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THE IDEA THAT MONSTERS – the creatures that lurk in the shadows, creep in the dark, haunting and mundane – exist outside of myths, fables and literature is a small, uncomfortable thought that rests in the back of most of our minds. When I was younger, this concept taunted me through nightmares – stories and legends that I'd read would become anthropomorphised in my minds eye, and most nights I would startle myself awake, my hands clutching either side of my head, a pitiful attempt at warding off the disembodied voices that followed me from my dreams into reality, and my entire body shaking violently from a cold that only existed in my fading memories.
Another memory that should be fading, (however, oddly I remember in rather interesting detail) is the one in which I first met the Winchesters. It was a harsh winters day; the kind where all that all one can do is curl within themselves, snuggle into a blanket and sip on hot chocolate whilst the wind rages on outside, swaying the house and producing a creak from the very depths of its foundation, so much so that it gives the illusion of inanimate possession. I was five years old, and my parents had died a few weeks previously (this storm had been brewing for weeks, and it took down their plane alongside one hundred other souls, a very sad business indeed) and I had been passed from hunter to hunter, door to door, unwilling guardian to temporary babysitter, until I was unceremoniously abandoned at the reception of a hotel inn.
The receptionist was a teen girl, (Peach I deduced from the nametag pinned to her shirt), and someone that my child-like mind only processed as being 'cool' because of her Tears For Fears (1985) Songs From the Big Chair tour tee. Any other characteristic that she possibly had was lost on me, for I simply did not care and instead bopped my head to the tunes playing through my headphones (Elvis' Hound Dog, I believe. That old cassette player was the only thing I had left of my father. Sure, he was cruel, but his taste in music was something I inherited, alongside other things.). Vaguely, however, I remember catching her sneaking glances at me every once in a while, evidently checking up on me, and, I think (memories surrounding this are still quite hazy), at one point she handed me a dollar so I could afford snacks from the vending machine.
I slept on that reception room floor for two nights, shivering, and, although the snow had not yet arrived, on the verge of hypothermia. Despite the hundreds of dollars that the owners had spent on a state-of-the-art electric heater in preparation for the coming winter, apparently they were too broke to keep it running throughout the night. Peach had also taken the time to explain to young-me that she couldn't allow me into one of the hotel rooms – something about money, liability, and cruel men, and taking advantage. The only thing warming me was a second-hand sleeping bag (loaned from Peach), though this certainly was not enough.
Fives years old, and the thought had already entered my mind that I wouldn't live until the next day. That all I would be remembered as was a snapshot of these two days: a strange, uncommunicative girl, frozen alive in a hotel inn reception area, located in the shadiest region of a state I didn't know the name of. On my grave; Unidentified, or Jane Doe, or completely unmarked. No birthdate, no love included in my sending off to the next life. I would simply be nothing; and any memory of me at all would stay with Peach until she, too, died, and then I would be gone forever, never having made a dent on the world, never having made a difference.
