The primary purpose of this blog, is to put this work of fiction up. But I will use it to discuss this movie, and as time goes by, other works of horror and fantasy.
The primary purpose of putting the fan fiction up is to somehow keep Ginger Snaps alive, but also, of course, I think I had a good story to tell.
I'm also putting it up tonight simultaneously on fanfiction.net under the name of Madman Fred.
"The Feral Bond" really takes just the basic plot concept of "Unleashed" and goes somewhere totally different with it. Few of the characters introduced in that movie are in here: there's no Ghost, Alice or Tyler. It does, however, start in the same situation, so the first scene is similar to Unleashed. It picks up right when "Unleashed" did, two years after GS1. I'm putting it up a chapter at a time as I complete them.
This story is dedicated, of course, to Karen Walton and John Fawcett, but most especially to the two special actresses who channeled Karen Walton's characters: Emily Perkins and Katharine Isabelle, and all those involved in creating the small miracle that was "Ginger Snaps."
A howl to you all!
_____________________
by
Lord Howl
aka
Madman Fred
Chapter 1
“I'm not dying in this room with you!”
Brigitte thought it was over, that she had died, but instead her eyes opened to the face of that thing impersonating her sister Ginger.
“Bee, “ it said, “THAT was a fucking dumb idea. You almost died, moron. Don't leave me! I fucking don't know what I would have done without you.”
Brigitte rasped back through her dry throat: “So, are you here to help?”
“Yes,” said a totally different voice.
Ginger's face was gone, and instead Brigitte looked up at a stranger. It was a woman in her mid-30s, with brunette hair. Brigitte noticed an IV line running into her hand. She also noticed, with annoyance, that she also had a catheter.
“Well, finally you've come to! Welcome!”
Brigitte sat up, and immediately knew she was thirsty and famished. She could see she was in a hospital, though she had never seen a hospital room like this. It was absolutely ancient looking, and in what she once would have thought was a cool way, it reminded her of a crypt. It smelled old, too, like grandma's house did, but even more so. There were old smells of death here, layered between the lacquer, wax, paint and antiseptic washings of the years. Brigitte could swear that she could smell it. The room was spacious, though empty. A small, squalid, bathroom went off to the side near the door. The room's empty spaciousness vaguely reminded her of the basement room she once shared with Ginger.
The nurse said: “Let me check your eyes.”
Brigitte tried to remember. What happened? Her last memory was numbness, suffocation and the sound of the wind. Had she been on a street, or in an alley? Wherever it was, she thought she would die there.
“Where am I?”
The nurse put the light in her left eye and looked. “You can relax. You're in the hospital. My name is Cassie, and I'm your nurse.”
“Excuse me, but I don't find that very relaxing.”
Cassie pulled the light back.
“Did they find him?” It shamed Brigitte that she ran away and let Jeremy die alone. In all truth, the werewolf probably wouldn't have hurt her.
“I'm sorry,” said Cassie. “I don't know anything about that. I'll get the doctor and he'll talk to you.”
She looked at Brigitte's other eye. Then she turned off the the light and looked puzzled for a second.
“What is it?” asked Brigitte.
“Nothing,” said Cassie, shaking her head. What the fuck do you mean nothing? I know you saw something strange in my eyes.
“Now, you haven't told me your name,” said Cassie.
“Brigitte,” she said.
“Brigitte what?”
“Brigitte Kilpatrick.” Living on the margins for two years, Brigitte had become used to obscuring her identity.
“Brigitte, glad to know you. Here, you must be thirsty,” she said, pouring Brigitte a cup of water and handing it to her. Brigitte drank it down. “I'll get the doctor; he'll be happy to hear you're finally awake. He has been so anxious to talk to you.” Cassie left the room.
Brigitte poured another glass of water, and drained it. Now, if they would only feed her. Annoyed, she took a deep breath and, with a shiver, removed the catheter. She got up, noticed something wrong with her, or rather, not wrong: she felt too good, aside from the hunger. Better than she had in a year.
