Camp Damascus(63)
But I just can’t do it.
“That sounds really nice,” I gush, “but there’s something I’ve gotta do.”
Willow’s expression drops. “Oh god,” she sighs. “After all this time, you’re so different but you’re so … you.”
“There are people at that camp who need our help,” I reply. “This season, and the next season, and the next season. We can’t just let it keep happening.”
“We literally can,” Willow retorts.
“It’s dangerous, and it’s stupid. You don’t have to help me, and I wouldn’t expect it. All I’m asking is that you wait for me to finish what I started.”
“I’ve been waiting a pretty long fucking time,” Willow replies, getting emotional again.
“I know,” I admit. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I’ve been waiting, too, but we have to help those kids.”
Willow is silent, listening.
“I spent a lot of time doing work for Kingdom of the Pine,” I explain. “I ran donation projects and brought in money for the church. I thought I was helping people, and in some ways I probably was, but I was also funding some pretty horrific stuff. Namely demonic conversion therapy.”
“You had no way of knowing,” Willow replies sympathetically.
“Actually, I did have a way of knowing,” I continue. “I should’ve been paying more attention, but that’s not the point. The point is, I was doing all these things because God said it was right. My whole life, that was always the motivation, but is that real genuine good? Is something righteous if you’re doing it because you’re worried about getting punished if you decline?”
Willow is nodding along. She knows where I’m going with this, and it’s clearly something she’s thought about, too.
“I wanna do something good,” I continue. “Not out of fear of punishment, or because someone else told me it was the right thing. I wanna do something good for goodness’ sake. I know I don’t have to help those kids; I’ve got no obligation and it would be a hell of a lot easier to just skip town with you. The fact that I don’t have to do any of this is exactly why I’m going back to that camp.”
Based on the way she shut down our previous meeting, I get the feeling Willow knows exactly what I’m talking about. She’s been running from her own truth for a long time, and while that’s easy enough with a demon on your heels, the moment you get to slow down is a double-edged sword.
It’s also the moment you’ve gotta confront what you’ve left behind.
“I’ll help,” she finally replies.
“Wait, what?”
Willow nods, then says it again with a little more confidence, as though she’s still convincing herself. “I’ll help,” she affirms, nodding along. “What’s the plan?”
I hesitate, slightly embarrassed by the brutal simplicity of it all. “We’re gonna break in and smash that machine,” I finally declare. “They can’t tether any demons if there’s no way to summon them in the first place.”
“Where’s the machine?” she asks.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I reply, “but I know how to find out.”
* * *
Willow’s choice to leave her apartment and join Saul and me at the farmhouse is an easy one. She’s aimless out here, and while this little studio brings back a surge of wonderful memories for me, I can tell it has gradually evolved into a place of great pain for her, a wound she’s yet to let heal.
Her place is located directly above Lebka Books, a store she claims brings people from miles around, thanks to their unique finds and impressive selection of used paperbacks.
Willow opens the door of her apartment and pushes inside, immediately getting to work as she stuffs things into a large duffel bag. I follow behind to discover another familiar location in need of filling in, the abstract world of my memories suddenly faced with the intricate detail of reality.
I’ve laughed and cried here, even tried to dance, but as I stroll to the middle of this small rectangular room I finally get to exist.
As Willow maneuvers around me, gathering various all-black pieces of clothing and cramming them into her bag, I allow my eyes to drift across every square inch of this space.
Her bed is stuffed into one corner, well-made but so overwhelmed with massive, cozy blankets that it will always appear slightly disheveled. The wall next to it is absolutely covered in photographs, the images ranging in size from tiny, white-rimmed Polaroids to a few enormous posters. The subjects vary, featuring glorious Big Sky landscapes or discarded cigarette butts, but the grainy style remains consistent.
“You took all of these,” I announce, framing the question as an awkward statement.
“Yep,” Willow replies from across the room, still going about her business. “That’s a little different from the last time you were here.”
My gaze drifts to the other side of the room, a wall that immediately causes an innate pang of discomfort to wash through my frame. A large, extra-wide bookshelf runs from floor to ceiling, taking up most of the space save for a small portion of the wall that remains exposed. This exposed wall is where a framed poster is hung, featuring an eerie yellow symbol that I’ve never seen before.