5: Nature as Foe

He is already here. I check my watch perhaps a bit too quickly. He has come earlier than usual. Oh dear. He smiles at me, and I have to grab the reigns of my motions in both hands to keep my legs from shaking like a newborn goat.

I must not seem desperate, overzealous. I approach the counter first, and order my coffee, and a scone. Preventing my voice from rising an octave is a war of attrition. Once I have my order, I walk, cool, collected, over, and sit at my usual table, which he has waited for me at. I fear I may be dreaming.

I sit, and smile, laboring to bring warmth, but the method is flawed. I am sure that I look like a preening, squawking bird.

“Hello again, Candy, right?”

My name, from his mouth. I can die now, I think.

“Yes. It’s Octavian, isn’t it?”

He nods and smiles, taking a sip from his coffee. I do my very best not to stare, but I cannot make up my mind whether to nibble or sip. Every choice seems wrong.

“So, Candy, “

Fuck. Please, keep saying it.

“I read a few articles on the Peregrine Post last night. One of them had a picture you took!”

I may actually die. I manage a sip of my coffee. I should’ve gotten decaf.

“Really? What, um, what did you think? Now I’m nervous…”

Very true, but I’ve been nervous since yesterday if we’re being one hundred percent honest. I don’t think being honest is the right choice, however. It seems more wrong than most of my choices anyway.

“It was very good! The article was good too. But I really liked the picture, it was one with the new sculpture in front of the library?”

“Oh! Yes, I remember the dedication ceremony. I think they said that the artist- sculptor? Apparently he designed it to shield the spot in the center from rain, so a couple people could read under it.”

I drink in the pleasant intrigue on his face like wine, in small doses so as not to warm my cheeks and dull my wit too quickly. Wit, what wit? 

“That wasn’t in the article, was it? Has anyone tried?”

I shrug shakily and spin my cup on the table with my fingers. Turn, turn, turn, turn.

“I doubt it, who’d take a book outside on a rainy day? But I’m sure people have taken shelter under it once or twice. Without knowing.”

He nods and looks out the window. I stare at his jaw with embarrassing intensity, before quickly looking away before he turns back.

“That’s really interesting. You must get some fascinating trivia like that, going out and finding moments to capture.”

I cannot help murmuring.

“You wouldn’t believe the secrets I’ve caught.”

“Really?”

I start and look up, ears warming in a blush. He looks interested, like a teenager hearing a new rumor in his friend group. I stammer and curl my hair around my finger. What kind of thoughtless…

“You know. Sometimes you take a picture and realize you caught something strange in the background. I took one once, and only found out after developing it that an old guy was drinking wine straight from the bottle an inch from the focal point.”

I glance up with a weak smirk, and am rewarded with a deep, heavenly chuckle. I thank wine-man in my thoughts as one might worship their guardian angel.

“That’s amazing! You might have to show me that one, do you still have it?”

I smile, and lean forward, shocked at my own boldness. Oh. He smells like… Smoke? Like a fireplace, not tobacco. I am at a hearth, a roaring flame.

“It’s on the website right now. On an article about the rising cost of bread. The picture was supposed to be a little ironic with breadcrumbs being thrown for pigeons at the park. When I pointed out the wine man to the editor, he shrugged and said it was fitting commentary on how people feel about inflation.”

He laughs for real, and I get a whiff of his breath. Coffee, but I imagine I can also smell the fruit smoothie he had for breakfast. My eyelids flutter, my heart takes a shortcut on several beats. I am a blessed, loved child of some god of merciful, indulgent fortune. I cannot die now, I must live to experience another laugh like this one.

As if specifically to darken my skies, he checks his watch and sighs.

“I should get going. But, I’ll see you again, Thursday? Or…”

Please, don’t tease me, don’t tantalize me. And yet he goes on-

“Maybe we should meet after work, sometime? If that’s okay with you.”

I may actually die at this rate.

“I. That would be okay. We can meet at that library, Wednesday afternoon? Sixish?”

“Sixish, Wednesday afternoon? That’s perfect actually, I get off an hour early on Wednesday.”

I know. I get up an hour early on Wednesday. He smiles, and leaves on what I imagine to be a breeze of pure, diffuse gold.

I scream. The pillow soaks up my voice with far too little effect, and I fall breathlessly into the sea of sheets. My head spins like the stars. I flail and flop, and fall off onto the floor. A moment later, my downstairs neighbor bumps the ceiling, and I nod in agreement. I need to get a grip on myself.

I sit up and claw at my chest, at my stomach, at my face. Idiot. Idiot, you did it now. This is a date, right? A date, by at least some stretch of imagination. And. He. Asked. For. It.

I cannot be reigned in, I am burning, melting, freezing, shattering. The demon is screaming almost as loud as I, cavorting in my skull and breaking itself against the walls. I stand and stagger into the bathroom. My pupils are widening and shrinking over and over, my chest heaves in and out, my shoulders shake, my legs give out under me. I bite into my own hand hard enough to draw blood, and convulse on the ground.

