The church was dark and empty.

It was just as Brett remembered from his childhood, those days when his mother would make him wear those itchy sweaters and pressed pants. The font of holy water stood before him, unmoving, not even a ripple. It reflected the light from the stained glass windows depicting Christ's journey through life and death and life again.

Resurrection.

The pews reminded him of parking spaces, waiting for traffic. 

But it was not Sunday.

He didn't know what day it was, but it was a special day. He didn't know how he knew this, but there was something in the air, in the tremble of the particles. 

Something was going to happen.

His eyes turned toward the altar and took in the cross at the front, the savior who gave up his life to save humanity. He was angry. He didn't want to be saved. He didn't want to have been saved.

And that's when he noticed the coffin.

Open casket, who was inside?

He wasn't sure he could make himself trudge up the aisle to find out. But then, he knew who it was, didn't he? Only one person gave up her life for his. The box beckoned. He was helpless, pulled toward its gravity. Whispers in the corners, abstract shadows billowing on the walls.

He was drawn forward, against his will.

Step by dreaded step.

He wanted to drop down into one of the pews, lower his head, say a prayer to a god he wasn't sure existed, not since childhood. But the force pulling him forward kept him going toward the plain casket and whoever (whatever?) was inside. His stomach was raw, his mind was racing. He didn't want to face her again. He'd been happy the way things had been left when she'd disappeared into the sky, going somewhere else, somewhere good. How could she be here now, in such an earthly place, her organic matter left to fester and rot? 

When he was ten paces away, he expected to see the moon of her face, the fair skin and long eyelashes that had graced her during life. But what he saw instead made his guts twist even tighter. It was a mess of brown fur. Not Lauren at all.

Still, his feet would not stop moving him.

He was going to have to face it, dead or alive. 

The bear.

It would haunt him always, the friend he had betrayed, the one who'd stalked him for reprisal, the one who'd tried to make him smile if only through the blood. He would take the regret to his grave for what he'd done, but it seemed he was meant to see the beast one last time.

To make amends, perhaps.

Or to simply be reminded of what he'd done.

The bear lay on its back, its paws crossed over its chest in a mockery of the Christian tradition of arranging the dead. The eyes and maw were shut, but Brett could remember them opening wide, ready to swallow him whole. 

Still, he kept walking until he was at the thing's side.

What to say to this thing that had once been his friend before turning (rightly) against him and shoving all his shame back into his face, forcing him to see himself for what he really was, a flawed human that had made a terrible mistake, trying to win love from some kids who never really gave a shit about him. 

"I'm sorry."

It didn't seem enough. Words never do. Poets pretended they could move the stars and sun with them, but they were never enough to rewind the clock and clean up the messes we make. 

Something strange was happening to Brett. He felt it start on his arms, a prickly feeling, an itching that made him want to scratch himself until he bled. He raised one arm and saw what was happening there, what was growing. Long brown hairs, thick as the bear's fur, was sprouting as he watched. He looked at the other, and sure enough, the same transition was occurring. 

Panic swelled his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was not a scream or a groan or even a whine. It was a roar. Drool dripped from his canines, which seemed to be lengthening as he released his pent up emotion. His chest rose as he sucked in air after finishing his cry of terror. It grew exponentially, filling up the space there, so much space. He burst through his t-shirt and saw his chest, covered in the same brown fur that had covered him elsewhere. He touched his face and felt the same thing. 

What was he becoming?

Is this what he'd been all along?

He'd become a master at stirring other people's pain, and now his visage would reflect just that.

Behind him, the air shifted.

He turned to see a purple aura stirring, growing from a spiral of shining light and taking form--human form. The girl there was the one he'd left behind in her living room as he'd swallowed the pill. It was Calista, but she was no longer the scrawny girl with the long, black hair and hollowed, sleepless eyes. She had become radiant in this otherworld and gleamed with strength and power. She reached out to him.

"Brett."

"Don't touch me," he warned, but it came out as a strangled, mongrel sound. 

She smiled. "Don't worry."

And as her glowing hand reached his way, he shrunk into himself. She touched his fur, ran her long fingers through it. "This isn't you." 

Her words did something to him, to his heart.

He felt the jaw that had lengthened into a killing thing shrink back into the normal shape of his pointed chin. He felt the claws, the teeth retract. He was left a shivering man, stripped of his clothes, leaving a naked, terrified human. Calista wrapped her arms around him.

"Is it really you?" he asked. She felt real, more tangible than anything he'd felt during one of his trips. She was warm, pliable. She was responsive, her embrace tightening.

"It's really me," she urged. "I followed you here, holding your hand."

"How can I believe you?" he asked. Everything in this place was a concoction of his own mind. Calista was probably just a figment of his imagination, like everything else. How could he believe anything she said when it was just something he would want her to say?

"Prove it," he said, slipping away from her. 

She looked just like the girl he'd left in her apartment, except for the glow about her. Wasn't that brightness just an attribute he'd noticed about her since they'd become friends? It was a projection, that was all.

Calista cocked her head to the side, her long, brown-black hair falling over her shoulder. "Prove it? The only way I can do that is when we get back to the other side."

She was right. If he woke up, and she described the horrible bear in the coffin and how he had almost become an identical beast, then she truly had broke through. He decided that all he could do was wait until the vivid dream came to an end.

"Suppose what you're saying is true. Then what about...?" He turned toward Lauren, expecting to see the monstrous beast still lying there in mock repose.

What he saw was what he'd expected when he first approached her, a fragile girl with brown hair splayed against the satin pillow. She wore an eyelet white dress, and soft white slippers on her feet. As he looked, her eyes flew open, a frantic blue. 

"Whoa!" he yelled, stumbling backward and nearly knocking Calista over.

"Don't be afraid," Calista said, finding her balance. "Nothing can hurt you here."

"That's right," the girl in the coffin echoed, sitting up slowly. "Nothing can hurt you here. It's out there you need to worry about." The dim light from the candles that lined the prayer table began to flicker. Lauren's eyes became circles of fright. "They don't want us talking. They know you're here."

"Who?" Brett demanded. "Who knows  I'm here?!"

"The same one who killed me." Her voice quivered.

"Larry? Larry? Is that who hurt you, Lauren? Please tell me."

The candlelight went out completely. It was too dark. He couldn't see Lauren, but he could feel Calista behind him, pulling him back. 

"We have to go," she urged.

"No, not yet. I have to know. I have to--"

The church disappeared.