Tag: writing

Are you joking? Are you being for real? Is this real, is any of this right?

I’m sorry, I must have misheard. You’re telling me that, in just a week, I got to go on a date with him, and also had to hear the details of his murder before it happens? Isn’t that a little too cruel?

I am chewing on the creased photograph, clutching my head in my hands, and rocking back and forth on my bed. My scar aches viciously. I’m seeing spots in the edges of my vision. I check the clock. Two minutes have passed since I stood up from the desk and curled up here.

Reason has no home in me anymore.

Maybe it’s time for plan B? If I kidnap him, he’s out of harm’s way, right? At least, I have no immediate intentions of killing him, life expectancy surely goes up by a few months at the very least. I jest, I wouldn’t kill him, but his life would essentially be over. Anything’s better than dead though, right?

Who says he’ll die though, right? Maybe he’ll cooperate?

No, that doesn’t add up. I cottoned on to what the leader was really going for. No one would be left as an eyewitness. Octavian would certainly press that panic button. It’s all a set up. The loud plan would start, and everyone would catch stray lead, right up to the manager, after he unlocked everything they couldn’t. I suspect members of the crew are meant to die, too. Something about their leader strikes me as too cunning for the holes in his plan, the neat little holes that don’t seem to jeopardize him whatsoever. My best guess is that he owes someone something absurd, and has settled on this as his way out.

No, Octavian is mine. You can’t have him for your blood money scheme.

I could, of course, slip what I know to law enforcement. But that has its own repercussions, not the least of which being my involvement. Investigation means searches, means the line I have to the surveillance cams gets traced. Even if their plan goes off without a hitch, it comes back on me. I look guilty as hell, tapped into the cams and getting involved with a teller.

All I can see this ending in is blood. Hence, the rocking, chewing, and now sobbing.

Right now, my best option is to do something really horrific. Obviously, if I go slit a crew member throat in his sleep, the plan gets called off, or at least postponed. The group gets discovered incidentally, I possibly get the finger for murder, I go away, Octavian lives.

The thought of what he thinks of me after that, however, stops me dead in the process. I can’t do it. It was one thing when we had never spoken, but now, I’ve come too far to lose him.

I sit up straight.

No, I’ve come far too far to lose him! Perhaps I do kidnap him, and I explain what was going to happen, explain that I found out through my shameful second job, leave out some of my other flaws, and we elope to some country overseas?

Now is not the time for witless fantasy. I need a real, effective solution, preferably one that does not end with him dead or irreversibly changed.

First, I sit down at my desk, and stare at the security footage. I need to cut this tether, this indulgent tie that over-involves me.

I comb through my library of viruses, my digital petting zoo. I need something totally obliterating.

This will do. I select the bug, and package it just right, and send it through my piggyback connection, severing my end as soon as it’s through. The rectangle blinks out, and I breathe a sigh of relief. My options are much better now. But depending on how impatient the ringleader is, the hit may continue even in the disarray the bank will be in once the employees show up and find their security breached.

So, phase 2. I collect the audio, and start snipping sections out and creating a far less complete version of my usual report. I grumble, and send my findings to the client, urging him to stop his partner before she does something she can’t come back from. See? I’m capable of diplomacy before violence! 

With any luck, the crew will be stalled without a key member. But perhaps the leader is on the verge of being abducted by some shadowy, criminal group for his debts, and won’t take no for an answer. So, phase 3.

He walks into the Café, and smiles at me before stopping at the counter to buy a coffee and a Danish. And then, an angel alighting upon the earth, he sits opposite me. We both seem to wait for the other to speak, before he takes first turn.

“I was almost afraid you wouldn’t be here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

I give a very heartfelt, confused smile. My heart throbs at the moment of vulnerable elation in his eyes. I really have got to control my feelings better.

“Well, after the other night, I thought maybe you’d had too much of me, too quickly.”

How correct and incorrect of you! Too quick and too much, yes, unless your goal was to give me a heart attack from all the stress. But there’s never too much of you in my life for my liking.

“It wasn’t so bad. You did a very kind thing. How could I repay that by running away?”

Easy there. No need to lay it on too thick. The poor boy is already quite pleased. Ugh. Did I get too much sugar in my coffee?

“Well, I mean, if you think so. I just didn’t want you going home in all that. I’d worry.”

“Really, you’re too kind. Honestly, I wanted to apologize for not texting you more after letting you know I made it home. I’ve been… Shockingly busy. Really, work has been murder.”

I actually used another sick day, offering Jim quite a lot of consolation pictures as thanks, things I had saved for a rainy day.

He waves dismissively. I look away, eyeing my watch. Almost time. He takes a sip of his coffee and sits back, sighing.

“Well, enough about the past.”

I lean forward, gently letting my eagerness display. I bat my eyes at him, just once, blink and you’ll miss it.

“Um, yes. The future. I mean-”

Oh my gods. Really, it’s unfair to fluster so easily, only one of us should be a nervous wreck, and I’m the reigning champion. No fair. Now I have to hide my smile with a drink. He gathers himself.

“I was thinking, maybe we could actually plan to get dinner sometime.”

“You mean dinner, or breakfast?”

He flinches, before nodding.

“Whichever you like, morning or evening. You’re free on weekends, right?”

I hesitate. To transgress on Saturday would be tantamount to throwing out the rules altogether.

“My Saturday evening to Sunday evening block is usually unoccupied, yes. I have a weekly get-together with friends during the previous block.”

“That works, perfect! I mean, how do you feel about… Your breakfast, my dinner, Saturday evening?”

“I’d love it. I’ll still see you Thursday, though?”

“Of course.”

I really am pushing it. My heart is swinging against my ribs with no regard for safety. Once already, my vision has been wreathed in spots, but I’ve held on with sheer stubbornness. I will see this through. He checks his watch and winces.

“Oh dear, I’m going to be late.”

“Octavian?”

He looks up. My blush is very, very real, a byproduct of using his name in front of him. But it helps my purpose.

“If you’re going to be late anyway, why don’t you let me walk you to work? It’s not as if I have somewhere to be.”

