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The dreams were becoming passé for Bobby. They had all lost their impact on him--all except for one.

It would always start the same. Bobby would run around in the yard, near the line of trees that marked the beginning of the thick woods behind the house. The trees would cast cool shadows across the bright summer grass. He would jump and laugh, pausing only for a moment to look at the rusting, weather-beaten wheelchair that leaned against the old wooden shed. Then the celebration would continue, “Never again! Never again!”

But in the back of his mind lurked a darkness. A void that grew larger and larger, beyond the confines of Bobby’s mind. He could feel it seep out his ears and mouth as he tried to scream. He felt weighted down as a thick film covered him inside and out, a residue of unwanted memories that stuck like glue and could not be shed no matter how hard he tried.

Then, Bobby would fall to the ground--helpless. The once bright summer grass turned brown as Bobby struggled to be free. The more he struggled, the more he sank. The mud sucked him in; his legs would go numb. And as Bobby stopped his struggle, muscles aching, he opened his eyes wide and watched, as the beautiful woods grew darker. Chomp. Chomp. The void expanded, consuming all. Chomp. Chomp. Light. Grass. Trees. Bobby’s soul. But not the memories. Oh, no. They must stay. They stick to him like a tick clinging to an old dog’s ear, like a barnacle encrusted on a forgotten skiff...

...like an unwanted child to an alcoholic mother.

The memories are still there, waiting to resurface. Especially one, a memory Bobby thought he would never see again. But it’s there, crawling back to him--calling from behind. Bobby doesn’t want to look, but he has to. He can hear it calling his name.

Bobby. [Creak.] Bobby. I’m here. [Creak.] Everything will be fine.

But it’s not. Everything is not fine. Bobby screams and hears nothing. He is mute. He has no say--never did. The voice fills his mind. It even drowns out the void as it consumes Bobby’s existence. He looks over his shoulder and sees it...

[Creak. Creak.]

...rolling towards him.

I’m coming to help, Bobby.

The rust is gone, replaced by shiny chrome, which reflects all that is dark around him. The sound of rubber squeaking over wet grass fills Bobby’s ears. As the chair closes in, it leaves blood-filled ruts in the grass. It slows and bogs down in the same dirty muck. A glimmer of hope fills Bobby’s eyes. He smiles; maybe he’ll win--escape for good.

[Growl.]

Bobby fires his head around to look into the void. Every hair he has stands on end.

[Growl.]

The void belches out another sound and with it odor. The stench surrounds Bobby, clinging to the mud, seeping into his pores. He can barely breathe. He looks behind him for help. No use. The wheelchair is sinking--fragile looking metal spokes disappearing two at a time. “Oh God, don’t abandon me now,” Bobby screams, and the void answers him, this time, more than just a sound comes out of the darkness.

It emerges from the empty horizon--a dark shape separate from the void. It’s coming closer. Its smell attacks Bobby’s nostrils. His head begins to spin.

Bobby looks at his hand--his hoof. He looks down his body, at the soft white fur that covers his stomach. He sees the brown fur that disappears around his sides. And out of the corner of his eyes he can see his antlers.

Suddenly, Bobby is not in his body. He hovers high above, watching as a lame buck writhes on the ground, trying to escape. Escape what? Bobby thinks. He soon knows. He sees it inching closer, prolonging the kill.

Then Bobby is back in his body, the buck’s broken body. And he is face-to-face with the beast. Bobby watches as the wolf bears down on the buck’s leg--his leg. With every bite, more of Bobby disappears. It is painless, even pleasurable--almost intoxicating. Bobby stops squirming and watches himself slowly vanish into the belly of the beast. They are one.

The wolf stops halfway up Bobby’s legs, and like a dog that eats its own vomit, the void devours the wolf, and with it, Bobby.

“Wait,” Bobby cries. “Don’t leave,” he pleads. But his words echo back from the diminishing void, mocking him, as he lay bleeding in the brightening grass.

[Creak. Creak.]

Bobby does not need to look. He knows what is approaching. He reaches behind him, grabs cool chrome and slowly begins to pull himself up into the black, leather-padded seat. He settles himself in, clenches the hard rubber wheels tightly in his hands and pushes himself in the deep, dark woods.

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