the bears

by Aster May

I’m in the wild. I take the eyes from a heavy, dying man on the side of the skinny, bare road. He cries as he hands them to me, red streaks running from the empty holes. I feel nothing.

There are bears everywhere, off the road and in the woods. My nose sniffs them out; likewise, they always know where I hide. Raging fires lick the air, and I smell the death of life vibrate through me. Terror shakes my legs as I walk into the trees and am surrounded by the thick musk of the beasts. The towering bears thunder closer. I’ve entered their den.

They love human flesh but hate these soft round organs I hold in my hands. The bears weave through the fires on all sides toward the scent of my skin. Mid-roar, they stop dead at the eyes curled in my fists.

Get the fuck back. I point the eyes at them. They disappear back into walls of flames. I feel my jaw grow and my incisors multiply. I have the mouth of a bear. I bite into the eyes in my hands, rip at the wet meat with my forty-two teeth that have become like knives. I swallow and feel myself change.

A year later, there are no more nightmares, not since I was released from the hospital. I wander through this new world and feel lost without them. The medication makes my head fuzzy, and it’s harder for me to remember them now.

But I haven’t forgotten my favorite one: I’m sixteen again and it’s winter in my grandparent’s basement. It’s cold now, not like the usual warmth I know. So cold I can see my breath. So cold that my lungs are fire when I breathe in. My icy nose hairs melt with each exhale. The feather light white popcorn tiles in the drop ceiling are gone. The walls have been gutted. Their wooden insides are exposed. There’s one person in this large basement. My father—he can’t see me. I try to speak to him but I find no voice—only this smoke from my mouth.

Dad, stop.

His back faces me. He’s hunched over a chair and only has on a white, clinging vomit stained tank top and underwear that sags. I can’t see his hand and don’t need to. I already know what’s in it. Then I’m in front of him squatting. I’m inches away but I can’t move. He has his thumb curled around the trigger as he stares down into the metal abyss. It points up at him backward, a promise to swallow him up. “I can’t be this anymore,” he says. He covers the barrel with his mouth.

Dad, stop.

His tears are frozen on his face. Only his thumb moves as it pulls death into him. I watch his head change into an explosion of blood, brain, and bone. His face is gone, and up from his neck comes the head of a silver, gleaming bear. He’s cackling loudly without opening his mouth at all. His lips move back as he shows me his prize. Dad’s face is hanging from the tips of the bear’s teeth and his green eyes are crushed between the bear’s incisors.

I find my voice. “What’ve you done?” I whisper.

“What’ve we done, you mean,” the bear says, his bloody smile dripping down his neck. He tosses the face into my hands. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Take it. It’s your legacy. Put it on and become one of us.”

I miss that dream like I miss my father. A whole-body ache, when I let myself feel it. I have spent my adult life living out the question that dream asked: Will I be my father’s daughter?

Here’s something therapy didn’t prepare me for. The more I heal, the more I lose. Soon there’ll be nothing of him and me left.

That nightmare was the last place I saw my father. So I looked. I let myself be hunted. I looked down the barrel. I searched the eyes of the men who punched me, fucked me and called me a bitch.

I spent my young life hiding from him and now in these nights, I seek him everywhere. I know it’s not healthy. But if I find him, will I find myself? Or will I discover I am a different animal altogether?

But tonight is different. I choose a new way: the predator, and it’s delicious. I understand him now, how good it feels to be powerful.

Around the corners and down the middle of the mirror, I find him. The dim red light in this tiny, dirty bathroom spotlights my forehead and leaves the rest of my face murky. I see Dad there, in the dark. I give our reflection a red smile. I bare my teeth and growl. It feels like coming home.

I turn the doorknob and walk back through an innocent person’s bedroom. I leave them naked and face down on their crimson sheets.

I’ll keep tearing open these nights to find you, Dad, if this is what can bring you back.

After four flights, I meet the night air at the door. Another sweltering evening. I pull sunglasses out of my bag, and put them on my face. I move in slow satisfaction on the dark streets home because I know—my search is finally over.

I am the bear.

Image for Aster Mae

BIO: Aster May is a writer in New Orleans. She holds an MA in Journalism from Northeastern University.