I’m horrible, really. I sit on the rooftop and stare up into the sky, compelling myself to drink in the limited starlight, the swollen visage of the nearly-full moon. I breathe out, and watch the air become steam in the chill of midnight. I look down, and press my eyes to the binoculars I have set up.
Through a gap in curtains, I glimpse sheets, a bare chest. I catch myself nearly panting. My fingers clutch a folded Polaroid. Really, I’m just awful. I can reason and justify all I like, but when it comes down to it, I’m a slobbering hyena, a sick splotch of lust and craving.
He turns over, and I frantically begin to trace the dimples and lines that tell of his muscles in his back. I feel my mouth is gaping, my heart pounds in my chest. I cannot resist myself, I bring the photograph to my mouth and press it to my lips, a stopgap measure against panting like a dog. Heat billows through me, short circuits my thoughts, sparks my nerves, brings a weak wobbling to my knees. I can nearly feel my fingers tracing that back, palms pressed, greedily drinking in his warmth.
“Octavian…”
My voice is a pitiful, sniveling whimper. I moan lightly into the photograph, and crouch, breaking away from the sight. I am on all fours, saturated in sweat, heaving as if I have been running full tilt. In the part of my mind that maintains aloofness, I can only feel contempt for myself.
I may pretend to respect some boundary, but am all too eager to transgress, if an opportunity presents itself. I am no loyal soldier, there is no chivalry in my depravity. I stand, clutching myself, and lean my head to the binoculars again. He has not moved.
I drink in the sight, slaking an unquenchable thirst with slivers of pure intoxication. It is all I can do to keep steady with fingers splayed upon the ledge guard. Pity me. Slave to this monster that calls my soul its home.
Dawn comes, and I have packed away my equipment. As I distantly see him preparing his breakfast in the dim, I check my tracker. The car has not moved from its location all night. I have already noted the address, and will visit it soon. Notably, it is not the house of the client’s friend. A cursory search suggested a commercial district, with a few hotels.
I sigh and stand from my crouch. There is still time yet in the morning. I sling my pack over my shoulder, take one last, longing, lasting gaze towards his apartment, then begin to hop down onto the fire escape, disembarking from the building.
I climb and hop over a chain link fence, into a parking lot. Scanning the rows, I keep a low profile, ears out for any security personnel. I’m close.
I tiptoe into the next row and see it, a red sedan with a small dent in the back bumper. I jog over, glance around, then turn my attention to the door. After a moment’s inspection, I take a thin metal strip from my bag and slide it down the gap for the window against the exterior. It takes some finicky maneuvering, but I pop the lock, and open the door, slipping into the car.
It stinks of perfume. I check the backseat over my shoulder, then begin rifling through the glove box and the center console. I find change, registration papers, a pack of unopened gum, a stack of napkins, but nothing of consequence. Fine. I reach into my bag, and pull out a pair of small disks. One I affix to the back of the rearview mirror, the other I wedge into the defogging vent, making sure it faces the driver side.
I exit the car, close the door, and carefully lock it again. I check my surroundings, and exit the parking lot the same way I entered.
Exercise is a given with the work I have chosen. It primarily consists of cardio, but it is advisable to have strength enough to maneuver your bodyweight with ease. Crawling, sneaking, shuffling, climbing, leaping, rolling, there’s no end to the unorthodox methods of movement that may come in handy when you’re tailing someone on foot.
Following someone in your own car is fine, but traffic is a far less forgiving crowd than the sidewalk, alleyways, and rooftops.
I enter a light jog and pull down my hood, playing the part of a morning jogger starting my day. In reality, my night has just come to a close. Two turns, past five blocks, and across a bridge. By the time I am home, I am sweating and breathing heavily. Not so much as earlier in the night. I check around myself, then duck into my apartment building.
My dinner is a bowl of instant noodles and a bag of chips. I return to my desk, and flop down into my chair, flicking on the monitor.
He is at his desk, checking his emails. I smile, and review my own. Nothing new, but the thought of synchronicity brings me a warm feeling. Switching gears, I address my current cases. Two others sit in my files, one nearly wrapped up, the other in progress.
