posted on Feb, 19 2013 @ 06:36 PM
Everything that mattered left her body....dissolved into the concrete. The thing that boarded that train was no longer a human. It breathed, the blood
still ran, that was actually the only thing that gave away a trace of life, in a corrupted body.
Looking out the window of the train, the landscape screamed back at her, but her eyes only saw the blur of color. Every tree, house and sign begged
her not to forget, to remember her foot, her root, her life. It wanted her to hold on, but she had no emotion, no desire. Those were things that she
left on the concrete. Those were things she gave away and abandoned, better left to her old life, no need for those things were she was going.
So when the humid summer air hit her lungs, she was drowning, but she didn't care. There was no sensation, no stirring of memory or pleasure. Somehow
all those childhood years did not register, those were too long ago to matter, again the old life, the one she traded for ice and wind and cold
darkness. Her heart had grown accustomed to damp chill and the frost. Heat, sweat, the heaviness in her lungs, they brought back nothing.
And there was no root, no foot, even in the squish of mud on the creek bank....what should have turned her 6 again, poison ivy blisters, sweet peas
clutched in dirty fat hands, mosquito scabs and the excitement of discovery, it was mud now. And nothing, no amount of reliving would allow those feet
to reclaim that earth. The connection to her childhood seemed perfectly severed, permanent, final.
But the honeysuckle vine, the blackberry bush, the damp fern in the valley, they would not give up so easily. They remembered their old friend, they
saw the little girl lost come home. As the day faded, the insects sent up their choir, as if not a thing had ever changed, just the same as it had
That strange creature, moved so carefully through the grass, moved as if she knew every rock, every dip in the land. Moved as if she had never left
and not a thing had changed, but inside her everything had changed, she was contaminated, but her curse was her own, she had poisoned her own well and
drank it dry with her pride, her jealousy, her insecurity. Her fear the only food fitting for such a rotten feast of flesh.
Some time had past since that day at the train station, when it occurred to her to really think. To reflect, to face the ugly image that she refused
to look at in the mirror. That creature that looked back at her, was not the beast she had become. It was the girl that became the beast, for the
first time in a long time she accepted the image. And she remembered.
In any other neighborhood, that howling would have had the cops called. But in that neighborhood, the howling blended into the walls and the walls
kept their secrets well. No police showed up. It wouldn't have mattered if they had come, they couldn't have done a damn thing to make it stop. No
one could have. Her friends were terrified. The girl they knew, the one who never cried, who always filled the room with the fire of life, was
screaming out in pain. Later, her friend would say about that night, "she cried like a wounded animal" and it was true. No human can make those
It was a beast lying on that floor, blood smeared across her face, shaking and broken. Something had to be done they said. Truth was, they were too
afraid to call the cops, to send for the ambulance. So they left her alone to crawl under the porch and die like the animal she was. And it was better
that way. Because the next day she was in bed, a week later, she bathed, two weeks later she caught a train and left believing she could tear her
foot, her root away, just as she had done before.
It didn't work. And no matter how many times she performed her ritual, and tried to relive her prior existence, the curse was never broken, the beast
never became a girl again, and she never reclaimed her native soil. The mutation was in the DNA. So when you see her now, those human eyes are not
quite right, there is something unsettling, something foreign. And the smell is off, just enough to make you feel uneasy in her presence. And when
the locals talk in hushed whispers about that "girl" she used to be....they all ask, "what happened?" "something must have happened while she was
away in that cold hard land" and no one, no ones dares speak of it to her, because they fear she will rip their throat out, those people know when
something is unnatural.