FORTY-ONE
Fate's Foe
She gasps awake, feeling like she's tangled in seaweed. She starts tugging off the choking weeds – the ones that wormed their way down her throat, the ones that have burrowed into her arm and chest – and suddenly there's all this beeping, some fast, some slow, some a steady drone, and the world swims into view just as an antiseptic stink crawls into her nose, nests there, and has babies.
Louis is on her, holding her down.
"Whoa," he says, "Hold on, bucking bronco, hold on. You're okay. You're okay."
A white cotton pad sits over his left eye, held there by a yellow elastic band.
"Fuck you," she hisses. "You go to hell. Answer my question. Who are you? What do you mean, we? Get out of my head. I want to die or wake up. I want to die or wake up!"
"You are awake," he says, and strokes her hair. "Shhh."
She blinks.
This Louis smells of soap.
And he has one working eye.
And her chest hurts like someone just stabbed her there. Which, last time she checked, is exactly what happened.
"I'm not asleep?" she asks in a small voice.
"Nope."
"This isn't a dream?"
"I don't think so, though I can say it still sometimes feels like one."
Miriam doesn't know what to say. She blurts, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"This situation is… complex. And it's my fault."
He sits down in the chair next to the bed. "It's complex, all right. Not too sure it's your fault, though."
"You can't really understand, and you wouldn't believe me if I told you–"
"I read your diary," he says.
She stares.
"What?"
He pulls it out from the back of his waistband and rests it on her lap. "I'm sorry. I know that's not a real nice thing to do, but you left me needing some answers. I hope you understand that. I thought you were just trying to rip me off – and maybe, once upon a time, you were – but next thing I know, I'm in a lighthouse and some bald weirdo is trying to cut out my eyes, and then you're there, and you're half-dead at the bottom of the lighthouse and the bald weirdo is all dead in the middle, and… I needed to know what was going on. You were gone from this world, so I couldn't ask you anything. All I had was this book – it had fallen out when you took your tumble."
Miriam draws a deep breath, and it hurts like hell. "So you know. You know what I am. What I see."
"I do."
"Do you believe it?"
"I reckon I do. Either that, or you just performed the longest, weirdest con in the history of con-jobs."
"Do I see a hint of a smile?"
"You might. Even after all this, you might."
She hesitates, but she's never been known before for traipsing around touchy subjects.
"Did they save the eye?"
Louis bites at his thumbnail. "Nope."
"I'm so sorry."
He waves it off. "Things happen in this life. Sometimes they're good things, and sometimes they're bad things. You have to come to terms with the bad things, especially when you can't change them."
"And when you can change them?"
"Then you do your damnedest to make those changes."
An image of Ingersoll, blood bubbling up out of the bullet hole, flies before her eyes.
"I guess you do," she says.
"Heck," he says, leaning back. "At least I got this cool eye-patch."
"That you do. If they don't let you drive a truck anymore, maybe you could be a pirate."
"It's the pirate's life for me."
She laughs.
"You going to stick around?" she asks. "I know you probably have places to be, but I'm guessing that they're going to keep me here a little while longer."
"They are. At least another week. You fractured some bones, and there was this funny thing about a knife sticking out of your lung."
"It's just, I think I need somebody right now."
He nods. "I do, too."
"So you're not going anywhere?"
"Only wherever you're going. You saved my life – kind of. For that, I figure I owe you my time."
She smiles. "Can you do me one more favor?"
"Name it."
It hurts to do so, but she picks up the diary and pitches it at him like a Frisbee. He almost doesn't catch it, but he fumbles it a few times before getting a grip.
"Still working on that depth perception thing," he says.
"Oh. Sorry."
"What's the favor?"
"Throw that away," she says.
"How about I just throw it in the ocean?"
She frowns and makes an "uck" noise. "I wouldn't do that to the poor fishies. Plus, I always hate that scene in the movies. Throw it in the ocean, it's always out there. Or it'll wash up on the shore for someone to find. Get rid of it. All the pages are used up. It tells a story I don't want to tell. Find a trashcan and throw it out. Better still, a dumpster, and better than that, a giant belching furnace, the kind that burns up bodies."
He stands and kisses her. His lips are dry, but that doesn't stop them from being soft, or it from being the best damn kiss she's ever dreamed could be kissed.
"I'll throw it away," he says.
"I hurt."
"I know."
"I think I need to sleep."
"I know that, too. You going to be okay for a while? You look a little sad."
Miriam shrugs as much as she can manage. "It is what it is, Louis. It is what it is."
About the Author
Chuck Wendig is a novelist, screenwriter, and game designer.
He is the author of the novels Double Dead and Blackbirds.
He is a fellow of the Sundance Screenwriting Lab. His short film (written with co-author and director Lance Weiler) Pandemic showed at the Sundance Film Festival in 2011. That same year, Collapsus – a digital transmedia drama, also co-authored with Weiler – was nominated for an International Digital Emmy and a Games 4 Change award.
He has contributed over two million words to the game industry, and was developer of the popular Hunter: The Vigil game line.
He currently lives in Pennsyltucky with his beautiful wife Michelle, their taco terrier Tai-Shen, and his son (known as "B-Dub").
You can find him at his website, Terrible Minds, where he remains busy dispensing dubious writing wisdom. Said dubious wisdom is collected in eBook form, such as in the popular 500 Ways To Be A Better Writer.
terribleminds.com