:
Man still here, eating my food supplies, his fingers fully inserted in the goddamn crunchy peanut butter. Has a cane he twiddles in his fingers. Insists that I call him Jeremiah and that we’re long-time acquaintances from a life I can’t remember. He’s terribly interested in my background. Can’t get more than a few words without passing out again.
QUESTION:————————————
Entry 6:
I hardly remember writing the last few entries—fell into depths that I hadn’t known before. Still feeling the residual effects of sickness but surviving, living, able to struggle on. I can stand now, write in clear sentences, and eat the food I have.
None of the supplies are gone which makes this “Jeremiah” in the previous entries an obvious fever dream. Still shaken about it though. Every shadow makes me twitch. I’ve been checking and rechecking the food supply every hour.
Slept well past 2am and so ran a serious risk of freezing entirely and not waking up at all.
Spring is closer than ever.
Spent a full hour in meditation today. I had much to clear from my mind. Sat by the creek which had thawed enough for water to gurgle through the rocks, sticks, and such.
Tried my best to keep my mind sharp, but invariably it led back to Jeremiah and to oblivion: both waited like a phantom assailant around every corner, and when given my fullest attention, they vanished.
I was brought back to reality, noticing all of my nails, fingers and toes were crammed with dirt. I tried cleaning them with a branch.
Patience with troubling matters esp. re. philosophical quandaries that have plagued mankind for centuries.
Entry 7:
Finished Sun also Rises b/c lauded as a great american novel [even though it’s written as and by an ex-pat] and b/c of its supposed artistic merit, etc.
Wandered back to Joyce after considerable distress—resolved not to stray again.
Spent the day rereading Oxen of the Sun.
The temperature was on a steady incline but the ice and snow still clung to the tips of branches and the base of the hills. The panorama sparkled all around: an unbroken image which no photo could capture, nor any words could depict, so I shall rightly not even attempt to do so here.
Drifted off to sleep after reading for several hours—lost in a Joycean sentence-labyrinth.
Dreamt of my past:
wrapping my ears when there were too many voices at once, bickering, arguing. . .
running my hand over the surface of every table in every room. . .
scraping my sharp knuckles on the walls of the house. . .
putting my hand above the lit wick of a candle until burning the tips of my fingers. . .
screaming when my family contradicted me, throwing plates, silverware, and the salt&pepper shakers against the wall to watch something shatter—felt the rush of satisfaction that I had the power to do so. . .
my son and his mother cowering like I would hurt them, like they’d seen me truly for the first time. . .
finding her hours after she had found him, way too late, locked in the bathroom, the life draining out of his arms. . .
Startled awake – I reassured myself that I was alive and safe, food stocked in the cooler, my survival guaranteed for the week.
My only responsibility is to myself.
No people. No guilt. No distractions.
Entry 8:
I woke up this morning with blood all over my jacket.
I peeled it off and found blood caked to my arms, across my chest as well.
I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead to check for a gash and more of it came off in flakes.
Dirt and blood under my fingernails. I gnawed at them, but the saliva did no good.
Checked my watch [also covered in blood] read: 7am. Ran to the edge of camp, climbed a boulder to look around: everything seemed normal.
A few birds disembarked from a tree branch—a few trees bent to a breeze passing through. A terrible thought crossed my mind.
I checked the food stock, flipped the latch on the cooler and threw it open. It was all gone.
Every last bit of food: the cans, the noodles, the French onion soup.
I felt dizzy and sick. My head throbbed and I fantasized about murder.
I fished some matches from my pocket to quell the anxiety. Lit one of them and held it to the base of the burner.
I stopped, pulled it back.
Stared at the bunsen and the flame crawled up the match. When it brushed my finger, it clicked:
Jeremiah. Toying with me.
He left the note. He made me sick. He covered me with the blood of some helpless animal. I grabbed a crowbar and laid it beside me—pet it like it was an obedient dog.
Entry n:
Forgot which entry I was on; writing has not been a priority.
Shouldn’t write for too long—it’s easy to lose concentration.
Found a particular way of crouching to avoid cutting off blood flow to my feet and keeping them tingly and warm. I stand to feel the head rush and get dizzy and little fish swim around my vision—
I have a few pieces of jerky left. They were buried for emergencies. I dug through an ant pile to retrieve it. A few of the nasty buggers assaulted my left hand and made it look like an abused pin cushion. I pulled the jerky and fiddled with the plastic wrap, laid each piece atop my tongue one at a time so they’d soak in saliva for as long as possible.
