No Really, We're Sheep
Gee Jimeny Willaker
Aunt Petra is probably the first person I’ve ever met that I can believe I’m related to. Really related to. Blood and everything.
She’s on the left.
I went to stay with her after that thing that happened happened again. Father said to “Get this thing under control immediately. The Estate dinner is in 6 months and I intend for you to be there.” I can not tell you how very little I care about that. But, to Aunt Petra’s I went.
To be honest, I couldn’t tell you exactly how I’m related to her. Everyone calls her ‘Aunt’, but I have this weird feeling that she’s nothing more than a figment of my imagination. It’s the way she moves and speaks, like it’s always echoing in the corner of my eye, on the edge of my hearing.Sometimes we’ll be talking. Maybe about nothing
I’m often alone here.
She’s got this place. It’s north of the city, I think we’re technically in Wisconsin? It’s on the lake. It’s green and there’s always a breeze. Her house is on the lake. She’s got a boat house, but the whole place is old, starting to fall apart. Aunt Petra says it doesn’t matter, it’s a temporary place, but from the looks of things, she’s been here ages. I think she’s being philosophical. Like, our lives are temporary. It’s nicer than when I first got here, though. You know that book? Grey Gardens? About the ladies who used to be rich but went broke and were too snobby to get jobs and were so totally unused to how to take care of themselves? Shabby-chic. That’s Aunt Petra. I’ve never seen a human wear so much old lace and still look so fabulous. I think it’s her eyes.
Anyway, out here I’m allowed to hunt and run all I want. And I’m learning. I’m learning about what we are and where we come from. She has me doing these exercises, like, breathing and meditation and stuff. I’m starting to (stay with me here) have visions or something. Memories. But not from anything I’ve ever lived.
The logical part of my brain says it’s just my imagination. Aunt Petra says it’s from past lives. Faces, names, places, gestures and feelings, smells, all disconnected, like in a dream.
God, writing it out like this just makes it more real. Like, crazy real. Most of the time it’s like, yeah, I’m a werewolf and this weird old lady is teaching me about how I can make my whole body glow and how everyone is my family had been super tight with the clan, and that maybe macaroni would be good for dinner, like, whatever. But then I take a minute to realize that I’m a goddamn werewolf. I have visions of past lives. I can glow. And I freak the fuck out.
Like, right the fuck.
Auntie P is calling (she hates when I try to give her nick-names).