Time seems to freeze. He stares at me, I do my best to stare back with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Very good. He avoided the voice crack that snuck up his throat nearly perfectly. I stand, gather my things, and, the image of courage, offer him my hand. As he takes it, my mind gives over to a mental shriek of delight that lasts the whole trip. He can probably feel my racing pulse, but his own is making fair competition. That doesn’t help much. This is fine, however.

My head swims, but I endure. My plan must succeed.

Every light in my brain is flashing, every wire is shorting out. My pulse is definitely surpassing his by leaps and bounds.

We make it a couple blocks. The bank is around the corner. I’m running out of time. Fine. One more push. As we round the corner, he turns to me, and gives a very, very nervous, happy nod. Of course, most of the nervousness is actually me. 

“This is it. Thank you for walking me this far.”

No turning back now. I turn and face him head on, and oh gods, I’m really doing it. I give him a gentle peck on the cheek.

“Have a good day at-”

I crumple. Lights out, fuse blown. Just as planned. I know him, I know exactly how he will react to someone fainting right in front of him. I’ve laid my trap perfectly. Calling out sick from work, pushing myself to my very real limits, and now, the final piece of the puzzle. A genuine lapse of consciousness from rushing myself without any preparation. Bravo and well done. The only real flaw in this plan is the sickening crack my head makes when it hits the sidewalk.

I have his phone number. It’s like being able to reach out and caress him whenever I want. But I mustn’t! I can’t! If I were to allow it, I would be messaging him every minute, sending him horrific descriptions of every passing suggestion spit forth within my head. One way ticket to a restraining order, and probably a psych evaluation, and then game over. That JERK! First he tames me like some ditzy doll-eyed hanger-on with no greater aspirations than being a housewife, then he tries to trick me into becoming the headline of the week?

For all my coveting, he is not the only aspect of my life. I have an apartment, I have friends, I have dreams that don’t involve him.

That much is a lie, there is never a night that I go to sleep and do not wake with his name on my li-

Hold on. I slept in his apartment. Did I sleeptalk there?

Now I must contend with the possibility that he heard me calling his name in my sleep.

Should I just give up now? I’ve been away from him for perhaps two hours, and all I’ve done is think about him, him, him, and tossed and turned on my own bed. I throw my pillow at the wall, and it slumps to the floor, briefly becoming a vision of him, sliding to the ground with terror in his eyes. I clamp my hands over my mouth and sob.

I am back to this, then. My world has flipped on its axis.

Trying to focus on work does not help. Target Costello won’t be leaving for another day. The press conference got pushed back because of the flood. I’ve already emailed Jim a few photos I took on my way home, but my phone camera has no hope of competing with anyone who was more prepared.

I drag myself by my hands up into my computer chair, and lay my head on my desk. I watch the time refuse to pass. Getting my sleep schedule back will be easy enough, but making it to that point is another matter. I open my web browser, and scroll listlessly through blogs, posts, and updates.

Midway through my seventeenth video about advances in lockpick design, I slap my own cheeks and grunt. I open the surveillance feeds from the hotel, and roll back the tape, until I see target Costello in the grainy video. She does not stop at the desk. I. Am an idiot. I scroll back further. I watch a man walk in reverse out of the room. He too does not stop at the desk. Oh? Oh, oh? I wonder now if he keeps the room on indefinitely. Then, my expectations are shattered as a second man shuffles out of the room and does not stop at the desk. Close behind him comes a third man, who is finally the one to check in.

I flop out of my chair and onto the floor, and celebrate by pumping all my limbs at random, quietly screaming.

“YES YES YES, JACKPOT!”

I leap up and record each individual addition to the room, my glee only increasing when a fourth man and another woman arrive together after the target, joining the pile. I splice the videos into an edited, sped up clip that slows down for each entrance, and I manually highlight each individual frame by frame. I reserve my judgment for another time, today is a day for celebration twice over, first for surviving a night at his house, second for catching my own laziness.

I send a short email to the client, and attach a photograph of one of the men and the other woman from the video, asking if he recognizes them. My primary goal is to keep him interested, but if he does have more useful information, it can speed me towards finishing the case ahead of time.

He replies in a few minutes, and says that he thinks the woman is one of the target’s friends. I send a short reply, saying that I will continue investigating, and that I expect further developments soon.

I rise from the desk, sigh happily, and reward myself by falling into bed and letting an idle daydream play out in my head.

I picture Octavian feeding me cherries, in the middle of a field, a bottle of wine between us.

Oh, this is unusually self-serving, and rather tame. I bite my lip and roll over, uncomfortable with the implications of the fantasy. And since when do I take so long to realize such a straightforward way to advance a case?

I should probably update Raphael.

I find my phone, and open my contacts. I swipe past the clear impossibility of his contact, and hover my thumb over the call symbol under Raphael’s name. After a sigh, I press. One ring. Two rings. Three. On the fourth, it clicks.

“Mm, Candy?”

Ah, right. He’d still be sleeping.

“Hi Ralphie. Sorry for not calling you directly. I didn’t want to answer questions about the date at his apartment.”

There is a frighteningly long pause, and I wonder if he has fallen back asleep.

“So, did you get some tail?”

I nearly hang up.

“No, Ralph. I stayed the night because of the flooding.”

“But you couldn’t pick up the phone.”

Ah.

“Ralphie, please be fair. Would you be firing on all cylinders in that situation?”

I bite my thumb. I’m being a little unfair to Ralphie, but I can’t just come out and say that I passed out from the excitement of being in that bed. He’d probably think I’d been drugged. Octavian wouldn’t have to roofie me though, just one touch and-

I shake the thought away and sigh.

“I’m sorry, Ralphie. There was a lot happening, and I was so focused on not screwing up the crazy moment that was happening, and I just…”

“I get it. I do. But it does hurt my feelings, to have Igor be the one to tell me you don’t wanna talk.”

“Damn. Ralph, I…”

He groans.

“Alright, enough of this whiny shit, tell me about the date!”

I smile despite myself, and for some reason, it feels real without trying.

Night time. My time. Thursday night into Friday morning. My Friday. It’s time for some prep work. Tomorrow is Saturday, holiest day under the stalker moon. But target Costello likes to do her business during that span. So, now I have to lay a trap to catch her.

