Selina Rosen's short fiction has appeared in several magazines and anthologies including Sword and Sorceress 16, Such a Pretty Face, Distant Journeys, Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, Tooth and Claw, Turn the Other Chick, Anthology at the End of the Universe, and Thieves World. Some of her fourteen published novels include Queen of Denial, the Chains trilogy, Strange Robby, The Host trilogy, Fire & Ice, Hammer Town, and Reruns. Bad Lands, a gonzo-mystery novel co-written with Laura J. Underwood was released in 2007 by Five Star Mystery, and Sword Masters, Selina's first full-length epic fantasy novel was released in February of 2008 from Dragon Moon Publishing in Canada.
Kevin wished he hadn't signed up now.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, and after all it was such a worthy cause.
Now he'd been sitting here staring at a wall for three hours and it just seemed meaningless and stupid. He still had two hours to go. This was boring! No, boring wasn't a true depiction of just how dull this was, and he'd make up a word in a few moments that would describe it suitably. After all he had the time.
The most exciting part of the evening had been when he'd answered a prank call. In fact, in the month that he had been doing this, that had been the only time he hadn't damn near gone to sleep on his watch.
A suicide hotline in an upper middle class suburb where the most tragic thing the kids in his school ever seemed to go through was that Daddy bought them the wrong color car for their sweet sixteen was absurd. But the PTA didn't want to be caught sleeping at the wheel. With the rise in teen suicide nationwide, they thought a teen suicide hot line was in order. It didn't matter that there had been like two suicides in the entire history of the town or that neither of those had been teenagers.
And why was he really here? Well, it was a really mature reason. Yes, Kevin had volunteered to answer the teen suicide hot line two nights a week to impress a girl.
It hadn't worked of course because it turned out that Vicky was assigned to Tuesday and Thursday nights because she had cheerleading on the weekends.
Of course Kevin had no extracurricular activities so now here he sat every Friday and Saturday night—not saving anyone—and Vicky was dating Mr. Captain of the Football Team Himself, Brad Johnson, the make-out king of Blue Springs High.
Vicky had no idea Kevin was even alive and now his weekends were filled with this bullshit so that any hope of getting a social life was impossible.
He had wanted to quit after the first night when he'd realized that not only would he not be working with Vicky but he'd be working alone. On that night the phone hadn't even rung once, and Vicky had gone out with Brad for the first time. When he complained to his parents his father had given him the timeless "learn responsibility" lecture. He had signed up for the project and therefore he would see it through to the end unless he wanted to give up his driving privileges.
So here he sat for the fourth Friday in a row, wondering if he needed driving privileges at all if this was the only place he could go.
He didn't really see how being bored out of his skull was building his character. He supposed this was one of those things he'd look back on when he was older and be glad he'd done. One of those things he'd only really understand when he had kids of his own . . . and then he'd know.
He played at doing his homework, brooded about having no social life, and wondered just what he would do if someone did actually call with a gun to their head just seconds from pulling the trigger.
Wasn't it kind of stupid to put someone's life in the hands of a seventeen-year-old kid? A kid whose greatest worries were whether he was going to break out the night of the spring dance, if he was ever going to get laid, and if playing with yourself could really make you go blind.
Yes, Kevin could see a lot of flaws in this program. He could make a list starting with the number being printed wrong in the phone book and ending with the fact that the hot line kept hours. The hot line was open six nights a week from 6:00 P.M. to 12:00 A.M. Kevin supposed depression and death took a holiday the rest of the time.
Who would be inconsiderate enough to off themselves on Sunday or between the hours of 12:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M.?
The people of Blue Springs were not known for their heightened insight. Driving cars that got two miles to the gallon and living in houses so big their kids got lost in them and they had to send out search parties, yes—actual insight, no.
Only two more hours and he could go home and do nothing there and everyone would just have to wait till tomorrow night to kill themselves.
They kept telling him that they were going to get some other poor shlep in here to help him. But help him do what? Kevin could sit on his own ass; he didn't need help doing that. Of course he didn't try to discourage them when they said they were trying to get someone to help him because at least then he would have someone to talk to. At least it wouldn't be so unbelievably snordulling . . .
There. He had done it. He had created a word which accurately explained how boring this job was. "Snordulling" it was sort of a cross between snore, dull with the—ing off boring thrown in for good measure.
"Damn snordulling job," Kevin said with an extravagant yawn.
The phone rang.
At first Kevin just stared at it. It rang again and he quickly picked it up trying to remember what he was supposed to say.