Caught sight of Jeremiah and his silver cane—his coattails badly hid behind the trunk of a giant pine tree. Tore after him and made a ruckus doing so.
PATIENCE PATIENCE PATIENCE
Grabbed the crowbar and hacked through the branches.
All that bushwacking came to nothing; he had slipped away.
It was at the southeast end of the hill, looming over my camp – directly adjacent to the Cartesian Forest.
Note for the non-existent reader: This part of the forest is arranged like a grid—trees in perfect rows and columns. Probably planted after a fire or bug infestation.
I do not, repeat, do not go near. Most definitely haunted. Have had several nightmares where I can’t escape, sprinting through infinite X and Y coordinates and axes.
Entry ?? (scribbled on a loose-leaf paper shoved into the journal):
Another mystery of the “great” american canon—this charlatan, whose rag, “Walden,” I’d been thumbing through. Here, he spends a few brisk weekends on his plot of land “in the woods” and spends the remainder of his life cashing in on the rugged ur-american image which it affords him. Imagine being only a few hours walk from the city, and only half a mile to the train station!
A true recluse seeks no external validation. He scoffs at the idea of recognition or the delusion that the press of a publisher will grant him immortality. True self-reliance requires no codified set of rules or philosophical contrivances. All it requires is an unshakable faith in the self. [Note non-existent reader, that I intend on burning each of these scribblings as soon as I’ve put a period on the final sentence—I’m only writing to relieve an itch when it needs to be scratched.]
Entry n+1:
Barely have the energy to write, and haven’t eaten in almost a week. Collapsed after capturing a bird that was injured and would have made a suitable dinner. Was clinging to a branch. Placed a hand on it—it flew away and I slipped.
Hit the ground—coughed blood all over my jacket. Prayed for anonymous rescue. Tried screaming SOS but was only heard by the wolves.
Thought I had more food buried but none in the burial site to be found.
Trying to think of –
If this is my last entry, c’est la vie. Was a thrilling ride.
Entry n+[x+1]:
Can hardly fathom that my latest entry was two days ago. Feels like months have passed.
Made the decision to crawl for food since so few options were available.
By all means, I should have died. I had done the basic arithmetic: I didn’t have the energy to make it anywhere on an empty stomach and still expect to survive.
Found a bush of berries and didn’t bother to check if it was safe to eat or not – it didn’t matter.
What mattered was finding something/anything to keep the muscles contracting, blood flowing, internal organs operating.
Didn’t walk as much as stumbled from trunk to trunk—pausing at each one and willing myself to the next.
Certain that I’d lose consciousness—probably did but kept delving further.
Arrived at a ring of wooden buildings. Was very dark – the moon obscured behind heavy cloud cover.
Struggled with the screwdriver at the door for over an hour. Kept leaning my head against the cold metal door and drifting off.
Dreamed two or three times that I’d unlocked the door and fallen into a full buffet: sausage gravy, buttermilk biscuits, crispy bacon, blueberry jam, milk, oatmeal, deviled eggs, pancakes, crunchy peanut butter, and a slab of T-Bone steak. Had, each time, slathered a pancake with peanut butter and pressed it to my lips, only to jolt awake in the subzero temperatures, an imprint of my forehead on the door.
With the last bit of energy, I jammed the lock and nearly pulled the handle out of its socket. It gave – I fell and just barely caught myself from collapsing on the floor.
There was no breakfast feast inside, but I did liberate a number of canned goods from the pantry.
I opened the refrigerator door and a vanilla-cream cake glowed from within, bathing my face in its glory like a protagonist-adventurer uncovering an apocryphal pot of gold.
Less ate the pastry than smashed it with my face and inhaled every bite.
Afterwards, I fell to the floor with frosting dripping from my cheeks and chin. Lay famished like a voracious romantic having just made life-affirming love and feeling for a fleeting moment that he’d satiated his desire from then on into perpetuity.
Arising, I followed the small bit of light shining through the window. Outside was a sign: Joshua Martia’s Boys Club of Washington County. On it, carved and painted, was a river and a boy peering across it, a compass in his hand.
Amateurs.
The light shifted. A figure swept across.
I saw him at the window, both his hands over his eyes pressed against the glass, a devilish smile across his face. He scrunched his face and twiddled his upper lip, as if to say, “Got you, my friend.”
My heart rate spiked. I leapt to the door, but he’d taken off down the lane.
He crossed the courtyard and edged the corner of a cottage, up the path that led to the building at the center of the camp.