People are predictable. They fall into habit without realizing. But my biggest obstacle at the moment is that the hotel will likely issue a random room to whoever books their overpopulated rendezvous. My hope, my dear hope, is that the room is reserved in their absence, held under some discounted, long term plan, so that each person knows the room number to call on every time. This is a little uncommon, but I’ve seen it done by people who are especially wary of being caught by their spouse, unaware of the other complications it adds.

So, right now, I’m setting up a parabolic microphone on the roof of the building opposite the hotel, carefully aiming it down at the window. I use a tin box that I’ve shaped to look like an AC unit to hide it, screwing it into the brick with a compact cordless drill. I check the timer and the data card, before nodding to myself. It’s unlikely that the equipment will be found, but replacing it would definitely cripple my spending money for the future.

Once everything is secured, I climb down and start walking away, wondering what to do with the rest of the night. I need to stay up late enough that my sleep returns to its normal timing, but tomorrow is the off night, so a little leniency exists.

I am not very surprised when my first instinct tells me to go and watch him. Nothing new there. And yet, it makes my chest tighten to think about looking down into that apartment. After having been on the other side of the glass, going to the aquarium seems in poor taste.

I understand all of that, but why am I standing outside his door with a lockpick in my hand?

My hands are shaking. I have never, never, ever been so bold as to outright enter his space. Infiltrating people’s lives is nothing new to me, but this is so very, very wrong. I glance left and right. He is inside. Sleeping, certainly. Based on what I have observed, he will be so deep within his sleep that I could walk up and lick his face without waking him. Not that I’ve spent much time considering that scenario.

I am inside before I realize. High-alert does not begin to describe my state of mind, no: I am already ringing every alarm bell. I tiptoe into the kitchen and loom over the sink, staring at the drain. I want to pour myself in. I need to escape from here, even if it’s through the pipes. I don’t do anything so absurd, of course. Instead, I creep to the bedroom. Much more natural.

He is sleeping on his side, in a plain white t-shirt. A little moan of delight catches in my throat. Frankly, I think I’d be better off screaming, preferably running the other way.

I retreat, thankfully, to the kitchen. I ponder a steak knife left on the cutting board, contemplating tasting its edge for his dinner. Then I contemplate plunging it into myself to save him from whatever this nighttime raid has to offer. My hand is around the handle. I am staring at the keen edge with an intensity that really should be reserved for hand-eye coordination in baseball. I set it down.

I open the fridge. Milk, eggs, meat thawing for tomorrow’s dinner. Good, good, he’s eating well. Close fridge, open trash. A discarded yogurt cup. The dishwasher clunks, and I flee, out the door, locked behind me.

I come to my senses two blocks away. I’m holding the yogurt cup.

This is beyond wrong. My heart is racing, and not just because of my mad sprint. Maintaining any level of self control seems out the window.

I am licking the cup clean, my shame is nowhere to be seen here. The strange sighs and huffing sounds I make between glances around the alley are similarly distressing.

I need a plan, a method to contain myself. If I do not place some sort of measures in my way, I will again perform such an atrocity. I am sure of it.

It is too late for me to vanish. I cannot bring myself to perform such a wicked act, to ghost him. Instead, I must pace myself. Control is everything. Knowing when and where I will be exposed to him, and preparing adequately in advance.

I slink out of the alley, the cup discarded with my temporary insanity. I burn into my memory the still of myself standing in his kitchen, knife in hand, head full of impulses. This is the worst case scenario, the future I must avoid at all costs. Being in his life must not come at the cost of safety. 

I stuff my shaking hands into my pockets and turn a corner. In front of me, the diner glows like a hole in the wall of life itself, a shimmering mirage. I take a step towards the strange oasis, before turning away and heading home. Enough revisiting memories.

Saturday. Time to live. I see Raphael early on, but the main event tonight is a movie. After hugging and bidding my friend goodnight, I hop down the sidewalk by the main road, skipping over cracks and manhole covers. My hair is in a long braid down my back, and bounces there with my pace.

I have carefully selected this movie from the showings, as the best choice according to both head and heart. No romance, no horror, no suspense. I walk up to the ticket counter and beam at the attendant before proclaiming:

“One ticket for Jack Breaker 2 please.”

Action movies are a guilty pleasure of mine. I mean no offense to their writers when I say that the lack of required investment is my favorite thing about them. You can just sit back, and the story will be told to you, without needing you to do any real puzzling or feeling around. The main reason to watch is violence, and maybe that hit of catharsis when the protagonist gets revenge, or rescues the victim, or otherwise brings justice to the scene.

I buy a small bucket of popcorn and a little bag of chocolate-covered ice-cream bites, and file into the theater, finding a seat near the back.

The movie is just as I hoped. It starts out with just the right amount of juxtaposition, and becomes a gritty bloodbath that treats lives like a score in a video game, so long as their owner was aligned with the villain. The ultimate scene is an adrenaline-choked chase followed by a shootout in a nondescript industrial building. Luck and skill are beyond human belief, but that’s not the point. The point is that moment when it was all worth it, and the main character experiences both vindication and relief.

And of course, another just like this will come out in two years time, promising greater stakes, without fail.

I exit the theater feeling refreshed and tranquil, reality temporarily under the surface of a dreamlike sheen of the world where everything works out perfectly. On this cloud of suspended disbelief, I float back to my apartment, and land in my bed.

I stand at the edge of the doorway to a veritable nirvana, a Valhalla, a den of metaphorical lions. The threshold seems an event horizon.

“Candy? Come in and dry off, hurry! What are you, a vampire?”

“Don’t be silly.”

I’m much, much worse; I really exist.

I step inside, and allow the door to swing shut behind me, the lid on my casket, the seal on my fate. I peek around. The TV, where I knew it would be. The couch, from an angle I’ve never seen.

My heart is playing my ribs like a xylophone to a panic waltz. My blood surges in my ears. I meekly accept a towel, and dry myself, certain that it will come away stained with the sludge of my soul.

The rain competes with my heart on the window, light cymbals to the rattling of the snare. I look down. My clothes are still drenched. He picks up on my dismay.

