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(our)

—bear.

Naked, sweating, barely upright. His fist on my hip, over that left-side swastika—fingers spanning my thigh, nudging my half-hard cock. Steering me by it, practically, like it was a magic wand that’d make me do whatever he wanted me to . . .

( . . . whatever . . . I wanted to.)

Because here’s the truth, all right? It was never what Karl wanted that scared me. It was the part of me that desperately wanted to be what he wanted—to do whatever it took to keep him with me, on me, in me. The insatiable part. The angry part. The—

(bear part)

That voice, murmuring—was it even coming from him, anymore? Or from somewhere deep inside me?

So c’mon, baby: Into the woods, knife out. And I’ll get mine, and you’ll get yours, and we’ll be together, always—

Hunt together. Kill together. Eat . . . together—

(—forever.)

And at the last second, the very last second possible . . . I turned, and I dropped the knife, and I punched him in the face, so hard I broke a knuckle. And then I took off, running. And I have never looked back, never. Not ever.

* * *

. . . ’till now.

* * *

Say it with me, once again: Right now. Which is when I find myself turning sharp off this last, gravel-paved trace of road—eyes burning, neck stiff, limbs fatigue-cramped, with memory still lodged bone-deep and burning sharp in every part of me, like too much lactic acid after a long, hard race. When I pull over into the trees at the bottom of Karl’s hill, turning the engine off, getting out, kicking my joints awake again . . .

Then look up, squinting into the sun. And easily spot, even through seven years’ worth of encroaching overgrowth, the door of what that blond kid says Karl’s will says is (from this moment on) “my” cabin.

The key still works, albeit with a rusty click. Inside I find a homespun panorama of decay—wood-rot and silence, dust rising like ghosts, screen-doors black with caterpillar corpses, cobwebs laden deep with mummified flies. That oil-lamp we used to see by, its wick only half-burnt, waiting for a match’s kiss; that unvarnished pine table-and-chairs set Karl once bent me across, splintery as ever. That same fireplace, full of cold ashes.

And everything I touch, everything I don’t—just, plain, everything—still smells . . . exactly . . .

. . . like Karl.

Musty, musky. Earthy as a cave. Like somewhere you can sleep all winter, hibernate ’till

spring—live off your own fat and dream, willing yourself into another shape by the time you finally wake.

(And how the fuck can that be, anyway? After seven years?)

I feel a shiver go up my spine at the very thought of trying to answer that particular question, quick and cold as the phantom lick of a long, grooved tongue.

Because: It’s been quite the ride for me, one way or another. And now that it’s finally over, I find I have almost no idea—

(good or bad)

—why I ever actually bothered to come back up here again, in the first damn place.

Dust on the floor, dirt smeared black on the dimming windows. That earthy scent. Berkana in earth, third reading of four: Unsafe footing, shifting ground.

The rune-books’ advice? Hold back a little. Take stock. Try “not to be so pushy,” because—

(things)

—could rebound on you.