"Hello, suicide hot line."
Just in case it was for real this time he went over what they had told him in the quickie seminar they had given him and grabbed the list that lay ready by the phone and went over it quickly.
Keep them talking.
Try to get their name.
Sound genuinely concerned.
Try to find out where they were.
There was no answer and Kevin thought he had another crank caller. "Hello, suicide hot line. Can I help you?" This time he didn't sound at all genuinely concerned. This time he just sounded pissed off because he wasn't in the mood to be screwed with.
There was still no answer so he said, "Hello, suicide hot line. Have a nice day." He started to slam the receiver down.
"I'm an animal. I don't deserve to live." The voice was young, male, and more than a little unsure—choked like he'd been crying.
Panic welled up inside of Kevin as he pulled the receiver back to his ear. God help him, this call was for real.
"What's wrong?" Kevin asked. He hoped he sounded concerned and not scared out of his wits, which is what he was.
"What isn't wrong?" There was anguish and hopelessness in that voice. If the guy was just another crank caller he was a hell of an actor. It was a hell of a lot more than Kevin had bargained for and way more than he was prepared for.
"Wha . . . Why do you want to kill yourself?" Damn. He couldn't pull this off. Where were adults when you needed them? They were always there right outside the bathroom door when you didn't want them to be, but where were they when you really needed them?
"I'm an animal, man. I don't deserve to live." The voice broke in a jerking cry.
Kevin drew in a deep breath. He couldn't afford to lose it. "Ah, now come on, no one's that bad. Why would you think that?"
"Man. Don't you get it?" the tormented voice asked. "No, man, you don't get it. No one understands. I don't even know why I called. I know what has to be done."
"No! No, man, don't hang up," Kevin pleaded. "I want to understand. Please just don't hang up." If his first caller wound up offing himself, he was just never going to hear the end of it. He looked at the list again.
There was a long silence and for one horrible moment Kevin thought the caller had hung up.
"No. You can't understand, how could you?"
Kevin sighed with relief. "Let me try. Please."
"In thirty minutes the moon will hit its zenith. No one can help me then."
Kevin decided the man was on drugs. "My name is Kevin. What's yours?" he asked, referring to the list.
Once again there was a long, silence-filled pause, and Kevin got a sick feeling in his stomach. He decided that he liked this job better when it was snordulling.
"Jack." For the moment he sounded calm.
Kevin tried to phrase his next sentence as tactfully as possible. "You know Jack, sometimes drugs can make us think really strange things . . . "
"Dude, I'm not on drugs!" Jack screamed in anger. "Hell, that wouldn't be any problem at all. Listen to me and listen good, man. I am an animal. Hell, I don't know what I might do."
"What are you trying to say, Jack? I want to understand. I really do."
"My parents don't understand," Jack said in a choked voice.
"Parents never do," Kevin said and relaxed a little as he realized. That's the psychology behind having us answer the phone that we might better understand a kid's problems than some old guy. "Parents get some real goofy ideas. I want to be hanging out with my friends but my dad insists I sit here on this hot line. We all have problems."
Jack laughed bitterly. "Ah come on, Kevin. What kindah problems you got? Dating? Pimples? Big deal! I turn into an animal. People just don't understand that. You forget to put your socks in the hamper and don't put the lid back on the toothpaste, maybe you forget to put the toilet seat down and your old lady falls in. So in the middle of the night she comes up screaming and wakes the whole house. Dude . . . I tear up the furniture, wet the carpet, and last time I ate the cat. I ate the family pet. And I liked the cat! I'm worried about my sister. After all, I can't stand my little sister."
Kevin's temporary calm was shattered. This guy wasn't playing with a full deck or it really was just another crank call—and what was more likely? "If this is some sort of joke, I don't think it's very funny."
"Do I sound like I'm having fun? You jerk!" Jack said hotly. "My father gave me a gun and locked me in my room. Does that sound like a field trip to you?"
"He did what?" Kevin gasped in horror.
"He's scared." Jack's anger seemed to leave him. "I don't blame him. Hell, I scare myself. I don't think I'd hurt anyone. But . . . I just can't be sure."
"You won't hurt anyone, Jack," Kevin said insistently. It was no wonder this poor kid was nuts. His parents were probably religious zealots who had the guy convinced he was possessed or some damn thing because he touched himself. "You sound like a pretty together guy to me." Kevin almost couldn't believe he had said that.
