Headlights(93)

I move toward the other presence in that other-space, and I feel her.

It’s Hannah. Hannah, in the bathroom, in front of me. And Hannah there, in the other-world, that in-between. Somehow, both of us, in my mind.

And whatever’s in the bedroom, prowling outside the door.

It’s here. We’ve brought it in. I hear the floorboards groan and creak.

The pressure. Static. That crackling strangeness.

Maybe we just open the bathroom door. Maybe we’ve done what we have to do in here, and the creature, or whatever the thing is, we can talk to it. We’ve done it. We’ve brought it here.

I reach out my right hand for the knob, and I turn it, prepare to push it open, for us to be met with whatever this thing is.

But the door doesn’t move. It won’t open.

I step away from Hannah, try the handle again. It’s locked.

Hannah realizes, reaches out, tries it. Bangs against it.

“No,” she says. “No, no, no.”

The song, growing in volume, and the cold, and that static, and—

It switches again. “Annie’s Song.” John Denver, and

Dad’s hands in Mom’s hair, slamming her against—

The shower turns on behind Hannah.

The song switches back to the other one.

Hannah crying. Hannah here, and in that other-space. Both of us, in two places at once. All of it confusing, dizzying.

In the bathroom, this body. I stay very still. In the other-space, I move toward her. Am drawn to her. I can’t see, don’t know if she senses me there, if she’s aware of these two worlds, these realities that make no sense but also somehow click every piece of my life into place. In the other-world, I reach out and touch her. And— I’m on a mountain.

Snow.

Blood. Meat. Body.

Hate. Hate myself.

Teeth, on thigh. Teeth, on stomach. Meat, frozen. Gnawing, tearing, ripping.

Don’t look at her face. Can’t. look at it.

My friend. My friend.

My friend.

Body in the drainpipe.

Fresh. Blood still warm, still salty.

Blood on my chin, my nose, my cheeks, my hands.

Hands on a shin, hands on a hip, tongue against the muscle of a thigh.

Biting, ripping, tearing, chewing,

Hating

Hating

Hating

Fuck, it’s

Good and terrible and I hate myself, I hate—

Mountain

Friend. Eden.

Dancing in the bar. The way she sways, the way she laughs, with me. The way we both laugh. The song playing, Our song.

Queen of the rodeo. Orville Peck’s voice.

Eden’s laugh.

Eden and me.

Eating

Sucking

Chewing

SCREAMING.

I suck in a breath. Come back to the bathroom. Hannah, before me.

I was in her thoughts.

Those were Hannah’s memories. This thing, whatever’s in the bedroom, doing this to us. Making us feel this, putting us in each other’s heads.

I try the door again. It’s so cold in here. Hannah repeating, No, no, no, please, stop— “Let us out,” I yell. “Let us out and talk to us! We want to talk to you!”

The door doesn’t budge. The song shifts back to John Denver, and the force of it, of something, knocks me back into the counter. Hannah stands paralyzed, beside me.

Then I’m—

Mountain.

Motel.

Mom!

Blood, blood in the bathtub. Mom, not moving, Dad standing over her, crying.

Motel

Taped, duct-taped into the bed, a man’s body in front of me

No skin. Blood, muscle, bone.

The tongue in my mouth, the feel of it against my own

Hatred and terror and revulsion and—

Something else.

No. No, no—

Please don’t do this, I’ll do anything. I don’t want it, can’t—

Blood rushing to my fingers, toes, between my legs. The tongue in my mouth, the feel of it over my own.

Want.

Terrible want.

I want it more than I have ever wanted anything.

Every part of me—

“Please!” Hannah yells, over the unrelenting sound waves, vibrations, static, the songs, now switching back and forth, flipping between the two, all of it so loud.

Static. Music. Noise. Memory—

“Please! Stop! Please, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!”

Hannah’s hands on her face. In both worlds, here, and the other one.

Terror

Hate

Want

I am in the motel as a child, I am in the motel taped into the bed, I am in a bar and on a mountain and in Afghanistan and divorce court and in a car with truck headlights blinding me.

“Please,” Hannah says again. Here, or in the other-place. Both. I don’t know. I’m dizzy. The meat, and the room, and the smell, and the cold.

Please, make it stop!

She’s screaming. Here, in the bathroom, she’s screaming, and in that other-place repeating, Please, please please!

I don’t know what to do. Hannah. Here. Asking me. Begging me.

I see that her eyes are elsewhere. She is elsewhere, stuck there. “Hey,” I say. “It’s time to come back, okay? We’ll get out of here, you just have to come back.”