Did she just move here?
Does she live close by?
Just who is this creature that’s turning my life upside down like this?
The world gets darker the closer to 9pm it gets. It’s New York, though, the Bronx to be exact, and the streets remain crowded regardless of the time of day.
Which means I play witness to scores of other men who are struck stupid at the sight of her.
It’s unrealistic. Some would even say unreal. Many of them even tilt back their heads, and it seems like they’re trying to catch another whiff of her scent as she goes by.
The same scent that I swear hit me like a freight train and has been torturing me since.
Is it a specific perfume? Doesn’t smell like any I’ve ever encountered. And I thought that I was just sensitive to it; it never occurred to me that every man in her vicinity would be, as well.
Athaliah avoids another man’s attempt to get her attention, and promptly has to dodge another as he tries to reach out to her.
I’ve never seen anything like this . . .
Worse, an ugly, violent feeling is bubbling in my gut. One I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.
I am one of God’s flawed children, as much of a sinner as any, but this particular sin is new to me.
Jealousy.
Raw. Unmitigated. Irrational and perhaps psychotic.
On its heels comes a second, more familiar instinct.
The one to do harm.
I fought in a war. Got thrown into the pit of human impulses. Learned hatred on a visceral level, experienced the cold, bone-deep need for survival that comes from facing off against an enemy.
I killed. More than many. More than I want to ever admit. I killed and killed and killed, any time I was asked.
Every chance I got.
Told myself at the time that I didn’t have a choice. I was following orders. My country needed me to succeed.
I’ll carry the stain of that in my soul until my death, and if my Lord decides not to forgive me, it wouldn’t surprise me.
The fact that I feel like grabbing these men lusting after Athaliah and slamming their faces into the buildings until there’s nothing left is even more monstrous.
I’d rather see them dead than touching her.
I’m possessive of her.
A woman who doesn’t belong to me.
Why? Because I want her to.
It should be enough to stop this mad quest. To send me back in the direction I came from and straight into church.
To beg Father Raul to take my confession, where I’ll have to bare this awful shame.
Instead, I continue following her.
What am I going to do once she arrives at whatever her destination is? Considering I spent last night dreaming about my face between her legs, I don’t think I can answer that.
Maybe eight to ten blocks from the farmer’s market, we arrive at a row of townhouses, in the same style as those in the city. They seem to be fairly new constructions, another achievement in the borough’s quest for gentrification.
I’m not surprised when I see her begin to ascend the steps of the home in the middle of the block.
Everything about her screamed money. Refinement. Even her camel-colored coat is elegant in its simplicity.
There’s another man awaiting her in front of that door, and that sure as hell sucker punches me in the gut.
“Took you long enough,” he says, practically fidgeting, every inch of him strained. “We agreed to meet at a certain time for a reason.”
“Relax.” Athaliah takes her keys out of her bag. “I’m only five minutes late.”
“I don’t know what you’ve done to me, whore, but leaving me waiting like this is unacceptable.” He wraps an arm around her and slams her against his body. “You’re lucky I’m itching to be your repeat customer.”
She’s taken, is my first sickening thought.
Then, two words sink in.
Whore.
Customer.
Am I watching some twisted role-playing between her and her boyfriend, husband, whatever the hell he is?
“I don’t do repeat customers, so after tonight you better get that through your head. I’m only allowing this second session as a favor to your boss. Remember that.” She tries pushing him back to put her key in the door—
He yanks it out of her hand, at the same time tugging on her hair with his free hand, and rushes to open it for her. “I’ve been fucking sick since that first time. Got tested and everything. I’m clean and that means so are you. So whatever is going on with me, it better end tonight.” He all but manhandles her inside, slamming the door shut.
Leaving me rooted to the spot.
What did I just witness? Was it real? An act?
Is Athaliah . . . a prostitute?
In the name of God, just what exactly is going on here?
Chapter Five
She’s a prostitute.
Rain bashes the windows of my room. The world outside is frighteningly dark for the hour—1:22pm according to the clock on my wall—and it’s a perfect match for my reality.
My mood.
My psyche.
I’m trapped on my bed, fighting off a bad flu as far as the parish is concerned.
I didn’t allow the doctor they called to do the nasal swab to prove it. Let them maintain their belief. It’s better than the alternative.
This isn’t the flu.
Maybe it’s a new strain, but last time I checked, the flu doesn’t cause massive hallucinations.
Unending erections.
An unexplainable phenomenon that began this morning and I can’t even bare to think about.
Blood sweat.
Shivering, I sit up against my plain headboard. The lights are off, only the flashes of lightning providing brief illumination.
Revealing the horrors upon my skin.
My sheets.
My wall.
Maybe the blood on the wall is imagined—I pray with every fiber of my being that the drops of red I see on my arms are, too—but I’m this close to calling an ambulance for myself.
Maybe that’s what I