Organized thought escapes me, I crawl back to the bedroom. I am the surge of energy when lightning connects the ground with the heavens. I am magma becoming lava, becoming a blast upon a peak. The world itself seems a fiction.

Fluid light seeps across planes in parallel with the sand of sightless fluttering flights. Never, always, forever and now are one and the same.

I snap to consciousness again and gasp failingly as if stabbed. I grasp the edge of my desk and pull myself upright, but nearly fall again. A flimsy, scratchy, scrawled note clings with cheap adhesive to the corner of my monitor, and says only “six. Library. Octavian.”

His name is etched here and there into the walls, invisible unless viewed from inches away- each scratching is less than a centimeter long. I fall into bed and hug my largest pillow, kicking my feet and giggling. Even I cannot understand how I switch between feral ghoul of yearning and giddy school girl. In one breath I am elated, ecstatic, enchanted. In the next I am practically seizing with the need for gratification.

The phone rings. I sit up, blank in the face by sheer habit. I turn slowly to regard the intruder upon my ecstasy. I recognize the number, and grunt before crawling over to the desk and picking up the receiver to put to my ear.

“Soooo, how’d it goooo?”

Raphael’s voice is an electronic whisper in my ear. He is nearly drowned out by the other phones ringing in the call center. I can detect the chatter of countless feminine voices, in a cacophony that somehow reminds me of my own thoughts.

“I have a date.”

My voice is flat. Sharp. Not rude, but disbelieving. Raphael gasps, and seems to stifle a shriek of delight.

“See? Do I know how to catch eyes or what?”

I cannot find the words to respond. I look over to my closet, and grapple with the need for an outfit anew. As reality sinks past the crust of my raving psyche, I contend with the new dilemma I have been given. I have certainly made a terrible mistake.

“Ralphie, what do I do? I’ve never…”

He is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, I am frightened by the sudden lack of sarcasm, sass, smugness, or squeal in his tone.

“Candy. You can do this. Let him lead when possible, but don’t be a pushover. Don’t do anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

He’s right. He frequently is. I have conquered myself repeatedly in the past, have overcome embarrassment and humiliation, and survived real danger. I have what it takes to survive this, too.

No, no way! This is totally different! Even when my life was in danger it didn’t matter this much! Dying doesn’t scare me half as much as this. I fear for myself, but more so I fear for him. Who would willingly place the object of their affections within reach of a person they know to be so mentally unbalanced?

Not for the first time, I feel a horrific guilt, a rage against myself, for daring to allow him to become involved with my disease. My affliction.

“I have to go.”

“Okay. Be safe, love. And if it comes to that, use prote-”

I drop the receiver onto the base, and slither into bed. Shards of accusation seem to flicker at the edges of my vision. Half of me yawns, licks its lips with appetite. The other half sobs, screams with terror as she tries to hold the gate shut against the thing that is all teeth and tongue. I fall falteringly into a sleep fitfully filled with terror and euphoria in equal measure.

Dusk. I haven’t the energy to leave the apartment. I accept fate, and instead sit curled up in front of my computer, alternating between spycam feeds for Abner, my notes, and reruns of some ancient action show. I hide from the march of time, I flee from the flickering grey in the corner of my screen.

There are no meals, only prolonged snacking periods, and a pint of ice cream.

I push myself to at least tend to my future, and place a grocery order. When the driver drops it off, I emerge in my bathrobe and mask, and take the bags with a muttered thanks.

Loading the food into my pantry and fridge, I am caught in a state of silence that is poison to my numbness. It is a small mercy that I tend towards fantasy instead of fear. I am swept up in an imagining, of a spoon in his hand, holding out ice-cream for me to take into my mouth. I shake my head in an attempt to dispel the image.

Denied, it is replaced with more insistent imagining, ones I shy away from with disgust. My head is full of air flavored with coffee and fruit. My second outfit spites me from where it hangs on the door.

Inadequate. Woefully insufficient. I am puppeted to the closet. Whilst I am incapable of any sort of fashion sense under duress, the demon seems to know what it wants, and so rips into the stockpile with gusto. Its only flaw is a severe lack of modesty- it thinks us a peacock, a frilled lizard, which needs only to flap its arms and paint itself bright enough to stand out. I grapple for control, watering down its overexertion where possible. Realism is a thing it shuns, but tolerates as useful. But to outright deny its desire is to fuel its hunger, to sharpen its teeth against me.

Our cooperation gives way to something that I can only suspect is acceptable: a sleeved floral dress, a knit cardigan, a pair of moderate heels.

It seems to me still far too bold, practically a declaration of desire, but it is the least my other self will be satiated by. I concede, and lay it out, before creeping back to my desk and huddling up in a ball. I watch from behind my knees as color and light soothes me, reunites me with myself. Together, I chance a look to the coveted corner. He is interacting with a patron, typing something into his workstation.

