Sentinel Green 1.4

Begonia 1.4

    At one point while I’m curled up on the bed I think of my cellphone, on the pavement somewhere near my car, which is, for all I know, still spun out on the middle of that freeway. It’s tempting to lie here forever and never go back to that world of problems, but I know the longer I wait here the more likely it will be that someone comes across that scene.

    So I get to my feet, unsteady as always, and look down at my ridiculous outfit. And then below that. I spread my legs and stare at the place between them, not quite ready to explore that whole situation in full, but more to help myself to accept the fact that it’s really a situation. That thing there is definitely real.

    Grimacing and standing up straight again, I take quick stock of the rest of my body. I don’t have rippling biceps or anything, but I look like I try at being fit, which… I do not try very hard at all at, in my regular body. I smooth my hands down my abs and thighs, which feel strong and like they would support me with gusto if I decided to go sprint a few miles. I just… feel vital, poised and ready, healthy and whole. It’s how I’d always imagined being really, truly in shape would feel. I’ve never been overweight but I’ve never been strong or fast, and now I feel like I’m both.

    Next I ruffle my hands through my hair. I look skyward, then to the left and right, but all I can tell is that I have shaggy dark bangs. I have no clue what color my eyes are, but I’ll save that for later.

    For now I close them and focus on… wait. What do I focus on? I’d come here because I wanted to be safe. No part of me wants to return to that horror on the highway, but I know I have to.

    So I close my eyes again and sigh. Take me back to where I need to be. I have a feeling that will work better than using specific names for places… the travel seems to be driven by emotion rather than thought.

    It takes a while--a good ten seconds or so--but then I feel the still air of the apartment vanish to be replaced by the crisp, cool night winds of the outdoors. I open my eyes, expecting to see the blue flashing lights of police cruisers, but there’s no one there.

    And I really do mean that--there’s no one there. The moth is gone, and so is the body of the girl. All that’s left is my Neon, my cellphone, and me--one very confused, newly-minted man.

    I kneel by the place where I hit the girl, and my stomach lurches a little. There’s still blood. If my new benefactor took the body away it left behind the evidence. I frown at the dark splatters on the road and my eyes track up and away--could she have--no. She was dead. Dead-dead. Puchuu and the moth were both in agreement, and they seem like the type of creatures who would know. I scoop up my cellphone and turn on the flashlight feature, and when it illuminates the pavement my skin crawls and my stomach drops.

    There’s blood, yes--but it’s been disturbed now, and by what looks like an enormous human hand. Like a medium pizza-sized human hand, which is where my brain goes for some demented reason. There’s a smear, then another few messy prints--was the body dragged?

    That’s all I need to know. I am getting the hell out of Dodge.

    I’m at least fifteen miles from home, probably more, and I am no longer even remotely contemplating leaving the vehicle here. I clamber wildly into my car through the passenger side and hit my limbs on every single surface or jutting object I can manage. I flop over my middle console, having “tripped” during my crawl, but then I manage to reach beneath the seat and shove my driver’s side seat as far back as I can. From there I shimmy-roll into it, and, exhausted but high on adrenaline, take a second to breathe and steady my hands.

    Not even sure if my car will turn over, I turn the key--and it does. It’s making a sad, grinding sound, but I think it’ll get me home. It better get me home. I peel away from the blood and the freakish handprints and don’t stop driving at almost-fast-enough-to-get-pulled-over speeds until I hit my first red light off the highway. By that point the shaking has subsided, and each time I check the rearview and don’t see a Lovecraftian horror I feel a little better.

    While driving on a stretch of road where I actually have to make stops, I make another unpleasant discovery. My feet are… well, big. The car lurches and jolts with each shift from the accelerator to the brake and I wind up putting a lot more pressure on each pedal than I want to with my longer, stronger legs. It’s annoying at the least and tacks on a few awkward minutes to my journey home.

    Now that I’m far away from the scene of the accident, though, I have the time and capacity to think. This turns out to be not such a great thing.

    For the first time since this happened I’m not sure I want to go home. The moth had warned me about staying away for my own good, but that’s not why I’m afraid. Do I really want to bring this mess right to their doorstep?

