Camp Damascus(28)

I follow her instructions, retracting the glass that separates us.

“I-I’m so sorry,” the young woman stammers, a desperate thing swimming in her large black sweater. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“What are you talking about?” I reply, confused.

“I shouldn’t even be doing this,” she mumbles, the words tumbling under her breath before she barrels onward in a state of panic. “Fuck!”

The girl shakes her head from side to side, abruptly shifting emotions.

“What’s wrong?” I beg. “Can I help you?”

“No!” she cries, suddenly finding her direction. “You can’t help me, Rose. That’s the point!”

My breath catches. She knows my name.

Gradually, her expression softens as a potent realization washes through her.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they?” She finally sighs. “All to avoid this exact moment.”

“Whatever it is, looks like it didn’t work,” I retort. “We’re here.”

For the first time, the girl cracks a smile. Truth be told, I’m not exactly sure what I meant, but I’m glad she found the slightest kernel of joy in it. I find myself compelled to ask a question that seems ridiculous at this point, especially given the intimacy that we may have once shared.

“What’s your name?” I finally question.

The girl winces and places her hand over her mouth, acting as though this gesture might keep the pain at bay.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“What’s your name?” I repeat, desperately yearning for this connection that’s swiftly pulling away.

The stranger shakes her head. “I’m not gonna tell you my name,” she says, stepping back from the car. “That’s the point. Forget about me. Forget about all this and go back home.”

“I don’t understand!” I cry. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Because the longer we stand here, the more I start to miss you, and the more I start to miss you, the more danger we’re both in,” she states with a cogent intensity. “Stop looking for answers. They’ve won. It’s over.”

“If you really knew me then you’d understand I can’t do that,” I reply.

“Understand this,” the girl continues. “If you approach me again, you might as well bring a gun and shoot me in the fucking head. There’s a mark on both of—”

Before she can finish, the girl erupts with a sudden cough. She staggers a bit, holding her throat, then coughs again with even more force. This time, whatever’s caught in her windpipe dislodges and spills from her lips, a handful of flies that immediately take off buzzing in every direction.

“Oh fuck,” the stranger gasps. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”

She turns and sprints back toward the park, disappearing into the darkness and leaving me to sit in a state of complete shock.

“I love you?” I repeat back to myself, these final three words the most unexpected part of our encounter.

I’m not sure how, but the longer I sit with it, the more it makes sense.

Eventually, I pull out onto the road, beginning the winding trek back through several pockets of tree-covered neighborhoods and the deep, dark woods. I’m a long way from home, all the way across town, and after the emotional roller coaster of this evening I’m exhausted.

Neverton transforms in these twilight hours, becoming a strangely lonely place. There are no other cars on this desolate stretch, just a single set of headlights slicing through the great, evergreen-covered abyss of Montana wilderness.

I gradually return to the radio, hoping to find a semblance of company and distract myself from the chaotic ruminations running wild in my head.

I’m trying not to think of those flies, the ones that blossomed deep within my body as a once-in-a-lifetime fluke that no longer seems so once-in-a-lifetime. I try not to consider what else I encountered that evening, especially since I’ve been recently convinced that my demon days are behind me.

As the radio clicks on static fills my car, a station that had been perfectly clear during my trip to the park now drowned in chattering fuzz. It sounds a lot like what happened during the phone call with my dad—chaotic screaming hidden somewhere deep within the mysterious tangle of sound waves.

I shut the radio off, disappointed by my timing on this particularly desolate stretch of signal-free road.

According to the National Safety Council, the likelihood you’ll die in a car crash is 1 in 101.

Approaching a stop sign, I slow and pop on the blinker, making a gradual turn as my headlights sweep across the heavily forested scene.

The second my turn completes, however, I gasp and slam on the brakes.

Someone is standing in the middle of the road, a bizarre figure brilliantly lit by my headlights’ yellow glow. The shape is frozen in place, clad in familiar attire that makes my neck hair bristle.

They’re wearing the same red polo shirt that Pachid sports, and their hair is equally dark and stringy. They offer me the same crooked smile full of dirty broken teeth, and the same stark white eyes gaze at me from within their sunken sockets. They have long, spidery fingers that hang by their side, twitching restlessly.