Chapter Text
I’ve always been alone.
I always tried to be nice and do good things. I shared my toys, my pencils, and my books with other kids in class. I could talk about anything and listen when I needed to. I enjoyed listening to music and reading, and I kept up with all the most recent TV shows.
But somehow, without realizing it, I did bad things.
When I was 8 years old, I had disappeared for a period of time while on a camping trip at Mt. Ebott. Soon, rumors of a local legend surfaced. It spoke of kids being whisked away to another world inside the mountain, never to be seen again. Most people passed it off as old folk superstition and the gorgeous mountains became a popular camping ground, but after my disappearance, the local elderly population began yammering about it again, chastising the younger generation for its foolishness.
For months, my family, neighbors, and town searched for me. Then, one day, as sudden as I had disappeared, I reappeared with no recollection of what had happened. The police asked me if I remembered my kidnapper’s face, but I didn’t remember a kidnapper at all. That was nearly 10 years ago. My parents don’t like to talk about it, so after a year of questions and prodding, I dropped the matter and just continued on with life.
After that incident, I blanked out a lot more. There would be spaces in my memory where I don’t recall what I do or say. My mom eventually had me see a psychologist after an incident where I smashed a whole colony of snails living in the fern bush in our front lawn. She found me surrounded by crushed shells and frothing bodies, armed with a shovel and a salt shaker. I only remembered her horrified expression as she asked me, “What have you done?”
I didn’t know how to answer her.
My psychologist, Dr. Macy, was nice. She asked me many things and I never quite knew how to answer her. There were many things I couldn’t remember. She listened patiently though and said a lot of things that go over my head. But I did try to take her advice and make more friends.
There was a boy in class named Stevie Martins. He sat next to me and was always reading under the table during class. I wasn’t as daring, but I certainly loved books too. Stevie was more than thrilled to introduce me to the newest series that he was hooked on and soon, we bonded over adventures in fantasy worlds filled with magical creatures and fantastic mysteries.
My friendship with Stevie was short lived, however. Shortly before summer vacation started for that year, Stevie and I got into a fight. It was over something stupid and childish that I couldn’t remember, but the next thing I knew, he was on the ground, crying and cradling his rapidly swelling cheek.
The same day, Stevie’s mom called mine and forbid me from ever talking to Stevie again.
I was moved to the opposite side of the room during class and cast aside. My classmates avoided me and I always felt a chill settle whenever I was around. Eventually, I stopped trying to talk to the other kids. My reputation carried over to the next school year, so I focused on my books instead. Dr. Macy kept gently encouraging me to make friends but I told her no one would talk to me. During one the sessions, I spaced out and only refocused when I heard Dr. Macy stammering over her words, trying to form coherent sentences. I left that session confused and tired.
I started getting bullied towards the end of elementary school. Some tough kids had heard about what I did to Stevie Martins and sought me out.
The first time it happened, I was eating lunch in the corner of the playground, reading a novel my dad gotten me for my birthday. All of a sudden, my book was snatched out of my hand and I looked up to a group of snickering older kids, my book dangling from the leader’s hand. She regarded my book with disgust, as if it was something yucky that she had picked out of the garbage. I had only heard rumors about Deborah Wong. She was one of the prettiest girls in the sixth grade class and was always followed around by her admirers. She was also one of the meanest people around, taking advantage of her popularity to pick on others.
With a wrinkled nose, she declared, “Eww. Books. Perfect for little worms.” Her friends laughed as she threw my novel on the ground and smeared it into the dirt with her shoe. I just watched, too shocked to do anything. She flipped her curls over her shoulder and walked away, leaving me in the dust. My book was ruined, with pages torn and dirtied. I picked it up anyways, attempted to straighten the pages and brushed off some of the dirt. I knew I shouldn’t fight back, so I bit my lip and finished my lunch.
The second time, I spent most of my lunch time trying to wash ketchup out of my hair and clothes. As I left the bathroom, I sighed quietly at my grumbling stomach glanced at my ruined lunch in the trash can.
The third time, I bit back tears as the school nurse patched up my scraped up knees. I lied and told her I had tripped on a crack in the asphalt. The nurse tutted and told me to be more careful in the future. When I walked out, Deborah was waiting with her friends. They giggled at the pads of gauze on my knees before sauntering away.
The fourth time, I remember peering fearfully into the garden sink filled to the brim with dirty water, head already drenched and lungs burning. The gravel in the dirt dug into my knees as Deborah forced my head back down into the tub again. When I came to my senses again, Deborah was on the ground screaming with her right arm bent in a direction that was not normal.
I was suspended for a week. I saw Deborah once more after she was out of the hospital and she was so terrified that she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me. I was only kept from expulsion because my mom pleaded, saying I was acting in self-defense. She pulled me from that school and I finished the rest of my last year of elementary school at home. For middle school, she sent me to one the next town over.