“Oh, let me see if I have… um, sweatpants, and a shirt, maybe?”

His respect for my modesty cannot hope to compare with the utter lack of it in my thoughts. He presents me with a bundle of soft, dry clothes, and ushers me to the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look like a wet cat.

This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. This should be impossible, a game-over state that forces the world to reset. But time continues, and before I realize what I am doing, I am in the clothes he has given me, and mine are on the floor. I stare at my underwear. Something terrible is happening. My vision blurs a bit, and I crouch.

The demon rears its head, and roars from within me. I whimper into my elbow, and am assaulted by the scent of his clothes.

Every direction is danger. I have stepped into a minefield. I gather up my clothes, bundling everything in my dress, and I bite down on my own arm, hard enough to draw blood. My vision clears.

I return to the front line, holding my wet bundle. He regards the strange, waterlogged thing before him, then leads me to his laundry room and explains his machines to me before leaving me with my dignity. His kindness is a knife in my side.

I complete the chore, I return to the living room, and I approach the couch. He stops me. I look up into his eyes, and whatever he sees in them causes him terrific embarrassment. I suspect it is something akin to despair, though I cannot explain its source to him, so he is forced to explain that he is not, in fact, telling me to stay on the floor.

“I’ll go change the sheets on the bed, so you can have a room to yourself. Or, wait, I suppose you won’t sleep-”

“I may nap. I didn’t sleep perfectly last night.”

I interrupt, flushed. It’s a bargain, an embarrassment to stave off something worse: even the thought of me awake and at hand while he sleeps seems like a violation of common sense. You don’t find lambs snoozing in the company of wolves. Hearing him mention changing his sheets, however, and understanding that it means he intends for me to use his bed has rather stunlocked me into a mental chant. It goes like this:

Change the sheets? Please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t please don’t-

He is back. The sheets, mercifully, are changed. I am nudged into the bedroom, he takes some clothes from his closet in case the storm keeps me here overnight, and then I am alone. In his room. With his bed.

I am wide awake.

I walk around on tiptoes, a pious child in a sacred temple. Bedside table. Alarm clock, book, lamp, notepad.

I gently lift and thumb through the notepad. I see financial numbers, grocery lists, reminders. The most recent page simply says “library, six.”

I clutch this divine relic to my chest, press it to my heart as if it can soothe the organ in its mad sprint. I float over to the window, press my free hand to the curtains. I see through the narrow gap, sight the perch from which I gawked not so long ago. I turn away immediately, revolted.

But before me is a sea of treasures. Furthermore, I distantly hear something incredible: a shower springing to life.

I cannot bear my idle imaginings: I fling myself to the floor and quiver, overstimulated. I shrink into myself, and lose all molecular sense, diffusing like a fine mist into the strange horizons of my daydreams, wreathed in dazzling light that tastes more than it glows, and gives off a perfume stronger than either. Sounds like the crashing of metal and reverberating bass lines splinter into my state of unbeing, stifling what could once be called thought even further.

A knock at the door. I sit up, and miraculously produce enough sense within myself to call out:

“W-what is it?”

“I realized you might want a shower too, so I put a fresh towel out. If you like, you can also grab another set of clothes from my closet.”

He pauses, and I pinch myself to stay sapient.

“I checked the forecast. The rain is supposed to last at least another hour. No clue how bad the flooding is at this point.”

I am trapped here in this hell. I couldn’t be happier.

“Th-thank you!”

I draw my marionette self up on strings of sheer willpower, and gangle to the closet. Here too are dangers. I open a drawer. Neatly stacked socks and underwear scream into my eyes. I shut the drawer with a squeak that may have come from it or myself. I grab a t-shirt and a pair of jogging pants. I feel woozy, the ground tilts as the deck of a ship, and I fight a staggering swagger. I open the door, and the world snaps upright.

Before me, I see him, calmly sitting and reading as if there is nothing to be concerned about, as if the world still spins, and the stars still twinkle, and a monster does not stand in front of him, wearing his clothes. I turn from the irrational sight, and march into the bathroom, closing the door.

Mirror. My pupils are needlepoints. I can see my pulse in my neck. I set the clothes aside, and peer at the towels hanging by the shower. One is fluffy, the other is considerably damp.

I jolt, suddenly finding myself with my face buried in the damp towel.

The shower is good. Water over my head, down through my hair, across my back. Shampoo. Soap. Soap that sits in my hands for a time, cupped like a bird with a broken wing. The act of cleansing is a profound help. I am fully conscious again, though my obsession has awoken as well, at full strength. Always I am glancing at the door, supposing that some ridiculous change will occur, and cause him to join me in the steam. I have to shake this notion from my head repeatedly.

Drying off again, my eyes attach themselves to the sight of his toothbrush. Absolutely not. Instead I take the unopened, packaged one that has been laid out for me. I have no choice but to avail myself of his toothpaste, however. There’s no escaping the fact that I now know what his mouth tastes like at this very moment. 

Surely this is another dream, and I will soon wake up in my bed, or on my floor, having overslept for our date. This makes the most sense, but I cannot rouse myself with pinches or bites.

I am awake. This is a terrifying thing to admit. It carries with it the admission that I am currently in his apartment, wearing his clothes, about to retire to his bed. It beggars belief.

But when I open the door, he looks up from his book and smiles sympathetically at me, as if he understands what a noble fight I am putting up for his sake. I bow my head.

“Thank you for… All of this.”

Every second is beyond my most daring wishes. He simply nods his head in return, and blinks slowly. I retreat into the bedroom, and at last confront the most immediate of my formidable foes: the bed. I kneel at the altar upon which my messiah reposes, and apologize for sullying its purpose with my impure body. It is only at his request that I do so.

I climb up, a hiker stranded and on her last rations mounting a cliff edge. I tremble as I crawl up to the pillows, and slip my legs under the covers, then my torso.

There are not words in a vocabulary uttered by sentient creatures to express the boundless euphoria I am experiencing. My whole body tingles, my head swims, my vision becomes a smear of colors without names. I am a wax candle under a blowtorch, an ice cube under a tongue. I fall to pieces, my mind relinquishes reason for good, and his chief protection becomes my inability to find enough coherence to escape the trap I have willingly entered.

