without drawing attention, across the restaurant toward where painted ivy ended on the wall at the small hallway that led to the bathroom. Sickness was swollen inside her, threatening to burst from her mouth as she ran past diners in their booths, focused on the restrooms ahead, nestled in the dark hallway at the restaurant’s rear.
The vomit was seconds from spilling. She hoped the bathroom wasn’t occupied, or worse, locked.
Please be open, please be …
She pushed the door, half expecting resistance. Finding none, she fell into the bathroom and ran into a stall, then fell to the floor as vomit spewed from her mouth in a violent, painful eruption, spraying everywhere: some in the toilet, and the rest on the seat, wall, and chipped tile floor.
Abigail felt knives in her head, piercing her thoughts, until suddenly she was flashing back on memories that didn’t belong to her.
Karen’s memories tore through her system first, shredding Abigail’s thoughts as they went — first Karen was laying in bed with her newborn baby, feeling so happy, softly pinching his squishy cheeks, singing to him. Then more memories: Karen stressed out and weeping, her son crying, sick with a fever. Karen was exhausted and didn’t know how much more she could take. She felt horrible for thinking of herself when her child was sick, but was running on zero sleep.
God, why can’t you help me?
Karen’s memories were then swallowed by another’s — Hank Terault’s, a man she’d killed three months ago. Hank was a monster of a man who bullied his wife, his child, and even his senile father. He’d escaped the justice system, but not the justice of Larry and Abigail.
She suffered through the man’s final moments and abuses in rewind until flashing through his memories as a child, before his doddering father was fighting dementia, and was quite the monster himself. Hank was 6, and had accidentally turned off the TV during a football game. His father shoved him aside, to the ground, grabbing the remote from Hank’s hand. As the TV flickered back to life, his father screamed, “You dumb fuck! I missed the touchdown!” His dad smacked him hard in the head with the remote, repeatedly until the black plastic was sticky with red.
Hank balled up on the ground crying. His mom tried to pull his father from his body until he turned on her, and let everyone in the house feel the true heat of hellfire.
Abigail’s head was swirling with Karen and Hank’s memories, before a trio of others joined them, all five flashing through her mind like a blitzed-out cable box furiously switching channels. Abigail was barely aware of herself, as if she’d been banished from her body, clutching the sides of the toilet, and emptying her insides until she felt a sudden but gentle hand on her back.
Abigail jumped, startled, and turned back, yelling, “Don’t touch me!”
Katya withdrew her hand, eyes wide and startled; still alive, but only because she had touched Abigail’s shirt, and not anywhere on her skin.
Abigail was finally back in her own head, her victims’ memories gone.
What was that?
She’d been assaulted by memories before, but only during a feeding and just after. Memories never returned like this. Her head was swollen with a dull ache, and her body felt as if she’d thrown up half a cow. Her ribs felt ruined and her stomach spoiled. She was cold and shaking, as if stricken with flu.
“Are you OK?” Katya asked, kneeling. After she got a better look at the girl, she whispered, “Oh, my God, Abigail, you’re so pale.”
Abigail looked away and closed her eyes as tears fell from between her shut lids.
Katya reached out to comfort the girl, but Abigail pulled back. “Don’t touch me,” she half snarled.
Their eyes met, and a sort of raw understanding seemed to light Katya’s eyes, even though Abigail couldn’t imagine how anyone could ever understand there was a monster inside her.
Or that her monster needed to be continually
The vomit was seconds from spilling. She hoped the bathroom wasn’t occupied, or worse, locked.
Please be open, please be …
She pushed the door, half expecting resistance. Finding none, she fell into the bathroom and ran into a stall, then fell to the floor as vomit spewed from her mouth in a violent, painful eruption, spraying everywhere: some in the toilet, and the rest on the seat, wall, and chipped tile floor.
Abigail felt knives in her head, piercing her thoughts, until suddenly she was flashing back on memories that didn’t belong to her.
Karen’s memories tore through her system first, shredding Abigail’s thoughts as they went — first Karen was laying in bed with her newborn baby, feeling so happy, softly pinching his squishy cheeks, singing to him. Then more memories: Karen stressed out and weeping, her son crying, sick with a fever. Karen was exhausted and didn’t know how much more she could take. She felt horrible for thinking of herself when her child was sick, but was running on zero sleep.
God, why can’t you help me?
Karen’s memories were then swallowed by another’s — Hank Terault’s, a man she’d killed three months ago. Hank was a monster of a man who bullied his wife, his child, and even his senile father. He’d escaped the justice system, but not the justice of Larry and Abigail.
She suffered through the man’s final moments and abuses in rewind until flashing through his memories as a child, before his doddering father was fighting dementia, and was quite the monster himself. Hank was 6, and had accidentally turned off the TV during a football game. His father shoved him aside, to the ground, grabbing the remote from Hank’s hand. As the TV flickered back to life, his father screamed, “You dumb fuck! I missed the touchdown!” His dad smacked him hard in the head with the remote, repeatedly until the black plastic was sticky with red.
Hank balled up on the ground crying. His mom tried to pull his father from his body until he turned on her, and let everyone in the house feel the true heat of hellfire.
Abigail’s head was swirling with Karen and Hank’s memories, before a trio of others joined them, all five flashing through her mind like a blitzed-out cable box furiously switching channels. Abigail was barely aware of herself, as if she’d been banished from her body, clutching the sides of the toilet, and emptying her insides until she felt a sudden but gentle hand on her back.
Abigail jumped, startled, and turned back, yelling, “Don’t touch me!”
Katya withdrew her hand, eyes wide and startled; still alive, but only because she had touched Abigail’s shirt, and not anywhere on her skin.
Abigail was finally back in her own head, her victims’ memories gone.
What was that?
She’d been assaulted by memories before, but only during a feeding and just after. Memories never returned like this. Her head was swollen with a dull ache, and her body felt as if she’d thrown up half a cow. Her ribs felt ruined and her stomach spoiled. She was cold and shaking, as if stricken with flu.
“Are you OK?” Katya asked, kneeling. After she got a better look at the girl, she whispered, “Oh, my God, Abigail, you’re so pale.”
Abigail looked away and closed her eyes as tears fell from between her shut lids.
Katya reached out to comfort the girl, but Abigail pulled back. “Don’t touch me,” she half snarled.
Their eyes met, and a sort of raw understanding seemed to light Katya’s eyes, even though Abigail couldn’t imagine how anyone could ever understand there was a monster inside her.
Or that her monster needed to be continually
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