Dr. Macy continued to see me, but I noticed wariness in her eyes. It was the same sort of wariness that the other kids had in their eyes as they avoided eye contact with me. Soon, I asked my mom if I could stop going to the sessions. My mom was very worried but I assured her nothing will happen again. She didn’t believe it – I could see it in her eyes – but she relented and pulled me from the sessions as well.
I withdrew from people even more and went to my books. I wasn’t unhappy by any means. I loved reading, and I started writing too. I always had weird dreams that made for interesting stories.
Sometimes I was in a snowy land full of rabbits and overly excited dogs. Other times I would wake up shivering because in my dreams I was in a fiery land and the waking world was far colder.
My days were filled with reading and story-writing. I started watching TV and listening to music. Things went back to normal and I had no more incidents. I didn’t make a single friend in middle school.
In high school, I started learning how to cook. It filled my days with more to do and eased a load off of my busy parents. They smiled at me more and I thought I had gotten over the worst of it.
One day, I spaced out again while making dinner. I came to my mom standing behind the kitchen counter, asking me what I was doing with the knife. I had brandished it in her direction, gripping it until my knuckles turned white. This time, I remembered my response.
“It’s not sharp enough.”
After that, things started to get worse again. I would constantly find myself in the kitchen without knowing how I got there, the whole collection of kitchen knives laid out before me.
There was a small stray dog that frequented our neighborhood. Some of the families would leave our scraps for the poor thing, including ours. I really liked to feed the dog and always looked out for it. It had matted white fur and its left ear stayed floppy all the time. I don’t think I recalled a time I didn’t see its tongue hanging out.
The next time I saw the dog, its white fur was matted with blood, and that same blood coated my hand and the kitchen knife clutched in my hand. I dropped the knife and ran into my house, ripping out a trash bag before rushing back outside. I stuffed the dog and knife into the bag and threw it into our trash bin, thinking how lucky trash day was tomorrow. I hosed down the sidewalk before walking back into the house.
As the front door closed, I realized how calmly I had cleaned up after killing an innocent dog. I ran to the bathroom just in time to empty all the contents of my stomach. Bloody handprints covered the toilet seat and black spots started to cover my vision. I was hyperventilating.
I focused on breathing, in, out, in, and back out. Eventually, I calmed down enough to get up onto shaky legs. I took a good look into the mirror and whispered, “Who are you?”
Later that night, when my mom asked me where one of the knives went, I caught myself before saying, “It was too sharp.”
I did bad things, and I never knew how or why.
I drew back into myself after that incident, keeping myself hyper aware of everything I did. I focused especially when I was near a knife, afraid of what I would do it I allowed myself to be loose.
My dreams also started to change. Frequently, I found myself in a dark tunnel. It would continue on for a long time without end. Eventually, I would see light and run towards it. Each time I left, I see a vast mountain and forest spread out before me.
It took me a couple weeks of the same dream to realize that I was looking at Mt. Ebott.
Somehow, it felt like the answer to my questions would be there. But my parents have refused to even mention it ever since my disappearance, so I knew I couldn’t ask them to take me. The dreams persisted and my curiosity grew. I had a driver’s license, so I looked up the distance from my house to Mt. Ebott. Two hours was not far, so I made plans to go.
My parents worked from morning to evening, so I knew I had enough time to go there and come back without them finding out. When I left the house in the morning, I took a turn towards the freeway instead going down the main street to school.
The two hours passed quickly. It was calming to drive and watch the passing scenery from my peripheral. When I saw the peaks of Mt. Ebott in the distance, I felt excitement stirring in me. I pulled up into the one of the parking spots at the campgrounds and got out of the car. I made sure to lock the car before venturing into the woods.
My feet carried me along, the sound of crinkling leaves beneath becoming background noise. It was only after walking for half an hour that I realized that I had no idea where I was going, yet my feet kept going. Something was tugging at me and I continued to listen to that intuition.
Minutes turned into hours. In the back of my mind, I thought about how I would not be able to make it back in time for dinner. I kept forging ahead, spurred on by the strange sense of determination within me.
Eventually, I reached a jagged outcrop. I didn’t realize I had climbed up a portion of the mountain and was greeted with a stunning view. Golden flowers were scattered across the ground, catching the light of the setting sun.
“Wow…” I breathed, walking forward. It was so beautiful, yet something filled me with anticipation. Something impure, something ominous.
The wind whistled in my ear, carrying unintelligible whispers. My instincts were at war, screaming at me to run while beckoning me to stay. I shivered and turned the sun to my back.
Only my foot stepped onto nothing and I found myself plummeting into a dark pit. I grasped for something, anything, to keep myself from falling, but all I managed to grabbed was a broken branch.
My screams were swallowed by the inky void and the last thing I heard were the echoes of a gleeful giggle.