Avery
I feel the weight of the world on me. No, maybe it’s the weight of the universe.
Whatever it is, it’s threatening to crush me.
If I could, I would run away, but my legs won’t obey me. Neither does anything else.
All my attempts at moving fall on deaf limbs. My arms won’t lift, and my legs feel like they’re filled with lead.
And then there’s the pain, slicing through me like a cold knife.
Every inch of me hurts, from the top of my head to my big toe’s toenail. If I’d been run over by a speeding train, I’m sure I’d be feeling less pain than I do right now.
And not only is it difficult to breathe, it’s difficult to just be. I can’t make sense of where I am, what’s weighing me down, or how I got to this unknown place.
Have I died?
Possibly.
Don’t people who have come close to death talk about having an out of body experience? Maybe that’s what this is. I’m having an out of body experience.
It feels like it, anyhow, although I have always imagined that it would feel more floaty than this. More detached. Painless.
Well, right now, the pain is very, very real.
For some reason, my eyes refuse to cooperate and stay open for any length of time. When they do open, I catch a glimpse of flickering flames. Bright yellow fingers with orange tips that reach upwards, like they’re trying to grab something, something just out of reach.
There’s something I’m trying to grab, but it’s out of my reach, too.
My thoughts are in disarray, like slippery, tangled spaghetti noodles in my head.
The flames are oddly reassuring. I guess if I’m dead, at least I died warm.
I try and stretch under the mountain of furry things covering me. Immediately, I stop. The pain shooting through me is unbearable. Maybe something is crushing me—something furry and warm and alive.
I dismiss the thoughts almost instantly. If it was living, it would have a distinct smell, and whatever is covering me does not smell the way I assume a wild animal would smell. At the same time…it doesn’t exactly not smell like an animal, either.
“Boof!” I something hear bark above me.
A dog. There’s a dog on top of me. A huge freaking dog.
At least that explains the crushing warmth.
I try again to open my eyes. Instead of opening all the way, they turn into tiny slits.
The world looks strange this way. Everything is kind of squashed and blurry. I feel like the camera app of an iPhone that’s been dropped one too many times.
Thinking hurts too much, and so I stop. I let my gaze linger on those flames instead.
Fire.
It plays with my mind and lulls me into a fantasy world.
Am I in Hell?
The thought upsets me a little. I know I haven’t been a model citizen, but then again, who has?
I went to the charity galas I was supposed to. I honored my father and mother. I don’t even really swear that much, for freak’s sake.
Look. Let it be known that while living, Avery Wilkins did her very best to behave as a very good girl.
But maybe I’d missed something. Maybe I’d thought too many naughty thoughts about Channing Tatum or said too many things in anger. Maybe God was angry at me.
Had I really behaved so badly in life that Hell is where I ended up? If that’s the case, I shudder to imagine where the likes of Hitler and Stalin and that sinister looking guy on the Quaker Oats box went.
I bury my head deeper into the pillow. At least I think my head’s on a pillow. Maybe it’s just another dog. It’s difficult to tell.
I’m not really in a fit state to check out what’s under me. I can’t even raise my head.
The flames continue to lick at the walls and change in size. Something makes them crackle, grow, and then throw sparks into the air.
With the increase in intensity, I close my eyes again.
If I’m dead, I may as well get used to the experience.
So far, it’s not exactly what I imagined being dead would be like. Or rather, how I would have imagined, if I had ever actually imagined being dead.
I mean, who would, at my age? I haven’t even reached my twenties yet. Now, I never will.
My ears detect a noise of some sort. Is that…heavy breathing?
No. Negative.
Ugh. This is all so frustrating. So confusing! So hard!
Whatever has happened to me, it is so much worse than one of those hangovers I suffer from when attending one of Daddy’s boring social gatherings. To cope with the entire ordeal, I usually drink too much champagne. One glass is fine, but two?
Daddy’s security agents usually have to escort me back up to my room at that point, before I fall asleep on the French ambassador’s shoulder again.
But what can I say? The champagne helps dull the agonizing speeches and bad jokes from those dreadful evenings. But never without consequence.
No, the next morning, the alcohol comes back to haunt me in spades. Massive headache, aching body, nausea, and lethargy are the after effects. They last for about half a day—and then I’m good to go again.
But all that seems like a piece of cake compared to what I’m feeling now. Half a day, a glass of ice-cold organic coconut water, and a greasy cheeseburger that Daddy’s security team promises not to tell Mommy about seems like a cakewalk compared to this.
I’m not sure that this will ever end.
Each and every time I wake up hung over from one of those silly events, I vow not to bow to Daddy’s will and attend one ever again, but my resolve never lasts.
Neither does my resolve to avoid that second glass of champagne.
I was a weak human being. No wonder I’ve been sent to Hell.
It’s a stupid version of Hell, by the way. No welcoming party, no gift bags, nothing.
Although, I guess at least there’s a dog here. I can feel his wet nose poking around in my hair, sniffing me with curiosity.
