Void Guardian 1.4

Impact 1.4

My house isn’t far away, but I’m filled with dread as I walk. I don’t know how she’s going to take it. Am I going to be ignored? Laughed off? Screamed out of the house? I have only the barest command of any kind of magic, is my trick with my clothes going to be enough to convince her this is legit? If I have to transform, will she recognize me? Magical protection of identity is central to the genre - is it real?

I’m not in much position to enjoy the gentle silence of the early morning and the quiet nods and smiles from the few dog walkers I run into. The unceasing stream of worries and what-ifs continues to flow through my mind until I finally stop both my movement and mind, staring at the front walk to my house. Whatever happens, happens now. I just have to do my best.

I take a deep breath and steel myself before heading to my front door and ringing the bell. I can hear my dog going nuts in the backyard and my little girl’s delighted screams. My wife swears quietly to herself, but not quietly enough that I can’t hear, before her voice rings from inside. “Coming!”

She answers the door and I freeze briefly. Sandra is not a small woman, but I’ve always been taller than her by a few inches. I tower over her now. Her warm brown eyes regard me with some inquisitive apprehension and she tucks a strand of her dark red hair behind her ear as I smile awkwardly at her. The look on her face is wary but her tone is polite. “Can I help you, miss?”

“I should hope so.” I gesture to the brown messenger bag I’ve been carting around and hold up my phone. “I did say we needed to talk in person.” She stills as she regards my things, items which are clearly her husband's in the hands of someone who is clearly not. She narrows her eyes without saying anything.
My smile falters. The look on her face is anything but accomodating. “Please, Sandy. I’m being flippant but on the inside, I’m losing my mind. We have to talk.”

Silence reigns for a moment and then she shuts the door with a strained, “Hold on one second, miss.”

I hear her move to the side and hear noises from the garage as things move. After a moment or two the noises stop. What could she be grabbing?

As soon as I ask myself the question I’ve already answered it, but it’s too late to do anything as the door swings open again, this time with my wife brandishing my shotgun at me, a combination of fear and anger on her face. “Okay, you cunt. I don’t know who you are but we’re going to have a talk about how you got my husband’s stuff and what you’ve been doing with his phone.”

Shit. My mind blanks for a moment before I feel the barest touch of the comforting warmth of my power and the faintest echo of starsong floats in my ears. I have a moment of complete clarity and calm as I consider the situation. I don’t store the gun loaded, the ammo is stored separately and she didn’t have enough time to load it herself before returning to the door. She’s probably threatening me with an empty gun, banking on the fact that I’m a stranger who won’t know it’s unloaded. She won’t shoot me - she wouldn’t wave a loaded gun at a stranger and she definitely wouldn’t be bringing me into the house to continue to threaten me with a loaded firearm when our daughter is playing in the living room.

The warmth and song retreats, and I’m grateful for its calming touch as I let her herd me into the living room. When I casually lift the baby gate and enter the room, my little blonde cherub waves at me from the living room floor. “Hi!” she chirps as Totoro roars and flies across the TV screen.

My heart aches. As nice as it is to see her, Maria waves to me like she does a stranger - open and friendly but with no hint of recognition in her face. There’s no cry of ‘Daddy!’ and accompanying giggle-filled rush toward me. “Hey there, scrunch.” I wave back with a sad smile.

I feel my wife prod me in the back. I’m not afraid, but the gun is there so that she feels safe, so I continue forward without comment.

My wife keeps me covered, and walks around to the couch, motioning for me to take a seat in the recliner. Conveniently, nothing of importance is behind me. She addresses our daughter without taking her eyes or the gun off me. “Keep watching your movie, baby. ”

I keep my attention focused on her and my expression neutral.

“Where did you get those things?” She asks, her expression angry.

“I bought the phone with you last year and the bag the first year we were in this house.” I respond quietly.

“Don’t fuck with me!” she half-shouts. Maria turns, distracted.

“I’m not. Ask me anything you want to establish who I am, but don't try to make the square peg fit the round hole of your assumptions. Insisting I must have stolen these things isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“Shut up. I’m asking the questions here.” The barrel of the gun is thrust at me as she snarls.