She looked at her arm and all the cut scars and needle marks that marred it in the last few years, from the daily injections of monkshood and the daily cuttings to test her healing time. How clean and unmarked it had once been, forever ago.
Diverting her thoughts, she went to the window, and looked out at a snowy, misty, day. There was a field and some woods, but the scenery with the snow was drab. There was something off about it, though. It was rural. She had been in a city. Even more bothersome, she noticed the room didn't have a phone. The door to the room was unusual, with a large thick window, and a big, very obvious lock. She went back to the bed and waited for the doctor.
The Ginger-thing appeared in the corner of her eye, where it always started. It walked up and stood at the foot of the bed.
“Hey, you spoke to me-- finally!” it said, sounding relieved. “You've really made me eat shit for a fucking long time, Brigitte. Why don't you speak to me?”
“Because you're not my sister,” said Brigitte, forgetting herself, “You're a hallucination. Probably from post-traumatic stress-disorder.”
“'xplains why you were looking that up,” said Ginger. “Telling the truth, Bee, I don't know what I am, but it really sucks.”
It looked like the 15-year-old Ginger down to every detail. Sometimes it was wispy, but now it looked rock-solid. It had Ginger's red hair and her hazel eyes. It wore Ginger's green sweater, black skirt, clogs and the bird-skull necklace that they both used to wear. It even moved like Ginger, but it definitely wasn't her.
Brigitte felt the odd giddiness she always felt when it spoke to her.
“You're a bad influence,” said Brigitte.” If I listen to you, I'll go insane.”
“You've gone fucking average on me!” it said, in a mock tone.
That actually caused Brigitte to laugh for the first time since she remembered: “Nothing about me is fucking average now.”
“So, are you going to blame me for Jeremy, too?” it said. “Look, Bee, it's too bad he's dead, but what was that fuck-up doing showing up after midnight? Did you even give him your address? No. How many cold shoulders did you have to give him that night? He was just begging to be ripped up by a jealous boyfriend . . .”
“Don't you call that thing my boyfriend . . .”
“That's not what I meant, Bee. I meant even if he was pulling that shit on miss average, he was putting himself in danger.”
Brigitte realized at this point that she lost her control over herself. She couldn't help talking to this Ginger-thing anymore. To her, it meant she was finally cracking. Two years of being alone fighting the curse and she was losing her sanity.
“He was clueless, but harmless,” said Brigitte, the thought of that innocent guy being killed was bringing tears to her eyes.
“He didn't know his gonads were leading him.”
“No! He was taking me to the hospital, trying to save my life. He was a good guy.”
Brigitte could hear footsteps in the hall.
The Ginger thing was gone now as soon as a man entered. Brigitte presumed this was her doctor, but he didn't wear a white coat. He was forty something, only a little taller than her, and wore an impeccable, blue-pinstripe suit. Perfectly groomed, he had jet-black hair and a broad, thick mustache with a little gray in it His skin was dark, like a middle-easterner or an Indian. Brigitte was a little uncomfortable to notice that he had a pleasant, spicy, entirely exotic smell to him, too. It made her feel hungrier. She was impressed, despite her dread that there was something amiss about him. How many doctors dressed like this?
“So, it's Brigitte Kilpatrick I'm told. I am happy to meet you,” he said softly in an accent. “I am Dr. Javed Gadepalli and I am your treating physician at this hospital.”
Brigitte tried to repeat it, “Dr. Gad-a . . .”
“Gadepalli. It's Indian. I am happy you are finally awake.”
“Dr. Gadepalli,” she said.
Satisfied with her pronunciation, the doctor sat down on the one chair in the room at the foot of the bed, and, to Brigitte's unease, immediately began to take notes.
“Did they find him?” asked Brigitte.
“Who?” said the doctor, surprised.
“Jeremy, the librarian guy.” This was wrong. They would know about Jeremy already, and the police would be here talking to her now. “He was killed in front of me.”
“Killed how?”