My useless thoughts are disturbed by a shadow falling across the fire.
Actually, shadow is the wrong word. Something blocks my view of the flames altogether.
I close my eyes again. The sheer effort of keeping them open is too much for me.
When I do, strange images fill in the darkness inside my head.
Someone’s yelling at me, grabbing my wedding dress, and ripping it apart.
Then there’s the broken headlights of a dying car.
Strong, big hands. A man smelling of wood and cold.
Then, nothing. Nothing at all.
Something touches me. It feels like a butterfly is landing on my cheek before moving onto my forehead and then to my hand.
I like it.
Butterfly kisses, that’s what it feels like. Hot, gentle butterfly kisses that leave my skin tingling with delight upon contact.
In my mind, I see tissue paper wings of purple, red, and blue.
This time when I open my eyes, I no longer see the fire. But there’s no butterfly, either.
Instead, what I see bent over and looming above me, is a bear.
No, that’s stupid. Not a bear.
A man.
But he’s certainly a big man, with dark, wild hair akin to a Grizzly. His facial features aren’t exactly friendly, either.
His thick, dark brows are knitted together, leaving his forehead with more lines than a road map.
If I thought some of Daddy’s security guards were scary looking, they now pale into insignificance compared to this mountain of a man.
Mountain man. He looks like a mountain man. Part man, part Grizzly, part mountain.
My eyes refuse to stay open for too long. I close them again. For how long I can’t tell, but when I open them again, he’s still there.
I can feel my heart beat faster.
Some Hell this is. Could he really be a man crossed with a bear? His shoulders are so broad, I think he could put an actual Grizzly back in its place without any trouble.
I can’t see his mouth or his lips. There’s a beard covering the lower half of his face, a beard that looks more unruly and unkempt than, I don’t know, Harry Potter’s BFF Hagrid.
Now that’s a thought—one that I warm to the longer I think about it: maybe I’m not dead. Maybe I’m just dreaming. Maybe I’ve entered some kind of book world, following along with the plot as a sort of bystander or something.
At least that would be nicer than being in Hell.
“Hi, Hagrid,” I say in a tiny, sleepy little voice. I smile a little at the thought. “Will you show me your magic umbrella?”
But unlike Hagrid, this big man is wearing a strange, red checkered shirt. It takes incredible effort for me to work out that the material is flannel.
It’s not something I would usually wear. In my super expensive, über cool wardrobe you won’t find flannel, not even in the night dress department. But like every well-educated girl, I do know my fabrics, so I recognize the stuff when I see it.
The chocolate eyes of the stranger now come closer.
Chocolate.
His eyes are like chocolate.
Dark, delicious, and not at all good for you.
Scary-looking men like this one are no good. I know this from Daddy’s security team. They might have their sweet spots, but they all have a terrible reputation for a good reason—most of them have at least killed one person and could snap my neck with just their forefinger and thumb.
Menacing and intimidating. That’s what they look like, because that’s their job: to menace and intimidate other people.
My throat feels dry and I find it difficult to swallow.
Fear is taking hold. Is this man going to kill me?
Deep down, I know I need to be worried, but I just can’t remember why right now.
“Relax,” the beard says in a remarkably soft voice. “Relax. You’re gonna be okay. No need to panic.”
His voice is nothing like those of Daddy’s bodyguards. It’s like chocolate melting on my tongue.
Chocolate.
I’d really love some chocolate right now.
His face comes closer, and I find those brown eyes studying me intimately. If I were in a better frame of mind, I might ask him why he’s looking so stern. His lips, partially hidden by all that hair, are drawn to a thin line, not a hint of a smile.
There are worry lines around those eyes.
I move my gaze from his face and take in the rest of him. He’s so broad in the shoulders that it looks like the shirt, probably a triple extra-large as it is, would pop at the seams any second now. Even through my little slits, I can see that the top half of the shirt is unbuttoned and that there are muscles upon muscles and dark, thick chest hair beneath.
Daddy’s personal bodyguard, who looks like he’s spent most of his life in the gym, would take one look at this man and die of envy.
Is this even a real man? Maybe not. He definitely looks too good to be real.
If I’m dead, he could be a god. If so, my pastor is going to be totally put out. Jesus on the cross might have a six pack, but this man is packing more like a baker’s dozen.
I try and rummage around my head for any knowledge I have on the Greek and Norse gods and the afterlife.
The sheer effort is too much, and I drift into a light sleep once again. Now my head is filling with visions of gods: Apollo, Odin, Zeus, and Thor.
Maybe being dead isn’t going to be so bad after all. This man scares me the way that an all-powerful God should, but there’s something undeniably attractive about him as well.
He’s mumbling something to me.
I wish he’d speak up.
But try as I might, I can’t rouse myself into a fully conscious state. The world, whatever world I’m in now, stays out of focus and beyond my comprehension, until finally, I give in to the exhaustion and drift back to sleep.
Even in my unconsciousness, I don’t think the stranger—or his strange dog—leave my side.