The moon rises in the window, and seems to encompass not only the entire breadth of that small rectangle in my view, but the whole of my vision. I am swallowed up in its malevolent glow, exposed at all angles to the unliving oculus of divine judgement. I can only plea that I have not chosen this course, but fallen into it.

This is not enough. My own voice seems to echo in my ear, a juvenile self tugging at a skirt I am not wearing.

“What happened to you?”

I am dreaming. But as I look down, I see that I am covered in familiar bruises. And each aches as it did when it first developed. I press my hand to my lower back, and it comes back wet, slick with blood. I turn, and find all the moonlight concentrated into one figure, one towering monster, one that has not lived in years. Horns like railroad spikes jut out from a grinning skull. The thing crouches down on all fours, to bring its head in line with mine. A voice that haunted my childhood bubbles up from its broken trachea.

“What’s life without a little pain? What’s love without a side of fear?”

The crooked mouth cracks open, and pours with beetles, shiny shells reflecting my blank face back at me. As they begin to crawl up my legs, I scream.

Awake. I sit up, heaving air. Sunlight streams in through the window, forming uneven pools of brass upon the white sheets that conceal my body from my sight. I lift the sheets in terror, but find none of the squirming black bugs. I have not dreamed of my father in months.

All at once, like a splash of cold water, I ascertain that I am not in my room. This is not my alarm clock, not my notepad. These are not my clothes.

Oh. A strange serenity evaporates up into my head, and I fall back on the pillows. I am here, and I am in control. The clock tells me that I slept for seven hours, two more than most days. In hindsight, I reluctantly admit that I may have done myself more harm than good by staying up to practice my resistance. While it served to temporarily strengthen my inhibition, it also had a terribly obvious effect on my sleep.

Still, I wonder at the light that breaks through the curtains, reflecting that it must only show me such favor for my valiant defense against myself. No such sun could possibly shine in a world where I had less self-restraint.

I leave the bed with all the enthusiasm I can muster. I approach the door, and reason that he will have left for work already, before opening it and seeing him at the stove, pushing bacon around in a skillet. My dread crashes against me like a wave, but curiously recedes as the ocean on the shore, a blessing that originates from I know not where. He glances over his shoulder, and waves shyly. I wave back, a comrade in his awkwardness with my own mystified state.

“Um, your clothes are done drying, of course. Ah, most places are closed today because of the flooding, so, the bank is not open. I actually got a call from my supervisor, apparently the manager wants to inspect the damage before opening it to customers again.”

I nod in recognition and acceptance, and sight my purse hanging by the door. I walk over and withdraw my phone, but find it has died overnight. I turn on my heel with it pressed to my chest, pleading with my eyes. He puzzles my affliction out in a moment, and turns to gesture to a cord hanging from a plug near the table.

“I don’t know if it’ll be compatible.”

It will. I plug the phone in and step away as if to watch a firecracker go off, before finding a seat at the table to sit in with my hands in my lap. I am blissful, perhaps floating on a cloud of the fog that comes with waking. I am cognizant of my situation, but am somehow satisfied, accepting of it. There is enough to feed my hunger, yet not so much as to send me to the place of darkness. I am a guest in a foreign land, high-strung, but functioning with some effort.

A plate is laid out before me, a pair of eggs attempt to represent eyes to the smile of bacon, but the broken yolks rather create the sense that the egg being is on the verge of tears, and smiling through the pain. I look up at him, and he shrugs and scratches his head sheepishly. I hide a giggle behind my hand and focus on the meal I have been presented with: nectar from olympos. He speaks as he returns to the kitchen to assemble his own plate and clean up.

“Um,you did receive a number of texts last night. I didn’t want to pry. I think one of your friends is worried if you’re alright.”

My heart sinks as I imagine Raphael sending a message in Morse code with notifications alone. Text for dot, call for dash. I glare at the phone through the corner of my eye. As if intimidated by my attention, it lights up, finally charged enough to turn on.

Crunching on bacon, I lean over and tap the screen. Fifteen notifications. Eleven from Raphael, two from Igor, one from Gloria, and one from Jim. Raphael’s start out as teasing requests for status updates on the date, but turn into panicked requests for signs of life. Igors first is a simple thumbs up emoji, the second is a question mark and an exclamation point. Gloria and Jim are both wishing me to get better soon. I sigh, and my thumb hovers over the button to call Raphael. I envision the length of the call, and think better of it, dialing Igor instead. He picks up in two rings.

“Candy. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m… Away from home. Couldn’t make it back in time.”

“Raphael will want to hear that. He’s been-”

“Could… Could you tell him for me?”

“… Is everything alright? Where are you?”

I look up to where He stands in the kitchen, checking the news on his phone, pretending to be ignorant of my call.

“I’m staying at someone else’s place.”

“Mystery man?”

“Maybe. You get why I’m asking you to-”

“Yeah. Ralph won’t get the hint easily. Relax, I’ll tell him. You just be safe.”

“I will. Thank you, Igor.”

I set down the phone, and breathe out slowly.

“Putting out fires?”

“Of a sort. My friend, I told him I was going out yesterday, so he thought I was stuck in that storm.”

My phone dings, and I glance. Raphael. Upset that I didn’t call, glad I’m safe. A second message, one which makes me blush and quickly turn off the screen. Ridiculous.

“I don’t mean to pry, but you seem uncomfortable. About talking to your friend.”

His tone is cautious, and his face carries something adjacent to concern. There is something else, something I feel I have felt on my own face before, though I cannot place it.

“Ah, no, Ralphie really does mean well. I should’ve texted him. He knew I was going out last night, so of course he was worried. I just don’t feel like answering all the questions he’d have.”

He nods, but that tinge of discomfort stays in his eye. Again, I worry I have said the wrong thing, but no question I ask myself has the answer that fits.

The confusion is swept away with my plate, and I drift to the window, looking out at the street, absorbing the sight of wreckage caused by only water. I should leave soon.

The thought careens in me, snatched up and pushed away. I hate it the moment it is conceived. I would stay here, become a fixture in this life, a part of this world.

