Author's Note
Warnings for this chapter: Slight horror, Wendigo!Canada. This chapter's a little shorter, which I apologize for. Forgive me D': Also, please review? Please? (cue puppy eyes)
...
The next morning, Thursday, I remembered my mission. Curing myself by Friday, which happened to be tomorrow. It seemed nearly impossible, at the moment, as I'd taken on a new 'sickness'—terror to sadness. Seeing as I was too lazy to get up from the couch and do something, I ran over my options.
School would start in two hours. I was pretty much ready, having slept in my clothes. This meant that I had two hours to figure out how to cure myself of sadness. Seeing as tv wouldn't work, I turned to my next best friend, who, after being given two long minutes to set itself up, proved as worthwhile as always.
The internet.
I had left my computer in sleep mode since last Thursday—last Thursday, when life was normal, when your missing brother wasn't first on your mind and the images of a shouldn't-be-real Wendigo haunted your dreams.
I checked the tabs I had open—YouTube, facebook, hotmail, tumblr. I opened a new one, typing in 'google' in the address bar.
How to cure sadness. Search.
I clicked on the first option, figuring it was probably legit enough.
The first thing you should figure out is if you are suffering from sadness or apathy. Both may be symptoms of clinical depression, descriptions of various forms shown below. The first form, seasonal affective disorder—
I was never really a fan of big words.
That and this wasn't clinical depression. It was sadness with a reason.
I clicked the back button, choosing instead the second optional website. This one, again, asked me to figure out the difference between sadness and apathy.
Easy. Sadness.
I scrolled down until a subtitle caught my eye, this one being 'Sudden, heavy sadness'. I looked at the paragraph beneath it, skipping over the larger words. I came to the last few sentences.
Suddenly remembering, or experiencing, a traumatizing incident can lead to repression and consequential anxiety and depression. Depression can also call on sad memories, leading you to believe your sadness has been caused by these incidents instead of the traumatizing event.
I read it over a few times. The rocks had been real, I knew that much. I could feel them in my pocket. But still, it sounded pretty wordy, and I wasn't one to doubt the always-true word of the internet.
Thinking on it further, I did notice a distinct lack of fear when it came to memories of the Wendigo. It was as if, though temporarily, the thought of the monster had fallen completely from my mind.
In a way, this made sense.
I closed my laptop and left for school.
...
On the way home, I heard the voice again. This time, I was sure it wasn't coming from my head.
"Please..."
I nearly sobbed. "Matt?"
Both of our voices were rough and unused, mine holding the memory of tears and his what sounded like the memory of pain.
The sky was gray, as always, and the air was heavy with soon-to-be rain. It weighed down on my head and shoulders, making them ache. I was much too tired for this, too tired for the terror that usually followed the voice.
I just wanted it to be Matt. So badly. I missed him.
And yet, hiding somewhere deep in my ribs, the familiar ache of terror surged into my heart. Run, it said. You don't know where this voice is coming from. Run to your home. Run from the Wendigo.
I gave into the fear, feeling it build in my veins. I didn't want this. Not today. I hadn't slept or eaten properly in a week, and the pounding in my head was making everything worse. I wanted to go home and sleep, curl up on the couch and forget about all of this. But most of all, in that one moment, I wanted to run. From the voice. From my terror. From my memories.
Everything was building up and nothing made sense. In one of those moments that defined me as a complete and utter idiot, I dropped my bag to the ground and walked into the line of trees.
I wanted to get myself to the stream, away from all of this idiocy. In any case, I had done a hell of a job convincing myself that the Wendigo was merely a hallucination, and I wasn't about to let go of this decision just yet, especially as it had taken me a week to cement.
Soon enough, I found the path, as familiar as the terror that held me. I didn't want to go through this. Not again. The sleepless nights, the distinct lack of food, the constant wariness and adrenaline. I just wanted the stream. I had my jacket on; I could fall asleep on the rocky ground, wake up after an hour and maybe feel better. Sleep usually did a good job of riding me of my headaches, after all, and I was sure that the terror would calm down when I was more awake and held a clearer mind.
My pace was fast enough, and I reached the stream in what seemed like only ten minutes. It was most likely longer, but I was so preoccupied in my thoughts and my legs seemed to move on their own.
As I sat down near the stream, hand placed flat against the icy surface, the thought of my mother passed briefly through my mind. What would she think if I came home late? She'd probably have a heart attack—I always came home on time, or at least called her first.
Still, I was nearly asleep, so any concern for my mother didn't last long.
"Alfred?"
I shrieked, jumping up. Wide awake. The voice was the same as the one I heard earlier—rough, jagged at the edges, unused. Hesitant, too.
Playing the role of the stereotypical victim, I answered.
"Who's there?"
My voice was a shriek, loud and frightened. The only thing I could picture was the Wendigo, pale skin and sunken eyes, emerging from the trees and ripping me to pieces. I sobbed. I was too young to die. I didn't want this.
My eyes took in everything from my surroundings, my ears picking up the slightest noises. I was on full alert. Directly in front of me, a twig snapped, and a shadow made itself known from between the trees.
The air was silent, heavy, damp. I could smell the rain.
