here is the wendigo story:It’s been weeks. Weeks. It is all I can do to stare up into the canopy of the tent. I cannot even begin to try and move from the sleeping bag. I turn my head to the left to assess her condition. She is far worse off than I. Her hips have become bone, hard, thick cat ears jutting from her waist. Her sweater and blankets cover most of her body, though I know that underneath the layers her torso has become a xylophone of ribs. She breathes heavily, gasping. I am not much better; I lift my arm slightly and both the ulna and radius are clearly defined. The pain in my muscles is almost constant now; my body is eating itself.
We have been trapped on this mountain, buried in snow for I know not how long. We have no measure with which to keep track of time; we cannot see the sun. I fear myself, fear my mind; I am no longer safe inside my own head. I have horrible thoughts. I have dreams of wrapping my thinning fingers around her throat and watching her struggle, this girl that I love. I watch her pale hair as she breathes in and out, fighting for every gasp. Her soft white skin has become transparent and dead from hunger and thirst. I reach over to her with my boney arm, letting my hand settle in her angel hair.
I stroke her forehead lovingly and close my eyes, willing myself to die in my sleep for fear of the madness within me.
“At least we’ll die together,” she breathes softly.
I sigh, coughing violently with the change in breathing pattern, as I feel his fingers against my brow. His hand is cold. I dare not open my eyes to see what we have become. I feel enough from that touch alone to know that he, like me, has become something no longer human. We are wire frames now, skeletons. Our organs barely function; our muscles dissolve into our bloodstreams. The quiet of the snow and the pain in my body are harmonious.
“At least we’ll die together,” I say, though it comes as a whisper past my peeling lips.
I feel him relax slightly and assume he must be asleep now. I lie still, praying for death to take me. If there is a god, let Him kill me now.
In the night a monster awakens who is not I. I watch with mute horror as the monster turns to my beloved, reaching for her with my body’s hands (they are no longer mine). She doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t struggle. I watch the monster press down harder on her delicate sparrow neck; her eyes flutter softly.
“Thank you,” she gasps.
The monster wastes no time, immediately cutting into her gut with the hunting knife I had brought along for rabbits. I am no longer present; she is alone with the monster as it eats her steaming, withered organs straight from her corpse. Never has the monster tasted anything so wonderful, so nourishing. This monster would, were it capable of emotion, feel such overwhelming happiness and triumph. It becomes too intense for my once-human body to withstand.
The monster is alarmed, furious, as my body rejects this terrible act by vomiting onto the tent floor. The monster uses what used to be my hands to scoop the expelled pieces, forcing them back into my mouth. By this point I am only a soulless observer somewhere far away. The monster continues its feast.
Hours later, or maybe days, the monster is finished with her. She is only hair and scattered bits of bone; the monster ate even her marrow. The monster forces my once-human body to crawl from the tent into the snow. This new body is indifferent to the cold, always in pain. The monster uses its new eyes to survey the mountain, finding nothing. It hungers still.
The monster walks, dragging its new feet, sometimes using its new hands to craw through the snow. A mangled corpse, tall and cracked, it makes its way down the mountain, deeper into the forest. The monster’s skin is pale, bloody, rotten. Its teeth and nails chipped and ground to a repulsive state from breaking bones. The monster will wait in the woods, always walking, always searching. I am nowhere to be found.
The monster will forever starve. The monster will forever hunger. At least we died together.