    I have nothing to try to clean the blood on my car with, and really… it’s futile. Fear licks at my insides and I have my first surge of gratitude for this body. When, and not if, they link this blood to me, I won’t have my old body to take the blame any longer.

    At the next red light, a notoriously long one, I pull my phone across the passenger seat to me and look through my old messages. I mean to try to compose one to Mina or Victor, to maybe prepare them a little, but instead it turns into me sitting in my car scrolling through the names of all the friends who had texted me recently.

    I stop at one in particular and open up a message to him.

    yo, I type with clumsy, larger fingers. i know you’re still at work but i just wanted to say i won’t be able to make it to D&D tomorrow.

    I glance up--the light’s still red. I feel like I should offer up some kind of explanation to my friend, but what can I say? I type some more nonsense greetings and hit “send.” Then I lower my head onto my steering wheel and shake with silent laughter. I just got turned into a magical, druid-like man, committed vehicular manslaughter and what am I doing? I’m making sure my scheduling is in order. The light goes green as I look up and I jam myself backwards into the seat as I jerk my car forward with a slight screech.

    I know I’ll lose my mind if I try to deal with anything other than my immediate problems, so I focus in on Mina and Victor first. The rest of this I can deal with later.

    Mina won’t be nightmare mode the way Victor will be, but I know I have to play my cards right if I’m going to get her to believe me. In the twelve years I’ve known her she and I went from two childhood friends, obsessed with the supernatural and spiritual to two grown women who still never quite gave up those dreams. Mina wants to believe in aliens, in fairies, in vampires and werewolves and ghosts, and I can only pray that this will help me convince her that I’m me.

    I’m no Mina, but I’ve always nursed a fascination with and a longing for the supernatural. I’ve spent more than enough time daydreaming what it would be like to have magical powers, or how I would react if I was transported to an alien planet or an alternate dimension. When I was younger I always assumed I’d adapt perfectly, never questioning my surroundings (or, only questioning them a little) and rushing off into grand adventure. As I got older and established more roots, I realized it would be way harder than my innocent ten-year-old self had thought--and now that it’s happening? I’m freaking out, but good.

    I make it home, somehow. My familiar little one-story would normally mean relaxation, flopping into bed and curling up to sleep, maybe watching some Star Trek: Enterprise before turning out the lights. Now my heart is jack-hammering against my ribs as I messily park and engage the e-brake. I slump backwards in the chair and stare at the steering wheel, trying to think up a script in my head. This is going to be terrible.

    There’s also the fact that I’m still dressed like I’m cosplaying. How do I get this outfit to go away? I close my eyes, the way I did to reach the home, but… nothing seems to happen. Damn it. Being dressed this way is not going to help my case, but it looks like I have no choice.

    Forgetting that my driver’s side door is jammed, I grab the handle and push to let myself out--and a grinding, screeching sound of metal on metal meets my ears as I outright wrench the door open with what feels like a small push. Adrenaline spikes through my system as I jerk my hand back from the door, but it’s partially open now, so I give it an experimental little push outward. It still groans, but it opens to let me out.

    I clamber to my feet outside the car and stare at the front quarter panel. It’s bent--I apparently wrenched the frame a little in trying to get out of the vehicle. What the hell kind of freak am I?

    I leave the door slightly ajar, not wanting to mess with it more, and make my way up the driveway to our front door. I don’t let myself overthink it. Instead I poke my head in and spot Victor at his computer just inside the threshold of the living room, where he usually is. It’s so good to see him, someone familiar after all this madness. He’s definitely got the look of a former Marine, which he is--short cropped reddish brown hair, olive drab t-shirts, mostly neat facial hair. A jolt of fear and nerves takes me and he glances up, frowning briefly at the unfamiliar face. When I don’t automatically walk past him to Mina’s little sister’s room, he gives me a lingering look. Her friends often let themselves in and roam over to her room, and we don’t bat an eye.

    “You here for Angela?” he asks, his hazel eyes shrewd, and I shake my head.

    “We’re not interested,” he follows, probably assuming I’m some weird late-night door-to-door group or hawking my preferred flavor of religion. He never once moves his hands from the keys of his computer, freckled arms poised in place. He has no reason to think anything is amiss yet.

    That’s all about to change.

    “Victor,” I say. “It’s me. It’s Ash.”