And the rain, it would seem, could smell my fear. The air pressed heavier against my shoulders.
There was no verbal response to my previous question; instead, a figure emerged from the trees, hunched over and dripping black onto the frostbitten ground.
I wanted to scream. To run. But all I could do was drop to the ground, not even move my arms to shield myself as it approached. I lost myself in its eyes, specks of silver-violet in rings of black.
I wanted, so badly, just for this to be over. My heart sat uneasily in my throat. I felt like I was about to vomit. The creature—the monster—moved closer still, within arm's length. If I had wanted to, I could have counted every bone in its starved body; the skin was pressed against it so tightly. Its mouth hung open, exposing a row of sharp, blood covered teeth that emerged from its wounded mouth.
Blood stained the creatures golden hair, and the creature's hands, the deep red substance crawling up to its elbows. It dripped onto the ground.
Directly in front of me, close enough that I could feel its breath, the creature dropped to its knees, panting heavily as it stared into my face. Looking for something.
I stared back, unable to move.
Unable to call for help.
Unable to do anything as fear wrapped its frozen arms around my body and held me tight, held me in place, held my voice in my throat.
My stomach dropped. I was going to be sick.
I was going to die.
The creature, now only slightly taller than me in the positions we were in, closed its mouth, its eyes narrowing.
Its face was human.
As was the rest of its body, sure, but the human in its face seemed almost locked behind the pale, tight skin of the monster. It made it so much more terrifying; how human it looked. So similar, so different. Everything about this creature was just so... off.
Then its mouth opened again, moving as if the creature was trying to form words. Talking, without sound. It seemed hesitant.
"Al?"
The voice that ripped itself from the creature's throat was the same voice I had heard earlier.
I passed out.
...
The stream was gone.
That was the first thing I noted when I awoke. The second thing noted was the lack of rock beneath my body, seemingly replaced with something soft and warm.
The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was being at the stream, alone. I must have been with my mother—yes, of course, that was it. For some reason, my timeline seemed off.
In any case, I figured that I was home, on the basement couch. That would explain the softness beneath me, and the chilling draft.
I could sense someone beside me. They spoke, their voice blurred and softened by my still-waking mind.
"Alfred?"
"Hamburger," I responded. The voice chuckled. This annoyed me. I wanted a hamburger.
"Want."
I opened my eyes, ready to playfully shove away my mother. Ready for a hamburger, too. Or at least some food. I was starving.
Instead, my eyes met with a sight straight out of my nightmares. The violet eyes, the emaciated body—I shrieked, clawing at the ground to get away.
"Al, it's me, please, it's me," the creature said, voice quiet and yet still so rough.
I shrieked louder. I tried to beg it to let me go, but the words just wouldn't form. That, and I couldn't stop screaming. My throat, by now, was quite raw.
"Please," the creature said, again.
I resigned myself to sobbing loudly. My tears made their way down my cheeks, hitting my hands and boots. I watched them fall, not wanting to look at the monster that was currently holding my legs.
Its fingers, skeleton like and much too long, had wrapped around my calves and were holding me tightly. The claw-like fingernails dug through my jeans and into my skin.
I tried, again, to form words. It worked, this time.
"A-Are you g-going to ki-kill me?" Sobs and hiccups interrupted my question.
"No," said the creature.
I sobbed louder this time, mostly out of relief. My arms gave out and I dropped to the ground, the possibility of the creature lying not even crossing my mind.
"Th-thank you," I whispered, sobs quieting down, slowly being replaced with hiccups. I glanced up at the creature, wary at its silence.
"Al," it said, "Do you recognize me?"
I shook my head. Of course I didn't. If I had ever seen this monster in my life, I didn't remember. I didn't want to, either.
I just wanted to leave.
"Please," it said, sadness playing with its voice. "Please, Al."
The way it spoke, though its voice was roughened and much deeper, almost reminded me of the way Matty had spoken as a child. So vulnerable. He could be strong, though, too, in the firm and silent way that his voice made itself known.
I sniffed, not wanting to break into another round of sobs. I wanted Matt to be here with me, not this monster. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and tell me that everything was alright. That these past years had all been a dream. That the monster was fake. That he was alive.
I looked up at the creature's face, not wanting the beast to be real.
Its golden hair caught my eyes, somewhat wavy and falling just to its shoulders. That, with the violet eyes—
I remembered, the day that Matty had gone missing, how his golden hair had caught the wind as he stood in the open doorway. It was almost to his shoulders, then, and so, so beautiful. The contrast against his violet eyes. And his voice, quiet and hesitant as usual.
"I'm going to the forest, Al. Could you tell mom? I'll be back by dinner."
I'm going to the forest, Al.
I looked into the bright eyes of the Wendigo, my heart coming to a near stop as it pounded in my throat.
No. No.
God, please no.
"Matty?" I sobbed. It was nearly a whisper.
Please, I begged, It's not true. It's not. It's not.
The Wendigo loosened its grip on my legs, a tear running down its face. Clear water against white skin.
"I've missed you, Al," he said.
His hands left my legs completely, coming to rest awkwardly at his side.
"Matty," I said, horrified. "Please, no, Matt, not you. Not this."
Matt drew back.
I didn't move.
