Lost

I thought I was for awhile. It was as though a part of my soul had been missing, and my light flickered, nearly dying away. The dark overcame me, with its thick cloak of cool longing. It ate at who I was, the very essence of what make me....me. I lingered in its languid depths, reveling in the departure of my own spirit. To leave would be to acknowledge the pain that threathened at the edge. Its red hunger burning my thoughts as I ran from it, falling into blissful nothing.

A white light, delicate in warmth, sought me. From it, I turned away. Don't take me from this wonder of death, this fantastic casm without pain. I can not face the red heat that waits, that beckons me. The faint light stayed with me, though I tried to escape it. The small glimmer offered its hope, when I was ready grasp it.

In time, the darkness moved farther away, leaving me with its ultimatum: I could follow it down this road, with no choice of return. Or I could move towards that small pin of white light, that shown as eagerly and patiently as it had before. Which would I choose? Tired, I sat in confusion. I did not want to choose. My lover, my muse, was begging to me to follow, but that path was frightening and unknown. The pale flicker that offered its slender vision to me whispered with soft tones, and a tear rolled down my cheek. I knew what I must do. My indecision and fear had held me for too long.

I stood, with my shoulders straight, my back to the dark curse that tried one last time to win my affection. With purposeful strides, I moved into the arms of hope.

I

I'm tired. Every bone seems to ache inside the flesh, burning the tissue. Just laying flat hurts. I can feel it coming - I always can. I moan quietly, dreading the full blow when it grips my body, my mind. Once upon a time, I thought it was a novelty, fascinating, and I lay in the midst of the moment and tried to soak up every emotion and energy that flowed through me. Now, years later, when each new tremor brings with it the tail of destruction, I cringe, I fight, and finally, I give in. I have no choice. It will take me, whether I want it to or not, and will force me to go where it wants. If only there was a way to stop it, to stop the terror, the agony that assaults me. Yet I am selfish to wish this. I know that. I wish it still.
____

The story is far from me. I don't know what is happening when the darkness, thick as a cloak meant to ward off harsh wind, surrounds and presses in on me. My heart beat quickens, pounding gently, then violently. It seems to throw itself against my rib cage, neurotically trying to gain exit. Breathing is always difficult, and this time is no different. My throat constricts as the dark cloud gains mass and tries to flatten me into the bed. I cannot make a sound - not that I would. I am past the fear of death or the experience. It will eventually lift, and normal will return. For now, I grip the sheets of the bed and try to remain still. It is easier to breathe against the invisible force that is kneading me into the mattress. Finally - oh god finally - the pressure recedes. I feel as though I am falling in the darkness, into a deep well with cold walls that force the heat from my body. Vertigo assails my senses, and I keep my eyes closed so the world will not spin faster.

As quickly as it came, it leave me and I am empty. The sweat stains my worn cotton sheets. Air rushes into my nostrils, and I drink it as though it is fluid through a straw. My fingers cramp in their grip against the mattress, and it takes some time to relax them enough to move them. The heart beat in my ears is slowing, and within minutes, I am able to sit up, take up a more vertical position. The night is still here. The milky cream of the walls - the cream I chose to give me warmth - is a cold blue under the influence of the night sky. The trees seem to mock my stress as a lazy breeze winds around them, waving their leafy, spiny hands at me. There are tears on my cheeks, though I do not remember releasing them. I wipe them off with bloodless fingers, startled by the cool tips against my hot cheeks. A shower returns the equilibrium of temperature to my body - cooling my face and warming my limbs. I dress carefully, taking in the weather and considering whether or not it is supposed to rain. I settle back into bed, fully dressed, my boots beside the nightstand. And I wait.

____

Sometime near dawn, the phone rings. The noise is louder than I anticipated, as though I had forgotten the volume it reaches. I answer quickly, to stop the sound. "You know the drill." Joe's tired voice is hardened with too many years on the force. Nothing surpries him, and his phone call to me is almost routine. I agree. I do know the drill. "I'll send Jonathan to get you." I lace my boots and wait, sitting upright on the bed. It is minutes, and then I hear the sound of tires on my cracked driveway. I meet Jonathan at the door, his weary form betraying his sleepless night. He is new to the force, and therefore must work whatever hours no one else wants. He tries for a smile, settling for a grimace. I pull a smile from my bag of tricks, trying to be his support as much as a I can.

I eat a granola bar on the way, and offer one to Jonathan. He turns it down until even I can hear his stomach grumble. He almost succeeds at a grin, and takes a bar. We crunch silently, a tense companionship. Jonathan has escourted me twice now, though he still is wary of me and my strange addition to the police force. I am an independent contractor for the local station, and am authorized, via special authorization for those with suspected paranormal sensitivity, to be on any site that is under investigation, on any crime scene. My presence must be requested. I cannot just show up when I want to. In the beginning being present on a fresh crime scene was frightening and titillating. Now, in the midst of the horror, it is almost a relief, knowing that the terrifying feelings that attacked me earlier will be held at bay for a while longer.