“He was torn apart by a . . . wild animal. I ran away, I had to, but it had already torn his throat out.”
“You were hallucinating. I know it looked real. It wasn't.”
“I did not hallucinate that.”
“There was no body found, Brigitte,” said the doctor, impassively.
“Then it's buried in the snow . . . or he moved it.”
“Who did?”
Brigitte stayed silent. The doctor paused here and took more notes.
“You were poisoned with aconitine.” said Dr. Gadepalli, “It causes hallucinations.”
“Not hallucinations like that.”
“So . . . you're familiar with it?”
She did not like the turn this conversation was taking. She had expected the police to interrogate her about Jeremy's death, but she had not been prepared for a doctor to interrogate her about herself.
“How long have you been using aconitine and cutting yourself?” asked the doctor, indicating her left arm, with its row of parallel cut scars.
“Look doctor, thank you for the help. I need to go now.”
“Brigitte, here is what we know,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “You were found in the alley unconscious, poisoned with this.” He held up an ampule with a purple liquid. She was very familiar with it. Monkshood.“This is what we found in your knapsack. It contains the poison aconitine.”
“I must have that,” she said. “Give it back to me and let me go.”
“So, you were self-administering it. It almost killed you, Brigitte.” He kept his voice soft. “We think you had been lying in an alley all night, and it was below zero that night with a high wind. When you were brought in, your coat was only on one arm. You were blue. Your body temperature was twenty-six degrees,” (seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit). “Your pulse was thirty-four and erratic, and your blood pressure was fifty-three over zero.
“Maybe you don't know what those numbers mean, Brigitte. They mean you could have died in a few minutes. It got worse. They had to later defibrillate you because your heartbeat was so erratic. You know, Brigitte? With the paddles?
Brigitte was stunned. Nothing about the way she felt suggested that she had almost died. She thought of what the Ginger-thing said. How had it known?
“That's before they knew you had been poisoned with this,” he indicated the ampule. “The only way you survived was you managed to almost freeze yourself to death first.”
“I . . . had no idea, but the overdose was a mistake, doctor,” she said. “I really fucked up, oh . . . excuse my language. But I'm well now; I have to leave.”
“He still kept his voice soft: “The use of this poison and the cuts on your arms suggest to me reckless disregard for your own well-being, Brigitte. This is not a party drug or a prescription. This is a dangerous herbal preparation. Those aren't meant to be injected. Whatever reason you have, injecting this, it's reckless.”
She had to laugh. When she did, he creeped her out by taking notes again. “I won't overdose again. Please, just let me go. This won't happen again.”
“Who are your parents or guardians. Can we contact them?”
“No,” said Brigitte, sarcastically. “Just- let- me- go.”
“I'm afraid not, Brigitte,” he said, with finality. “You are at Four Point Psychiatric Hospital. You were placed here because you are deemed a danger to yourself. I'm afraid I can't release you until that is no longer the case.”
Brigitte was appalled. She was being committed? Did they do that anymore? She felt fear rising, and worse, an anger was erupting deep within her empty stomach. She felt her gut and back tightening painfully, like a vice. “No! You cannot lock me up in here.”
“You're safe here, and we'll help you work out the problems that are driving you toward suicidal behavior.”
“No, you can't. It would be murder to lock me in here, and I'm not talking about just me.”
“Brigitte, after being unconscious for five days . . .”
“Wait . . . five days? I haven't dosed in five days?”
Brigitte looked at her hands. Why hadn't she noticed before? Her nails were long, thick, sickle-shaped, and sharp. She gasped and tried to hide them under the sheets. My face! What do I look like now? What is he seeing? Panic was taking her.
Dr. Gadepalli was still impassive. If he noticed her rising panic, he was hiding it. “That's right, Brigitte; you were hospitalized for five days at Regional and you were transferred here this morning.”
A chilling realization came to Brigitte: The full moon is just five more days away!
Without the monkshood to stop them, Brigitte knew the changes would rebound quickly.
“No, I need that monkshood now.”