Something has changed. I do not recognize myself. I still have all of my unnatural compulsions, just glancing at him is enough to confirm that.

The want to bury my face in his chest and inhale without ever breathing out again, to push him down to the floor and hold him there, so I can see the fear in his eyes again, to run into his room and begin chewing on his clothes, to lick his fork clean, to run my fingers across every surface of his body-

But I feel all of these impulses calmly, with balance. They surge and roll behind my eyes, pluck at me, threaten me. But I am steady. Something far more compelling has taken hold.

I nearly gasp at the realization, and turn away again to hide the flush of blood that warms my face. I want his approval! Awful! Since when am I a domesticated pet? But that’s it, I’m peaceful, because I am near him? Rather, I cannot risk disappointing him. This is it, the wretched truth. For all my hand-wringing, as long as I am in his view, I am harmless, incapable of acting beyond the scope of normalcy.

Tearing myself away will be perhaps the harshest fight yet, and I can feel now that when I am alone again, my volatility will return. Here I am under control, even if it is not fully my own.

Before he approached me, I think the greatest danger was being closer to him, and having nothing. But now, now that I’ve felt what it is to be smothered in his attention…

I am a time bomb, and my timer starts ticking the moment I leave.

I clear my throat, and walk coolly to the laundry, and collect my clothes. Already I am choking on my determination to leave. But I announce aloud-

“I had better get going. I need to see if my area was hit with an outage and I need to throw out everything in my fridge.”

“Oh. Well, technically, as long as you don’t open the door, you have a while. Assuming the power comes back in time.”

I force myself not to interpret his tone as disappointed, lest I become tempted and stay forever. The image of myself wearing an apron and welcoming him back from a day of work explodes in my head like a firework, and I stumble, gritting my teeth. Raphael would be so disappointed in me. Assuming I don’t end up on the news in a murder-suicide. Then I suspect he might have some stronger feelings.

I dress in the bathroom, doing all that I can not to notice my surroundings again. I know how to purchase my escape.

As I emerge from the bathroom, I collect my phone and purse, and stand at attention at the door.

“Other than the rain, I had a very good time. I wouldn’t mind doing most of this again soon.”

Ask me back again soon, please. Ask me to move in, or move in with me! You can live in my closet, and I’ll feed you and pet you and clean you every day! Just don’t try to leave, or I don’t know what I’ll do!

He approaches. I see a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and latch onto it with all my heart. Yes. We will see each other again. He wants to see me again. This is very much not goodbye.

“Why don’t I give you my number, so you can let me know when you make it home?”

Oh no.

I wake. I am on the floor, drooling. I shoot up and rip across the room to my alarm clock.

Four. With relief comes the echo of my dream, and I grow warm from head to toe. I sink down onto my bed and hug myself.

No! I stand and brush away the intoxication, stumbling. I will be strong today. I attend the closet, and examine my battle gear for the day. It will do. I will even forgive myself for my wishful choice of undergarments. To be safe, I select a pair of woolen stockings. The demon grumbles within me, but has clearly become sedated by my ritual.

A light giddiness coats me as I apply makeup and get dressed. As I brush my hair, I evaluate my face in the mirror, and find it to be satisfactory. No trace of the bottomless hole in my eyes, no suggestion of the deviant in my smile. I pinch my cheeks, and grip my fists in front of me, standing as tall and proud as I can manage. For once, I believe Raphael’s compliments. I am pretty, I am powerful.

I flit into the kitchen, and allow myself a slice of toast with butter. I will need energy to continue suppressing the beast today. Something sparks, and I race to my bedroom again, scouring a small wooden chest under my bed, and withdrawing a small silver necklace. A tiny pendant hangs from it, a sapphire suspended in the center of a silver flower. Mother. I place it around my neck gingerly, and close my eyes.

Time’s up. I flee, practically flying out the door and down the stairs, with only enough sense to slip into my shoes and grab my purse before escaping.

The statue is something wonderful. I press my hand to one of the spires that seem to erupt from the ground to converge into a canopy at the center. A bronze bench waits underneath, barely large enough for two. The whole seems to suggest both trees and a dome, at times nearly organic, at others sleek and unnatural.

I am early. I glide through the structure, pausing to read the quotes engraved on the inside of the bent pillars. Both fiction and nonfiction are represented, and while I am not particularly well-read, I can appreciate the selection on display.

“Woah.”

Yes! I look over my shoulder and see him, staring at me, me! He is wearing a collared shirt, and his favorite purple tie, and dark slacks, and brown shoes. I am almost certainly imagining it, but I feel that perhaps his hair has been brushed just a little more thoroughly than usual.

I smile warmly, and wave shyly. My practice, my ritual, it’s all paying off. My heart still races, my cheeks still flush, but my demeanor is controlled, measured. I am my own master.

“You. Well, you look good.”

Yes, yes I do.

“Thank you. You look nice, as always.”

He clears his throat and points to one of the quotes near to me.

“I see they’ve even got more modern writers.”

It’s not one I’m familiar with. Octavian uses a digital reader with some frequency, so collecting everything he reads is difficult. I tilt my head in question. He obliges me.

“Ah, I’m a big fan of his. He writes a lot of historical fiction, and his language is just-”

He starts, and glances at me. Am I staring too intensely? He scratches his head and looks away. 

“Sorry, I’ll talk your ear off if I’m not careful.”

“I won’t mind, you seem very passionate about reading.”

He nods a little, and looks out towards the library.

“I like stories. I like stepping outside of now and spending a little time somewhere else.”

“Is the present so bad?”

He glances at me, and seems to get bashful.

“I don’t mean right now, I just mean, the world moves slowly. A book moves as fast as I go through it. I can choose the pace. To say nothing of the things that can happen in books and not the real world.”

I shudder when he looks away, and myself look out of the sculpture into the noise.

“Don’t you think it’s a little… Dangerous to indulge in too much fantasy?”

He shrugs and starts to walk, reading the engravings for himself. He looks back to me with an inquisitive gaze.

“I think the real world already has most of my time. What I do with what’s left is up to me.”

I concede, bowing my head. From a certain perspective, I must seem a photographer churlish at creative arts. 

“Are you always in such a rush to make the most of things?”