I’d lost sight before I could even get down the damn steps, but I couldn’t let him escape. I tore off across the courtyard in a full sprint, running whichever direction seemed most promising. I hadn’t made it much past the length of the central building before I collided with an unknown shape. The force of impact knocked it flat on its back quivering in a heap at my feet. Had not a second of realization before the shape emitted a scream quite unlike anything I’d heard before.
A chill swept through my body.
The figure resolved itself into a middle-school boy still wearing his scout uniform that he’d just soiled. Piss dripping down his leg, he scrambled backward, shrieking like a wounded bobcat, the noise making mincemeat of my eardrums. Lights exploded from within the building. Voices yelling, doors slamming – more of that infernal screaming. A door kicked open and the silhouette of a grown man emerged into the cold. He pointed a shotgun at me and the blast ripped a hole through the air. Instinct took over – I fell to all fours and propelled myself forward. Clods of debris exploded in my wake. A shell of pellets ripped a branch from its trunk and nearly crushed me on my zig-zagging escape.
I sprinted away in an uncertain direction and didn’t stop until I was at the edge of town. I fell on my back, chest expanding and contracting faster than I’d ever experienced before. Struggled for well over 30 minutes to catch my breath in the frozen air. I tasted metallic at the back of my throat.
Clouds drifted overhead and I saw bits of snow spiral around a lamppost—most of the flakes disappearing before they hit the ground. It was a bit of peace before I heard sirens screaming in the distance. I had to keep moving.
I sprinted up a path that weaved between cottages.
A tall courthouse lit up behind me.
I saw him again: Jeremiah stood at the far side of the building, as if to make sure I would see where he was going next. We made brief eye contact and then he ran down the steps that led to the fountains. He glided across the water and turned the corner. I knew what he was trying to do. When I caught up, I stopped at the door of a triplex to look inside – gazed at the antechamber and the plush leather chairs that were still there. I saw the door within and its numbers – it was my old home. A pain jabbed inside of me like a razor dragging through my esophagus. I placed my hand on the silver doorknob, but there was no entry. I felt homesick and for a brief moment, I thought of my family, and sitting around a fireplace. I thought of the radio and the smack of a baseball hitting my hand.
But that was in the past.
Jeremiah tapped me on the back and I swung around only to swipe the dead air. He laughed and backed away through the alley.
I was at the steps within a few seconds—down the stairs and then, almost at the corner, there was a great white light. I held up my arms. Someone shouted orders behind a flashlight. Neighbors shrieked.
I whipped around and sprinted up a set of stairs, fell on all fours, and when a shot rang out and clipped the concrete arch above my head, I gripped the top step with both of my hands – propelled myself over the awning and towards the woods. I beat a path through the trees and back to the hill, not hesitating for a single moment.
Not a single thought passed through my head.
After a half-hour of sprinting, finally, I collapsed in my tent and sobbed through the night.
Safe for just a brief moment, I whispered a prayer of sorts: I have my body and my mind. I repeated it like a mantra until I drifted off for an indefinite period of time.
Entry n+[x+y]:
He caught me dozing [first mistake] and stole the little food I’d left unsecured [second mistake]. He dismembered another poor animal carcass on the threshold of camp and set up wooden crosses just to taunt me.
Woke up to him laughing like a cheap b-movie villain. He sat perched atop a boulder inhaling from a long pipe, smoke curling from his nose, his eyes, his ears, and his forearms. His mouth opened unnaturally, covering nearly half his face.
“Top of the morning,” Jeremiah said, proffering his pipe.
I had no choice. I wouldn’t tolerate another moment of his torture.
I was on him, a beast on its prey, galloping towards him. He squared up, and I charged, but my hands found no purchase. We rolled down the backside of the hill and across the boulders, tumbling down the incline.
Couldn’t stop the fall with my arms so my back did, against the broad side of a tree trunk. I heard a sharp snap and I cried out.
Jeremiah was already on his feet, and he scurried down the rows of the Cartesian Forest.
I hoisted up and gave chase as best I could.
He weaved in and out of the trees, creating a jagged line across the coordinate plane, and I couldn’t keep up. With each step, my back spasmed harder and harder like increasing electric shocks from an executioner.
The canopy cover was thick, and the further into the forest we ran, the more dense it became, the more light it obscured overhead.
I clung to the bark of a tree and steadied myself.
The world started to spin; my peripheral vision blurred. The bark slipped out of my hands.
I felt someone catch me.
“Hey there, big guy,” Jeremiah whispered.