“Why? Whatever you're self-medicating, it doesn't justify a life-threatening treatment. Look, you had frostbite on your face and it has healed already, without scaring. Without your injections you've made a remarkable recovery. You're physically healthy.”
Brigitte screamed: “HEALTHY! YOU FUCKING IDIOT! YOU'RE KILLING ME!”
She grabbed the vial off the stand, she leaped over the bed and ran for the door. Brigitte felt a trap shutting on her; she had to get out, now.
Outside she collided with two large male attendants who apparently had been stationed there but were caught by surprise. The one on the right was blond with broad shoulders, the one on the left was larger, ganglier and with dark hair. Brigitte ducked low to try to slip between them. With her quickness, she almost got by them. The blond guy managed to grab her by the thigh. When she struggled, he shifted his grip higher. This enraged Brigitte. As he pulled her back, she punched him low. Brigitte heard a splat, pop, and he went down. Fucking pervert! A satisfying smell of blood came to her.
The other attendant meanwhile got a grip on her left arm and grappled with her. She wouldn't let him get behind her, and she swung at him, scoring a few times. He then grabbed both her arms. Brigitte surprised him when she was still able to punch him in the face. Keeping the grip on both arms, he picked her up. She used his arms to lift herself up even with his face, then she headbutted his chest. He attempted to get her against the wall, but she snapped at his face and neck. He had enough, and let her go.
She dashed down the hall, past patients and nurses, who just stared in blank curiosity that pissed her off. When she passed the nurses' desk, an alarm sounded. The hall ended in double doors that wouldn't open. She saw the stairwell door, and ducked into it.
Going down one flight, Brigitte came to the exit door. It was icy cold and immobile. She threw herself against it. What the fuck? This is a fire exit! They can't lock it! It wouldn't budge. These fucking helpful, stupid people! Enraged, she bloodied her knuckles and nails beating and scratching it before she heard them coming down the stairs after her.
Brigitte couldn't believe that after two years of fighting off the curse and keeping the danger away from others that it could end like this: being killed by people who thought they were helping her, and being trapped with people who couldn't escape her. Her left hand had gone numb, and the full anguish of that moment she stabbed Ginger came back to her. Brigitte cried.
In the corner of her eye, she could see red hair. The Ginger-thing walked up to her shoulder. No, she didn't want its empty comfort. But it wasn't comfort it gave now.
“Bee . . .”
“Leave me alone! Just leave me alone.”
“You just got the curse.”
She looked down between her feet and saw the blood dripping. Long delayed by the monkshood, Brigitte's menstruation had finally started, but unlike any other woman, Brigitte knew this was anything but natural. She had an image of being ripped apart from the inside and bled out by the curse that would regenerate her in its repulsive image, the curse that took Ginger. The fight went out of Brigitte. Three guys pounced on her and pinned her against the door.
“We have a bleeder!” said one of them.
Brigitte's fingers and hands bled. One hand bled from the blown IV line, the other bled from the monkshood ampule crushed in her fist.
“It wouldn't have done you any good any way. This place is thirty klicks from anywhere else,” said one of the guys.
Cassie approached her with a syringe.
“No, Don't. Drugs just make this worse . . . I've tried . . . ”
Cassie stuck her.
“Yeah, you have,”said the dark-haired clumsy guy who she wrestled in the hall, who had a hold of her marred left arm. Brigitte wished at that moment she had killed him. Maybe she could have if she would have used her claws. Ginger would have.
In a few days, fucker, I will kill you!
She felt dizziness, and realized that the drug had reached her head.
“This is different,” said the Cassie. “Relax Brigitte. We'll help you. You are no longer alone.”
Brigitte heard her own mean laughter and heard herself say:
“No, not alone . . . lotsa toys for Bee. . . to chew on!” She laughed again. “When do I eat?”
Her body relaxed, and giddiness numbed everything Brigitte felt, except the cruel, remorseless, spirit lurking deep in her, biding its time till it was strong enough.
They took her up the steps. It all felt like a ride carnival ride now.
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