He pauses, seems to stop dead in his tracks. I’ve said something wrong. Panic. He looks back, and something forlorn and distant has his attention more than I.

“I guess I am. I just. I don’t like the thought of missing out on something because I thought I had all the time in the world.”

I take two steps towards him, biting my thumb.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was a sensitive subject for you.”

He shakes his head and brings back his smile, but I’ve already seen the gloom of the clouds reflected in his irises. I’ve never seen him affect a look so serious in public.

He seems to notice the mood sticking to me.

“You know, I haven’t eaten since punching out.”

The diner is nice, in exactly the way a bus stop can be nice. I hide behind a milkshake as he browses the Menu and chats with the waitress. I flick my eyelashes as playfully as possible when she calls me his girlfriend, and he stammers out a rebuttal, glancing at each of us rapidly with the terror of embarrassment.

I’m doing so good. Oh my gods, I am holding it together so well. The waitress winks at me and walks off as he continues to blubber. Something about the fear in his eyes… I cough and barely avoid choking on my milkshake. He stands ready to help in some generally pointless way, and I wave him off.

“Just… Brain freeze.”

“You sure?”

No. But I’m never sure of anything when you’re looking at me like that.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s passing. So, what made you pick this place? No offense.”

He actually comes here once every two weeks, right when he gets his paycheck. He didn’t get his paycheck today, though.

“I like it here. It’s close to home, and the food would still be worth it if I had to walk ten blocks.”

“Really? Wow, and I only live nine blocks away!”

“Wait, really? You walk that far to work? Or, I guess the café could be closer than the library.”

Oh, shit.

“Well, uh. I actually take the subway most of the time, but stopping at the café is sort of a habit. I need the energy.”

Half truths, half truths will save me.

He seems to comprehend my logic, and rubs his chin. I stare into my milkshake, and the waitress returns. He orders a plate of country fried steak. I meekly request an omelet. She nods, puts away her notepad, and leaves us to each other. Ruthless. 

“Breakfast for dinner?”

Ack. Okay, it’s fine.

“Breakfast for breakfast. I… Work the night shift. I actually suggested today because I had the day off. Night? I still don’t really know how to think about my days. Nights. You see?”

Okay, I rambled a bit there. But I don’t want him asking more questions, even in his head. It’s probably too late for that. He looks impressed, so that’s nice. Look at me more. Oh boy.

“Woah, woah, hold on. So every Monday and Thursday morning, I’m getting coffee to start my day, and you’re-”

“Refueling at the end of mine. It’s no big deal, I’ve kept this schedule for a few years now.”

He sits back and looks generally awed. I feel very, very cool. Thunder rumbles outside.

“I mean… Just wow. You obviously see the sun in the mornings and stuff, but… is the city quieter at night?”

“Only in some places. Other places get louder. All the concerts, bars, clubs, anything that can call itself a good time likes to happen after the sun has set. And news happens any time of day.”

I’m paraphrasing Raphael. The last bit is Jim, though. Octavian- Oops. He scoffs and runs a hand through his hair in a way that brings my knees up and makes me itch to bite my lip. There is a considerable pause, one that seems to make him uncomfortable, I hope not because of the intensity of my gaze, which I am practicing restraint with: glancing away, shying around his eyes when not speaking. Wonderful eyes. I can nearly see myself reflected in his pupils, a facade of the facade, proper and upright, and even likeable.

“Geez. I mean really, I never would’ve guessed. But-”

Our plates arrive, and he pauses to smile and thank the waitress. I thank her in my thoughts for the brief opportunity to stare at his neckline, his collarbone– and snap back to attention as he continues.

“I gotta say, you’ve got me hooked, I need to know more about this night life you lead.”

Sorry, you shouldn’t.

“It can’t be that different from daytime. Maybe a little darker?”

Much, much darker.

He picks up his knife and fork, and I swallow back the sudden salivation that occurs in my mouth. I collect my own utensils and attend my plate, supplementing the meal with the feast for my eyes.

I’m not sure why people get self conscious about how they look while eating. There’s something mesmerizing in watching his throat squeeze, seeing all the muscles in his jaw at work, the poetry of his tense hands, fingers holding the fork and stabbing viciously into tender prey-

“So, what do you do for fun?”

“Mmh? Oh, I like movies.”

The rain is torrential. We stare out from under the awning into the street that is becoming a river. I know very little more about him than I did an hour ago, but I am warm inside in a way that the rain and wind cannot erode. He has learned more half truths about me, too, and this is also nourishing. I am ready to brave all manners of catastrophe.

“Well. This is something. I don’t feel right sending you home in this.”

WAIT.

“Nine blocks is far too far, and I’d worry the subway might be flooding.”

YOU MUST NOT SAY IT, YOU ABSOLUTELY CANNOT SAY IT.

“Why don’t you stay the night at mine, or at least until this blows over? I mean, if you don’t mind, or… ”

“Yeah…” NO.

Sunday. I breach the waves of sheets and blankets, and hurl myself into the world as a feral beast from the deep. My restraint has taken its toll, my heart burns with need. I stalk into the bathroom and regard my lightless visage in the mirror. No mask of ceramic, no forced smile. My mascera and eye makeup has become a downward smear of darkness around the empty pits of my eyes. My nostrils flare with every breath.

Dressing today is not the calculated defensive strategizing carried out the day before. I grab baggy jeans, a tattered shirt, a hooded sweater. These are put on with the finesse of a mallet cracking shellfish. I grab my backpack and flee the apartment without stopping to eat. I have forgotten my shoes, and I do not return for them.

Alleys, backstreets, over fences, across roads, sliding over the hood of a car too far forward, up the rungs of a fire escape, mounting the ledge of a rooftop. I pant and swallow, and look around with frantic thirst.

I approach the edge, and peer almost timidly. I can see light in the window. I am not too late. My binoculars are in my hands already, pressed to my eyes already. I stare.

He is sitting at his table, cutting a slice of a steak, and picking it up with his fork. I catch my breath in deep inhalation. My lip trembles. He glances to his left, where I have discerned his TV is. I curse, and fumble with my bag for my camera. I have missed the profile shot.