"I can't help it," Jack's voice had a bitter edge to it. "It's not fair. Just because I grow fur and fangs, and mutilate small animals doesn't mean I'm not a good person."
"Of course not, your dad can't make you kill yourself. He's sick and he's talked you into believing that you're something less than human."
"Not less than. I'm more than human. Don't you get it man? I'm a werewolf. There's a silver bullet in this gun, and I've got to use it," Jack said.
"Jack, listen to me. There is no such thing as a werewolf. I don't know why you believe this, but you are not a werewolf."
Jack laughed heartily, and then said in a dark voice. "Tell that to my hands, Kevin. My hands which are even now turning to claws. Tell it to the fur starting to grow on my back. I don't want to die, Kevin. But I don't want to kill, either, and I feel like I will. I feel it even now, the need to kill, to destroy, to feed."
Kevin decided to try a new approach. "So you're a werewolf, big deal. That doesn't mean you're necessarily going to go around ripping people's throats out."
"Man, you don't know that," but Jack's voice held hope for the first time.
"Yes, I do." Kevin felt that he was making progress. "You don't sound dangerous to me. Don't listen to your father. What does he know about werewolves anyway? If you really are a werewolf . . . Well that's a rare commodity and I don't think anyone is going to bitch about a few missing cats."
"You really think so?" Jack asked.
"Hey, if you haven't eaten anyone yet I don't think you're likely to," Kevin said. He was doing it. He was talking this guy out of suicide.
"I still won't have any friends. You know I won't, not once people find out what I am. No one will like me." Jack said, lapsing back into depression.
"Hey, man, I'll be your friend. I think it would be cool to have a werewolf for a friend," Kevin said. "I'll be done here in an hour and a half. I could meet you at the Dairy Drive; we could have a shake, my treat."
"But by then I'll be a werewolf," Jack reminded him.
"Then I'll get you a burger extra rare. I trust you, man."
"I . . . I think I can get out of my room. OK, I'll meet you. I hope you won't regret this."
Kevin felt like a hero. He couldn't wait to tell his mom and dad. He couldn't wait to tell Vicky at the weekly suicide club meeting.
He swung into the Dairy Drive parking lot. He parked away from the drive-in itself and away from the action, just as he had promised Jack that he would, and waited. He was very anxious to meet this boy who thought he was a wolf. This would be one to tell his grandkids.
He didn't have to wait long. A red Mustang that he knew only too well pulled in beside him. "Jack" turned out to be none other than Brad Johnson.
Before Kevin had time to kick himself for falling for such an obvious gag, Brad was in his car with him.
"Real funny, Brad, you're a riot. Well, if you've had your laugh, I really need to get home," Kevin said hotly.
"You said you would be my friend." Brad's voice sounded funny.
"You got me. OK already, Brad. So have a good laugh and quit screwing with me."
"I meant what I said, Kevin. I won't have any friends, not when they find out what I am and how long can I hide it? You have to help me . . . "
"You're a werewolf? Come on, Brad. The joke has gone on long enough, give it a rest." If Brad wasn't three times his size he would have kicked him out of the car already.
"Damn it all, Kevin. Not now, oh God, not now." He let out a horrible crying, growling sound. "My God! I'm changing! Run, Kevin! Run!"
Kevin folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah, yeah, real good, I get up and run screaming across the parking lot for God and everyone else to see, you drive my car in the lake, and I don't get laid till I'm thirty. No thanks."
Brad turned to him. His face was covered with hair and his eyes glowed, but it wasn't till he growled, revealing a mouth full of slobbering yellow fangs that Kevin realized that it wasn't just some stupid prank. By then it was too late. The fur-covered body pounced on him. Fangs bit into his shoulder. He screamed and tried to beat the wolf off of him. Then the fangs were closing in on his throat. In a few seconds those horrible teeth would bite in and he would be dead, all because he had talked this thing out of committing suicide.
The phone rang.
Kevin shook himself awake. He looked around the room. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "God! All just a dream." The phone rang again and Kevin quickly answered it. "Hello, suicide hot line."
"I'm an animal. I don't deserve to live!"
"Listen wise ass, do us all a favor and kill yourself!" Kevin yelled and slammed down the receiver. He looked at the phone in horror, "My God, what have I done?" The phone rang again and he picked it up quickly. "Hello, suicide hot line."
"Hey, bud," it was the same guy.
"Listen I'm sorry . . . "
"No, I get it. You're right. Suicide is stupid. Thanks."
As the caller was hanging up, Kevin swore he heard a low, lonely howl.