Dark Pursuit

If she couldn’t phone her grandfather … “No, I wouldn’t. But how do I get to work in the morning?”

“My shift starts at six. I’ll drive by on patrol and give them back to you. Just for the day.”

Kaitlan stared at him, picturing the face of her childhood friend as he gloated over the pinned and dying moth.

“See you then.” Craig shot her a tight smile. “Sleep well.”

OBSESSION

twenty-nine

In the weeks that passed after that infamous night, my mind dulled out. Scenes of what happened after the party sank to the bottom of my memory. Not gone. Just covered by the daily issues of life. Sometimes when I fell into a masochistic mood, I’d fish out the memory, turn it over in my hand. Examine it like some disinterested onlooker, barely able to connect myself to the events.

I hid the black and green silk fabric in the bottom of a box of books in my bedroom closet. Out of sight, out of mind.

It was some months before the cloth called to me again.

One night I came across an envelope of old family pictures. Didn’t even know I had them. I dumped them out on a table, started flipping through the stack.

One stabbed my attention.

I felt the pierce go right through me—even before my brain registered what I’d seen. Mouth open, unable to move, I stared at the photo. Sweat popped from my pores, chilling on my skin.

The picture taunted me.

Thoughts flitted and knocked through my brain. Why was I rendered so helpless at the sight of that photo? Why did it have such power over me? I couldn’t find the answers, only knew the strength of the questions. This picture held the key to who I’d become, what I’d done. And it wasn’t about to give up its secrets.

It was as if the thing had some ethereal power all its own. The power to lead me to the envelope, make me open it. The colors of the photo looked overbright. Greedy. They wanted more of me, and they would get it.

I racked my brain for understanding. None came.

My initial shock gave way to anger … bitterness… and finally, the dread of a soul inevitably bound for hell.

There would be no end to this. To what I’d become.

Strange, how I knew that just from seeing the picture. I can’t explain how—and certainly still couldn’t fathom the whys. But I knew.

The fist of this reality clutched me for over an hour. I paced from room to room, trying to shake it off, telling myself I could overcome. Eventually the anger returned. I never asked for this. Never expected to be some unwilling and hapless pawn. Was it my fault I was born?

What about the other people on this earth? Didn’t I see scarred and struggling slobs every day? They were all around me, fish floundering on a dry beach, shriveling in the sun. If, indeed, a perfect God created the world—was this the way he intended it to be?

Something, somewhere had gone terribly wrong.

I pitched and whirled around my place, cursing God, cursing my own futile existence. Emotions built up inside me until I thought I would explode. My muscles were steel tight, heart ramming against my ribs like a frantic prisoner.

Then—just when I thought my head would burst, I found myself in my bedroom, standing before my closet.

I stared at the door. It beckoned me to open it.

I spread both hands and shook my head. Backed away.

Left the room.

Retraced my steps.

Despairing, I gazed at the door.

My hand went to its knob.

I stood there, feeling the cold, hard metal in my fingers. And a voice in my head whispered, “That’s your heart. Cold and hard.” But the words were oddly encouraging. They said—you’re indestructible. You can handle this.

Next thing I knew, the door stood open.

I pushed through clothes to the back of the closet. Stooped to pick up the box.

On my bed I dumped out the contents, books scattering everywhere, some falling to the floor.

And, of course—the fabric.

It beckoned to me.

I picked it up.

The cloth radiated heat into my palms. Soothing, assuring. What an amazing, wondrous feeling! How had I left it in that box for so long? How had I lived these months without it?

Folding it three times, I wrapped it around my shoulders like a blanket. I walked around the room, feeling its lightness and warmth envelope me. This was right. This was good. Not a curse. This was life.

Humanity has its own calls. Out of nowhere hunger hit. I had to eat—now, as if that fabric heightened the mortal needs of my body. I ended up in the kitchen, slapping together a roast beef and cheese sandwich with lots of mayo, the cloth knotted around my waist.

I sat down on the couch to eat, staring out the window. Watching darkness fall.

I gulped down the sandwich, my mind entertaining strange and wild thoughts about how lucky I was. How some power in the universe had chosen to give the fabric to me.

Sandwich gone, I strode to the kitchen sink and washed my greasy hands, longing to touch the fabric, not wanting to dirty it.

My fingers reached to unloosen it from my waist. But at the knot, they lingered.

How fascinating. I rubbed over the knot’s smooth, silky strength. Gazed down at it, marveling. How enticing the green stripes looked, taunting, teasing. Appearing only to disappear, winding in and out over the sleek black background.

Understanding came over me slowly.

A bow was too prettified. Too flimsy. Worse, it had been an afterthought. This fascinating knot could be the act itself.

New tingling warmth spread through me.

When I could stand the knot’s beauty no more, I untied it and pulled the fabric from my body. I bunched it to my chest, stroking.

Preparations needed to be made.

From a kitchen drawer I pulled a pair of scissors. Cut a ten-inch strip of the cloth.

Folding the strip, I smelled its silky scent. I headed out to put it in the glove box of my car.

Just outside the door, I hesitated. Logistics and details rolled through my mind.

Back inside, I pulled a pair of leather gloves off the shelf of the coat closet. These I placed in my glove box along with the strip of fabric.

Even as I returned to the kitchen I felt that cloth in the recesses of my car. Calling. Singing to me.

The rest of the fabric I returned to the bottom of the box. I covered it with the books and hid the box in my closet.

The rest of the evening was fine. I watched TV. Laughed at sitcoms. I felt right with the world. Properly placed. Worthy of the space I took on the planet, the air I breathed.

By the time I went to bed that night, the strip of fabric in my car had settled down in my mind. Some of its glow had waned. I recalled the sensations of the knot and found the memory pleasant but no longer felt its pull. Sort of like a starving person given food, now satiated.

In fact I felt so right it seemed to me I was done with the cloth. For some reason that strip just needed to be