I snap flurries of pictures as he bites into the meat, and my mind ravenously spits foul desire into my thoughts at the sight of his teeth sinking into flesh.

The remainder of my evening is a smeared impression of similar behavior, and the fervor only fades two hours after he has taken to sleep.

Shame. Shame wells up and floods into me from all directions at once, a torrent of shock at my own disgusting behavior. I withdraw from the ledge and survey the rooftop that I have chosen, knowing that it possesses no normal exit for residents. This does not allay my fear that I might one day encounter a maintenance crew working on the air conditioning unit, or window washers closing up for the day.

Doom haunts me loosely. I am hounded by my guilt, my shame, my loathing. But the chief among my pursuers is my own rabid obsession. Even after so much indulgence, it harrows at the edges of my thinking, slavering after my attention. I reject it, and stand away from myself, seeking downward escape from my actions.

Descending the building distances me from my behavior, and recomposed, I resolve to focus on work. I check my phone. Target Costello is back home with the client, but Abner is out and about. I check the location, and plot out a route. I will take the subway. I zip up my sweater, and apply my face mask from my bag.

I glimpse my reflection in the window of a store. I look the part of a corpse. The mask only adds to my sickly appearance, creating the apparition of a person infected, drawn out of quarantine by necessity. This is fitting, I feel.

I snap a burst of photos. I lean back from the viewfinder and consult the screen, cycling through the cluster. Target Abner glows softly, in the act, a perfect payoff for weeks of cautious planning. His own caution rivaled mine, hiding his guilty habits with perfectly innocent errands and hobbies.

But now, I have proof of the suspicions fostered by the client, who I suspect was on the brink of terminating our contract. I sit back and sigh, closing my eyes. Between this and Fallen, I may end up with extra spending money for the month. Idly, I wonder about what I might use it for.

Is it time to decorate a little? I peer through the viewfinder again and study the room around the target. Almost immediately, I lower the camera and scowl, put off by the garish color scheme of the apartment. Decorating can wait. If anything, I’m in need of storage, and boxes are cheap.

What about clothes? I have enough covert outfits, but if I’m going to talk with-

I freeze, and a chill descends my spine. Wait. Just hold on, there’s a big problem here.

What do I wear tomorrow? Why didn’t I think about that yet? Most times when I head over to the newspaper, I elect for something simple, like a sweater and jeans. Is that enough? No, no no no, I can’t overdo it, otherwise I’ll seem like I’m dressing up for him! Whether that’s true is irrelevant, he can’t think that’s the case! But I can’t just show up in whatever meets dress code, I have to actually plan the outfit, oh no! No, not a chance!

And yet, I stand up, gather my equipment, and hike home, grumbling with a thousand thoughts. On the way, I stop at the mall.

My journey through the levels of this multistage spending spree is one of uncertainty, that begins with ill-advised spontaneous purchases based purely on my understandings of his favorite colors, styles, and the like. But as I very nearly march into a lingerie store with that attitude, my sense of self reawakens, and drags me through a trench of embarrassment, before depositing me at the threshold of a department store.

I am my own person. My wardrobe serves no purpose if it is to be tailored to the liking of a person who will see its contents but twice a week, and only sparingly then. This is what I tell myself, to eradicate the voice that tells me to cling to his approval like a dog in heat.

I make better choices from here. Tasteful miniskirts, slacks, blouses. On a whim, perhaps inspired by last night, I seek a more specialized boutique on the upper level, and find a fitting vest.

By the end of my retail therapy, I am dragged down by six large bags, and one small, lacey bag that I do my best to hide and ignore. I cannot bring myself to dwell on the thoughts that controlled my actions early in my trip, nor can I fully explain the concessions I made later.

I shuffle through the door of my apartment and lay everything out, everything, more or less. My domain is a garden of choice, choice I cannot begin to address. So I do not. I pause to file my findings in case Abner, and send them to the client.

A reproachful peek at my bank account drains the color from my face, but cashing the digital check sent by client Fallen eases the fear. I have already collected my trackers and spycams from the case, but I will have to do the same for Abner soon. I mark that down as a job for Tuesday.

My next task is to examine the feeds from Costello. I compare data from the GPS with the cams, and begin to scrub through periods of activity. I witness a grocery trip and two fast food stops, but nothing of note. The target, unfortunately, is not the type to talk to herself.

The elephant in the next room shifts in my thoughts, and I groan. I close the computer and stride out as if on the way to berate a noisy roommate. The wash of color and fabric greets me. I am not incompetent in fashion, but something about knowing that my choices will have to survive my talk with him creates a sort of colorblindness that extends to other aspects of aesthetic common sense.

I surrender, and text Raphael. His advice is… acceptable. With his help, I manage to assemble two outfits in advance, which I set aside, before adding the other clothes to my closet.

Next, I take precautions. I take every picture out of my wallet. I tell myself it is temporary, but I wonder if it shouldn’t be permanent. I find the camera I disallow myself from using for anything but newspaper work, and set it prominently upon the counter.

My stomach growls.

Monday. Rather, Sunday evening. How can one count days lived across the border of midnight except by the name of the night day that follows?

My commute is unremarkable. I take pictures along the way, but I already have the pieces my editor expects. A magnetic badge gets me through the door, and I am promptly greeted by Gloria. She is an enthusiastic human, a journalist for puff pieces and gossip. I have provided pictures for her frequently enough that we are supposedly work friends now. She is always saying that we should get drinks together, but her shift ends a few hours after mine starts.

My shift isn’t much to speak of, either. I have a desk, but most of my work really consists of attending meetings and volunteering to provide pictures for planned articles. My editor is a man named Jim, who frankly looks more like a Frank. His mustache has a streak of grey on one side. There isn’t much to edit in photos, his role is more to help me manage my workload.

Every hour is excruciatingly drawn-out, minutes are needles in my nerves. By the time I clock out, I feel exhausted, but the moment I step out of the subway entrance across from the café, I am like a spring crammed between two steel plates. I mentally remind myself that I am wearing perfume and deodorant, and so do not smell like sweat. I smooth my dress, adjust the bag over my shoulder, and straighten my camera.

I approach the café.