He held up his cane and wiggled it for me to see.
He pulled something from my leg: it was a dart, blue fletchings on its end. There was a stripe of red from my blood.
I lost consciousness and everything faded to black.
When I came to, it was nighttime. I peered through my bleary vision. The canopy above wasn’t as dense as before, but the clouds had taken its place, forming a patchwork ceiling across the whole sky. Two captures held onto the sides of a wheelbarrow and huffed with each steady push.
I heard their voices. They were debating in hushed tones between gasps of breath. I started to decipher the particulars.
“Five thousand is not unreasonable. It is, in fact, quite reasonable for the bounty.”
We stopped.
A man wiped his brow with the backside of his hand. He shook it and scoffed at the filth. He produced a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. He was short and stout. He wore a cowboy hat and a badge – had a pistol strapped to his waist.
“We can talk all the financials you want once we get it to town. Once you’ve fulfilled your end of the deal.” He jabbed his partner in the chest. This other man wore a trench coat and had black, slicked-back hair, tied into a knot.
The third was Jeremiah, wandering a few feet behind us. He clearly had not touched the wheelbarrow at all.
We made brief eye contact and he smiled. Gave me a wink for good measure. I tried to squeeze my eyes shut, but not in time: he ran over and kicked me across the face. I roared in response.
“The beast is awake!”
The pudgy one dropped the wheelbarrow and spilled me onto the cold ground. He went for his revolver, but paused when he saw I couldn’t move.
Jeremiah laughed for a long time. First at me, and then at his partners. He pulled his cane to his lips and blew.
A dart sank into my neck and all the muscles went slack / darkness returned.
Their ensuing debate degenerated into nonsense.
Next thing I knew we were at the edge of the Cartesian Forest. I saw the length of the tree and snapped my eyes closed. I prayed Jeremiah hadn’t seen me again. The wheelbarrow was gone and they dragged me by my armpits through the underbrush.
“Hurry up!”
They pulled my body away from the shade and laid me in the moonlight. I could feel the light on the surface of my eyelids. I felt the warmth prickling up my arms, its power like a stiff shot of epinephrine. I began to hear the creak of the woods for miles in each direction. I could smell their sweat. I could hear the man’s pistol rattling in its holster. I peeked through a sliver of an eyelid, saw the clouds drawing back like a curtain, dissipating. Pale light stained the sky and obscured the starlight.
They dropped my limbs and keeled over in exhaustion.
“I swear the beast is getting heavier!”
“There’s a very simple way to make this a lot easier and a lot safer for ourselves.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’ll be the same goddamn amount of money!”
In one swift motion, the man in the cowboy hat swung the gun around to my forehead and squeezed the trigger. It clicked.
A faint whine escaped my throat, the sedatives still potent.
“Damn thing isn’t even loaded.”
He fumbled with the ammo in his pouch, but I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Fur sprouted along my arm and up my back. I licked my muzzle through my canines, swelling and sharpening. Claws sprouted between my fingers. Muscles bulged over my body and I could feel the adrenaline pouring through my veins, incinerating the poison that had paralyzed my limbs.
I descended on that pudgy one first – drove my claws into his pelvis and unzipped his flesh all the way to his sternum. Blood and viscera sprayed me like a firehose.
Jeremiah drew his cane to pierce me with another dart, but I ripped the tube from him and crushed it with a single fist. I held it up to strike him with his own weapon, but he didn’t even flinch – just straightened up and undid his cufflinks. He rolled up his right sleeve showing me the scar that wrapped around his radial artery. He smiled again and gave a last wink before evaporating into the air.
The man in the trench coat took off towards the Cartesian Forest. I ran him down like a helpless animal and quartered him with the brute strength of my arms. I even took the time to make a Christmas tableau with his entrails and a pine tree – a touching sight.
A full transformation! I smiled and for the first time, felt at peace with the world. Blood dripped from every limb, and I howled into the cold of the night.
I left the bodies rotting like that – gutted and bleeding, melting the snow and nourishing the dead earth. Steam rose out of them like hot vents.
I couldn’t stay to admire my work. The townspeople would not be far behind.
Once I burn this journal, I’ll be back on the road—going south. A new place, new buildings, new food to steal, new place to break camp. I will read so many books.
I will write again when I’ve reached safety.
Stephen Mirabito is an English teacher working in Littleton, Colorado. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Every Day Fiction, Constellations Magazine, and Peatsmoke Journal. He is currently a candidate of the University of Denver’s UCOL Professional Creative Writing program.