I assign all my cases codenames, to keep them straight. Case Vander includes client Vander, target Vander, etc. Case Whitlock, case Brighton.
I collect the gathered materials for the nearly complete case, Fallen. After compiling all the pictures, videos, and audio recordings and packing them into a zip file, I send it with a short email to the client, and close out the tab. I will have to scrub my files soon to preserve space.
The remaining cases are Abner and Costello, the latter being the case I worked on this morning. I contemplate examining case Abner, but push the idea aside, taking one last look at the surveillance feed before standing, disrobing, and collapsing into bed. I fade.
Fear. Guilt. Despair. I wake up sobbing. The dreamed accusation that woke me still rings in my ears. I revel in my sorrow, indulging the feelings of self pity and defeat, before wiping my eyes and sitting up, staring blankly at the floor. I laugh hollowly, then stand and glide over to the bathroom, greeting my reflection with hate.
My sunken, baggy eyes leer out from behind my greasy, tangled hair. I steel myself, then turn and turn on the shower, leaving the knob in cold. I slip under the rain, and rub the previous nights away with soap and conditioner, and tears. When my eyes have ceased flowing, I turn the knob to heat, and let my shoulders drop, planting my hands to the wall.
I get dressed. I elect to wear a short dress and a cropped leather jacket, both in moody shades of their respective colors. I augment the bags under my eyes with eyeliner and eyeshadow, and apply lip gloss. Today is Saturday.
Many people celebrate Sunday as their holy day. Saturday is mine. I spend each Saturday practicing restraint, forbidding myself from my nature. Today I will not obsess, I will not indulge, I will not work. I brush my hair, and take a curling iron to it.
I pout at myself in the mirror, judging my handiwork. I am clean, and presentable, infinitely more so than an hour ago. I bring out a smile, trying it on like my jacket. It looks forced.
I flinch, recoil, then acquiesce. I bring forth a memory from within, and my smile seems to come alive, warm and genuine. My cheeks color all on their own. My eyes shine like silvery fish.
My armor complete, I disengage from the bathroom and closet, and enter my kitchen. I snatch keys from the counter top, and a handbag from the chair. At the door, I slip into a pair of heels.
“Goodness dear, you look terrible.”
I offer Raphael my middle finger, which he blows a kiss to. The arrow tattoos above and below his eyes twitch with mocking, and I slide into the booth. Colored spotlights paint him vile shades of his natural pigmentation, and at times make him appear less a skinny and tall fellow in a bodycon dress, and more a mummy in scant wrappings. Which is closer to accurate is unclear.
A waitress wearing a dark blue vest and fishnet stockings comes and lays a martini glass in front of him, and a glass of scotch in front of me. We toast.
“To us.”
Raphael grins, and echoes the sentiment with less panache.
“To being hot bitches!”
I glare at him, but he is already throwing back his drink, and gesturing for another. I follow his gaze, and see a particularly broad-chested stack of man behind the bar. Ah. I understand now, the reason he asked to try this particular hole in the wall. I suspect the bathrooms also have holes in their walls, and that he will be trying those, too.
I grimace, and scoot further into the booth, away from the frantic swirl of people and noise. Raphael pouts.
“Honey,if you look that pathetic, I’m not gonna feel right having fun.”
“Sorry Ralphie, I’m just waking up.”
“Candy. Sugar. Sweetheart. What’s the point in living your life overnight if you’re not gonna enjoy the nightlife?”
The mob cheers as a new song begins- at least, I suspect it is a new song. The bpm seems the same, and the bass is just as oppressive.
“I hear you, Ralphie.”
He sighs and reaches over to hug me, shoulder to shoulder.
“Hey, no more frowning, okay? I wanna see any cute boys you’ve been following, okay?”
“Ralphie, you know most boys I follow are up to no good.”
I am already pulling a handful of pictures from my purse. Raphael’s smile rivals mine.
