"-has been found in an alleyway close to the Triden National Park. Forensic experts have been unable to identify the cause of death, but say that some sort of animal was definitely involved. Clark Wayne reports live from-"
It's enough to make me snap my eyes open, fright coursing through my body. Then I have to shut them again because the light from the screen is too bright, and the pounding headache is the second sign that I'm awake. Really you'd think it'd be the first one, since it is a planet-sized hangover and everything, but I suppose it was waiting to introduce itself after I heard the T.V. come on. Hangovers can suck like that. Makes you wonder why people bother with alcohol at all.
With a groan, I sit up in bed, but that only makes the pounding worse. There's a lot of questions in my head right now, all buzzing for attention, but the one that manages to barge it's way in front is "how much did I drink last night?" See, I have literally no tolerance for alcohol whatsoever - one shot of rum and vodka is enough to get me reeling - and I remember one of my flatmates managed to coax me into going out partying last night. But that's all I can remember clearly - the rest is a complete blur, so I know I must have gotten drunk at some point. Part of me wonders how much of it went up on Facebook or whatever.
I reach up to nurse my forehead, and two things make me freeze in horror. The first is the dried blood flaking off my fingers in shards and fluttering to the bedsheets. If I were anyone else, maybe I would have assumed I had some kind of accident, but instead I drop my hand to my mouth and yep, there's more around my lips and on my chin. Some of it even migrated up to my cheeks, and I have to boggle at how it got there.
The second, as I turn my head, flashes up on the television.
"-the early hours of the morning. The body was found in a sorry state, viciously mauled and partially eaten by some unknown creature. The police department was able to cordon off the area to the general public, and the cordon remains whilst detectives and forensic experts analyze the body to discover the cause of-"
If my skin wasn't already pale as ash, my face would have turned white at this point.
And then the churning in my stomach kicked in, and I found myself scrambling out of bed and dashing for the bathroom, feet slipping on the carpet as I go. I nearly wrench the door off it's hinges as I run in - I don't know my own strength sometimes - and reach the toilet just in time to not spill anything as I throw up. And then, because I'm dumb and can't help it, I look in the bowl, and what I see in there's enough to make me throw up again.
I feel awful. And not just from the hangover.
When I'm done, I remember what I have to do.
First, I open up the medicine cabinet above the sink and fetch the paracetamol. I down two tablets with water from the cold tap, then gulp down more water from the tap to solve the dehydration problem. Yeah, it's unhygienic, but I've got more immediate problems.Then I stagger back to bed - nearly tripping on the ubiquitous feather boa on the way - and crawl between the covers. They're damp with sweat and smell a bit funny, but I don't care. I turn off the T.V., just to get some peace and quiet, and drift off in no time.
When I wake up next, my clock reads 1:25pm. Good. My uncle will be available now. I reach over for my iPhone, nearly drop it in the attempt and catch it just in time. There's a feeling like ice in my stomach as I punch in the number of his place, but I know I have to do it. It's thanks to him I'm still alive, that I can go to university and learn things and interact with people without... well, without incident, let's say.
It feels like ages before he picks up.
"Hello?" There he is. No mistaking that accent, the one that all of his people have. It's comforting and unnerving all at the same time - I don't really know how to explain it. My mom inherited some of it, but my dad was from New York and thus didn't have any of it. I think I preferred hanging out with mom, for that reason.
"Um," I begin. "Hello. It's me."
"Ah." And that's it. That's all he's got to say. I swallow, the ice in my gut traveling up to my chest, and try to carry on.
"Look. Last night-"
"I know." Of course he knows. Don't ask me how - in fact, don't even ask him how, because he won't tell. But the fact that he knows nearly makes me snap, nearly makes me blurt out apologies, try to make excuses, tell him that the Beer Bong (how do I remember that now?) wasn't my idea and-
"It wasn't your fault."
Confusion sets in. "Huh? But then how-?"
"It's red paint. And you had a kebab at Tony's before you went home. I keep telling you not to have those, they're not good for you."
I sigh in relief. So it had to have been a bear that killed that other guy. Or maybe one of the local zombies got to him or something. Poor guy, nobody deserves that kind of fate, even if they did bring it upon themselves. But now all that's left is to find Mickey and shove a pie in his face for the red paint thing. I swear, he gets some kind of sick thrill off making me panic like that - even if he is a fae, that's just wrong.
"Alright," I say. "I'll, uh, try and lay off those in the future."
"Sure." He sounds much more open now, more like himself. "Have a good night?"
"Yeah." Better not tell him about the hangover. Or the fact that you've just noticed somebody else's shirt lying on the floor, andyou have an awful suspicion of who's it might be.
"No classes today?"
"Nope."
"Alright, I'll speak to you tomorrow. Make sure you do your work."
"I will. Later!"
"Kîhtwâm ka-wâpamitin." He hangs up. Hooray, crisis adverted. Now, I need to clean the paint off my face, find Kali to return her shirt and then punch Mickey in the face. Oh, and I need to polish off the first draft of this dissertation on the history of the steel roller-coaster, all whilst ingesting enough chicken bites and raw steak to keep me from getting the fidgets. All-in-all, a busy day. But it's going to be worth it, because mom promised me a holiday to Vegas, in order to recuperate and relax, and I could use a break from trying not to randomly bite people's throats out on the street.
Being a Wendigo is hard, sometimes.
INTRODUCING
Josh Grelle as STEPHEN TREMBLAY
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