My hand reaches forward, and strokes the scene with a hooked claw, a sort of cooing rising in my throat.

I wonder at myself quietly, my eyes affixed to his face. I am one person, supposedly. But my id and ego so often oppose each other that I cannot see myself as less than two. Compromise is the only peace, the only way to lull the demon so that I might make a life of my life. To give in without resistance is to feed it, to nurture its appetite, but to flat out refuse it is danger above all. The less I agree with myself, the less control I have. Up until now, my own fears could be used to tame the thing that lives in me, by the reasoning that going too far would risk being caught and permanently separated from him. Neither of us wants that. 

But now, it seems it has found a new call to answer: his. He doesn’t realize, how could he? With every kindness, every inch closer grown, he is stroking the wolf. Wresting control away.

But I am one person. Every rational thought has always served the base desire. The reasoning me is a thing wrought by the unthinking me to protect it from itself. I have outgrown myself, overstated my role.

Perhaps this will all end in blood, me and him torn asunder by myself. At least I’d be with him.

Wednesday. Not Wednesday. Tuesday evening. I have a headache. Pain medicine. Breakfast: toaster waffles and a glass of lukewarm water. I pace around the barren living area in slow circles. The sun sinks from the horizon. I dress. I depart.

I collect my hardware from Abner case. As I walk my way to where Costello target has traveled for the day, I call the newspaper office. Jim picks up.

“Candy! Hey, love what you sent me this morning, what’s the occasion?”

I don’t have to fake a sniffle or a cough. My voice is ragged enough.

“I don’t think I can make it tomorrow. I think I caught something, I don’t know where. Do you think you could send me an email with what you’d like me to prepare?”

“Jeez, I hope you’re taking it easy, you sound terrible. Gloria will be sorry to miss you, but you just focus on getting better. There’s a late night press conference I want you for in a few days, so rest up.”

“I will, thank you Jim.”

“Okay, feel better soon, Candy.”

The line clicks. Against my will, I sigh in relief. My hand in my pocket clutches, fumbles with a creased photo. I glance about nervously, though my face, my vile face of satisfaction is hidden by my mask and sunglasses.

Target Costello looks both ways before crossing the street. I snap a photo. Right now, I am playing a role close to home, as a simple photographer catching the nightlife of the city. I take photos in all directions to add to the effect, but I make sure to get the next photo, of the target entering a hotel.

We are easily within walking distance of the parking lot where I bugged the car. I review my photos, scrolling through more than thirty seemingly random shots. Some of these may still be useful for the paper. The target is carrying a purse. I bite my lip and look up at the dozens upon dozens of windows in the hotel.

I weigh the pros and cons of simply tapping her phone, against taking the extra effort of slipping a bug to her purse, to the arduous task of combing the hotel room by room from the outside. I check my notes. The client provided a phone number for the target.

No, I’m going at this from the wrong direction. The hotel surely has a database where they keep track of reservations. I open my phone and check for local wifi, and immediately find one with the hotel name followed by guest. I smile despite myself, and walk into the lobby, finding a seat to avail myself. Going unnoticed is largely about confidence- as long as I have no stake in the matter, I can act as though what I’m doing is as natural as breathing. I take a cursory glance around, before taking a laptop from my bag and turning it on.

I paid a lot for the slew of malware in my collection. Getting surveillance feeds from a bank undetected is not a simple task, after all.

Back home. I review my new bonanza of security cameras with relish, giggling and clutching the creased photo at odd intervals. Work-life balance is an uphill battle.

I watch the footage of Target Costello entering the lobby and taking the elevator. A few seconds later, I watch her enter the fourth floor hallway. She enters room 412, which I take note of. In the future, I will have to patch these feeds through to my phone, and make sure I identify which room she takes. But now at least, I have the preparation complete.

I sit back and sigh. The natural drift of my eyes carries over to the corner of the screen. An empty chair. The urge to leave, to go and watch his sleep knocks insistently at me. I refuse. Thus far I have also avoided intruding in his home while he is away, though with the rate things are progressing-

No. No, no. I do myself no favors with wishful thinking, and giving any credence to wicked plans is a route into the territory I have avoided so successfully.

I stand, and step away, and sit on the floor, my hands in my lap. In my mind, I face myself.

There is only so much I can do to tame my behavior. But I am practiced. Every Saturday, I prove to myself that I can hold off, and behave as a normal individual. And on the days I visit the office, I can hold myself in check with the promise of seeing him in person before returning home.

I relax my shoulders, and lower my head, loosening my grip on myself. Mine. He is mine, all mine, mine alone. Give him, give him, Octavian, Octavian, Octavian, Octavian, Octavian, Octavian, Octavian,

Octavian, Octavian,

Octavian-

I slump forward and grit my teeth, shuddering. The world spins around me. I grab the floor and heave. No. No. I will not let go, not yet, and not tomorrow. I will survive this. I must. For both our sakes. I begin again. Octavian. Octavian. Octavian.