“So ask.”

“Where is James?”

“I’m right here.”

“Don’t lie to me, girl. I will shoot you if I have to.” Her grip tightens on the gun, knuckles white.

I lean back in the recliner and try not to relax. “I don’t think you’d hesitate to do that if you or Maria were actually in danger, maybe not if I was in danger either. But I’m not lying to you. I got in an accident last night. Killed someone. Someone with magic - and this is the result.”

“I said ‘Don’t fuck with me,’” She grinds out through clenched teeth. “Who are you and what do you want?” She racks the gun and the sound is intimidating but my earlier analysis is shown to be spot on when no shell ejects.

“I’ve already told you. I’m your husband,” I sigh. “I don’t look like me anymore but I’m still the same on the inside.”

“Bullshit. Be straight with me or I’m going to vent your spleen.”

“I am being straight with you. ” I look her right in the eye as I vomit as much information as I can in as short a time as possible. I rattle off my social security number, dates, important events, little anecdotes, embarrassing stories on both our parts. Things I hadn’t told anyone else. I don’t stop except to suck in another breath, blitzing her as best I can with an unending tide of information, trying to impress upon her that I am really me.

The gun barrel wavers but doesn’t turn away.

“You’re not- You can’t be-” she half starts a few thoughts before firming up to start her own interrogation.

She starts asking her own questions. I recall as best I can but my memory is no better than it was, and I struggle to answer it all. I object to the things she calls me on - there are some events we’ve just always remembered differently. I did not spend that whole reception speaking in pidgin. I said some stupid stuff early in our relationship but not that many stupid things. In hindsight some of those comments are now applicable to me, and I struggle not to laugh bitterly.
After the first hour I begin to despair that I’m not going to convince her. Little Maria begins to fuss and demand food, and I head to the kitchen and throw a lunch together for her. My wife still holds the gun, she’s calm and it’s not pointed at me anymore. The questioning continues while I cook and feed the baby. There’s a slight lull while the little girl eats, and the questions start again, this time with an unexpected angle. She doesn’t drill me on what happened so much as what I was thinking and what I felt when it did happen. There’s a lot of answers that come out ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I don’t really remember’ and ‘that’s really not what I was focusing on at the time.’

She’s silent for a while, and in the lull, I see that my daughter is starting to nod off. “Let me put her down for a nap before we go any further.” I fill a bottle and take her to her room to put her to sleep.

When I return to the living room my wife is sitting on the couch with her head in her hands, the gun off to the side, leaning against the end table.

“Are you satisfied?” I say, keeping my voice low.

“No,” comes the strangled reply. “This is impossible.”

“It just happened. I’m sitting here now, across from you, and we need to figure out what to do.”

She whips her head up to glare at me. “Fuck you! Don’t tell me that this ‘just happened, so deal with it!’ What about our plans? What about what we wanted!? Our second child! The son you and I wanted! I didn’t sign up for a marriage to a skinny girl! I married James Wakefield, not whoever you are!”

I keep my voice as level as I can. “You think I don’t miss those things too? You’re not the only one whose future has been stolen here.”

“Tell me why! Why did this happen!? How are we supposed to ‘figure this out?” She stands, fists clenched, fury in every inch of her. “As far as my life is concerned my husband vanished last night! I! Don’t! Know! You!”

“It’s no easier for me, Sandra!” I plead. “I have a wife who refuses to believe me and a daughter who can’t recognize me!” I take a step toward her and she lunges for the bookshelf, grabbing at books and decorations.

“Get out!” she shrieks, hurling things at me. A book bounces off the wall behind me and a candle breaks on my shoulder.

I dodge the heavier objects and scoop up the gun. I don’t want to leave this with Sandra when she’s this distraught. I beat feet for the door, pausing only to snag the bag and bundle I came in with before shutting the garage door behind me, jamming it briefly with a folding chair. I take a moment to grab my tiny box of ammo and throw the gun, sword and ammo in the case before hitting the door opener.

As my wife and daughter scream incoherently in anger and confusion on the other side of the door, I step out. I walk away from my home, away from the family I love, leaving with misery in my wake and tears in my eyes.