“That’s how I like em, girl. I love a guy who can’t keep it in his pants. He can keep it in me instead!”
I cough and laugh, before handing him the photos, before picking up my drink and having a gulp. It’s like fire in my mouth. I question if… Octavian really drinks this for anything other than alcohol content. Raphael mutters to himself.
“Damn bitch, how do you get these without getting see- holy fuck, that’s a cock! You got him with his pants down, literally!”
I glance over, taking another gulp of scotch.
“Oh, yeah, that had to be the easiest case in a while. Proof in two days.”
Raphael sighs and stuffs the photos into his dress around the chest.
“And you get paid to creep on people. Honey, you’re my best friend, but you are staying safe, right? You’re not in legal or physical danger, right?”
I shake my head and throw a practiced smile. My hair bounces around my head.
“Ralphie, who am I?”
He grins and clasps both my hands, bouncing in his seat.
“Baddest bitch outside myself, of course!”
I watch Raphael lead someone towards the bathroom and sigh, shaking my head. My second scotch arrives, and despite the warm, swimming sensation in my head, I pick it up and drain it in two goes. Another body slides into the booth beside me. I get ready to scowl and shoo off an unwanted suitor, but instead find myself face to face with a pair of terrified eyes.
The girl cannot be more than sixteen, and her lipstick is smudged around her lips. I tilt my head to one side, looking her over, before nodding once and putting my arm around her shoulders.
Its not like I wear a neon sign that says ‘give me your weary’, but I’ve bar-hopped with Raphael enough to know what my ‘energy’ is: safe. I glare at men who meet my eyes with anything approaching hope. I view other women with utter disinterest. In a room full of apparent predators, I look like an exit sign.
I lean over and whisper softly into her ear.
“Where’s the scumbag?”
I look into her eyes, and nod once in the direction of the dance floor. Her wild, crazed eyes lock to mine, and she stammers. Beard, biker jacket, aviators. I glance out and immediately identify fuck boy. He looks like a frat boy playing dress up. He is coming this way. Alright, let’s go.
I stand to square off with him, and am immediately rewarded with the sight of Raphael grabbing him by the chin and forcing his lips to the loser’s. I watch the man twitch and recoil, and cough loudly, and can guess at the nature of the gift Ralphie has given him. I slump back in the seat beside the girl, and Ralphie joins from the other side.
“I’d like to say he tasted bad, but…”
I gag and cover my mouth. Raphael turns to the girl and looks her over.
“Are you okay? Would you like us to walk you home?”
The girl nods enthusiastically.
“But really. No one catches your eye?”
I adjust my stance, careful not to fall forward. Raphael carries both our purses and my heels, and I carry the girl on my back. I glare at him from behind the wavy curtain of my hair. He sighs and groans.
“Girl, are you ever gonna find Mr right? Perfection isn’t going to just walk up one day and introduce itself.”
Irony brings heat to my cheeks, and I look down, cursing the way my heart beats just a little faster. My state does not escape Raphael.
“OH!? Oh, so there IS someone!”
“Shut up, Ralphie…”
I bite my lip and blow air through my nose. I can hear Raphael prancing to my left.
“Oh but this is good! Candy finally met someone! We should celebrate!”
“Not… Not yet, not just yet.”
What am I saying? We’ve only spoken once. There’s barely the chance it will happen again, let alone that it will be anything more than a way to pass the time. I was noticed only because we two are both awake and active early enough that we have the café to ourselves often. A terrible risk. And what if we do talk more? Can I keep up appearances all along?
But I find myself wondering why I even grew so bold as to enter the same room as him, alone, if I hadn’t hoped, secretly, even from myself, to be seen, to be known? Whether it is the alcohol in my veins or the dizzying self-contradiction in my head, the world is blurred. I stumble a little.
“Alright, alright, no jumping the gun. Baby steps. Dates before dick.”
I nearly choke on air.
Emily, as the girl’s name turns out to be, waves to us shyly from behind her door, before closing it and vanishing into the townhouse. Raphael sighs and puts his hands on his hips.
“She’ll be fine. I just hope she finds better friends to party with.”
I stare at him with a deeply sarcastic smile, eyes half shut. He notices, and sticks out his tongue. I smirk, and feign embarrassment.
“Oh, you still have a little, um-”
He frowns and runs his finger over his tongue before catching me holding in a laugh. His face droops, and he waves his defeat as he turns to head back. I trot up alongside him and smile with some of my practiced warmth.
“Thank you for tonight, Ralph. I really did need some of this.”
“Anytime, girl. Who else is gonna hold my hair?”
His words don’t match the sly, unrepressed smile of genuine joy he hides by turning away. Suddenly, he stops, and turns to me.
“Hey, we should visit Igor.”
I raise an eyebrow in skepticism. He insists.
“No, really, we should tell him that you met someone! He’ll be so happy for you!”
“Igor. Happy.”
“He does smile, once in a while.”
“Just not in your presence, right?”
He ignores my jab, and resumes walking, at twice the pace. I follow, with significantly less vigor.
Before I know it, we’re at the tattoo parlor. Smoky neon light spills from the doorway into the street, a lotus petal of colorful invitation. Raphael strides in proudly, and I stay on his heels.
“Iggy! I’m here for you!”
A muscular, bullish specimen is hunched over a customer, applying the finishing touches on an arm and tattoo. Without looking up, Igor answers the greeting.
“Still don’t swing that way, Raphael. Grab some seat, I’ll be with you in a bit.”
Raphael harrumphs, and finds a chair to wait in, while I remain standing by the doorway.
To say Igor is built like anything less than a bison would be a lie. He is swaddled in muscles, and boasts a pointy beard under his chin. A pair of motorcycle goggles decorate his forehead; to my knowledge, they may well be glued there. He has few tattoos of his own, outside of a number of tribal markings along his left arm.
“Pull up a chair, Candy. You’re makin me nervous.”
I grab a stool and bring it up to a respectable distance from where he works. I watch, partly repulsed and fully mesmerized by the vibration of the tattoo gun.
“Why’s Ralphie dragging you here tonight? You caught up in some bad mojo? A client stiffing you?”
“I… Um. Well.”
“Candy’s got a cruuuuuu-uush!”
“Raphael, you sit your ass down before I-”
Thinking better of any threat he might make, he exhales, pauses to wipe his work, and looks me over.
“So. A boy finally caught her majesty’s eye. What’s he like?”
I blush down to my neck, and stare hatred at Raphael before mustering an answer.
“He’s very polite. He works at the bank-”
Igor glances, and I shake my head frantically. I don’t want one of his lectures about Raphael’s tendency to date wealthy, dangerous men.
“He’s nice, Igor. He was very shy to approach me. He’s cute, and-”
I slap my hand over my own mouth, and feel my ears burn. I glare at Raphael, whose beaming is worse than any smug words. Igor laughs once, and leans away from his work, sizing it up.
“That’s good to hear, kid. Both of us worry about your level of investment in the world. Spend your whole life between dusk and dawn, when are you gonna soak in the sun?”
I scowl and cross my arms. Igor notices and pinches his forehead, groaning. The customer sits up and looks over their new armband.
“This is what I’m talking about. You spend all your time engaging with people like your clients, and club crawlers-”
“Hey!”
“-And you’re bound to become a cynic. Have a little optimism.”
I release my stiffness to indicate my understanding, but in my thoughts, I reject his message. Optimism is danger. Hope is a noose being tightened, a padded cell door opening. Chasing dreams leads to loony bins and sudden drops from cliffs. For a heart so steeped in wickedness, no such course should be pursued.
I watch Igor as he finishes tending to his first customer, and Raphael as he works his way onto the chair, perusing a pamphlet of Igor’s original designs. The mirage in front of me confirms my choice to suppress. I see no practice in their performance, no acting in their acts. Their world and mine are so divorced from one another as to be matter and antimatter. My essence is arsenic, theirs is carbon. To be fulfilled would be to damage what lies before me.
Seeds of Fear 