Jonathan pulls next to Joe's vehicle. Joe is nowhere in sight, and from we sit, it appears the scene is taking place down the ravine that meets up with the road. It is drizzling, the soft mist of water sliding over my face and hair as I step outside the protective warmth of the car. Jonathan offers me his hand as we pick and choose our footing down the side of the earth. I resist, then acquiesce as the steps get steeper and more slick. We are descending into a light forest, thick with brush but light on foliage. It is a dead wood, with few living trees. It needs to be burned out, for the choking smoke to clean the overused soil and restart the life cycle....An unlikely occurrence in this part of the country, I fear. I can vaguely hear voices ahead, and as we start to level out, I can see the yellow tape warning against trespassers. Jonathan walks several feet to my left, keeping a safe distance. I am used to the response. Few officers will have anything to do with me. That Jonathan will even speak to me is something.

Joe nods briefly in my direction and then speaks to Jonathan, apprising him of the situation. After slight nods and muffled phrases, Joe finally turns to me and escorts me closer to the body. I can see her before she ever enters my vision. The closer I get to the victims, I can envision their features with perfect clarity, without having seen them yet. Oh, the joy that is mine alone.

She is golden-skinned, naturally colored toffee skin and hair. Her eyes were once dark brown, the color of espresso beans, though they are closed now. I can see her smile, bright and imperfect with crooked eye-teeth. Her cheeks are set high, with not quite enough chin to match. Her face, when she was alive, was pretty, animated, and she was insecure about her slightly heavy thighs. She is Latin, Hispanic probably, with a beautiful glow that attracted people, especially men. Nothing of what she was can be seen now.

Her wrists are bound, deep bruising from ropes tied too tightly around them. They are bound to her waist. Her skin is tinged with gray, with death, and her hair is a ragged mop. It has recently been cut, with something dull and awkward. Her face is a maze of cuts and blood. Her body is naked, except a dirty pair of underwear. The rope around her waist cuts into the skin - she has been tied for a long time. She is not covered by leaves or debris. She is waiting to be found, a beacon for the crime. There is no evidence that she has been left here that long ago.

"They are estimating time of death--"

"--Around 2:30 this morning. It was 2:34, actually." I look in Joe's empty eyes, black in the dark. He is a stark figure against the lighting that has been brought down so the scene can be surveyed. "She was conscious, fully aware of her death when it came. She's been held for at least a week, though it could have been longer - I'm not sure."

"Sexual?"

I nod. "Yes, and no. I'd bet she wasn't penetrated, but check for traces on her body and under her nails. This is a sick one, and she was dirty to him. A whore, in his mind."

Joe watches me for a moment. "Okay. Anything else?"

"Do we have an ID yet?" Joe shakes his head quickly. I sigh. "Her name is Jo-Jo, or at least that is her nickname."

"Now you are getting names to the faces?" Joe glances at me skeptically.

I do not waver my stare. "She has a tattoo of it on her lower back. You'll see. It is probably short for Juanita or Johanna." I am chilled, and wishing I had brought my windbreaker. The moist air lends a vibration to my bones as I stand there, watching the forensic team as they set-up. "This isn't the first, and it won't be the last. Let me know if I can help with this one." I turn towards the road. I wonder how long before someone can take me home.

Joe puts a warm arm around me, his official jacket warm against my goose-bumps. Surprised, I look up at him. "Come on, popsicle. They can live without me for a while. Let's take you home."

____

Home is a small cape cod that my mother left me when she died. I grew up in this house. It is as much a part of me as my eye color. My bed is beckoning, and I fall into it, thankful to be relieved of my duty for a while. I sleep deeply, barely moving, and when I wake, I spend some time staring at the ceiling, trying to acclimate to the time of day. It is just after 12pm. Lucy, also know as Lucifer or Devil's Spawn, is howling unhappily outside the bedroom door. I let him screech his discomfort for a few moments longer before I force myself to get up and go to the kitchen. I fill his bowl, and he immediately sets in, ignoring my proffered hand of affection. I grasp his fluffy black tail, gently rubbing the long fur between my fingers before leaving him to his lunch. I fix myself a dry tuna sandwich on wheat and retreat to the living room. Afternoon TV offers me little for entertainment.

The phone rings around 1:30. "How do you always know?" Joe asks without introduction. "Juanita Rodriguez, 19, missing for over a week. Her family says she never came home after work - she was last seen by a co-worker leaving the restaurant she worked at. Should have word from the M.E. shortly. Any thoughts?"

I'm a perfunctory call, as I rarely have anything after the discovery. Something is alluding me on this one though. I can't put my finger on it. "Not that I can think of. But if I can come up with anything, I'll let you know." I make a quick decision to say something. "There will be another one. Soon."

Joe grunts. "This is a sicko. If we can find a motive....a pattern, we'll have something." I agree silently, but Joe has already hung up. He is the only person I know who doesn't say hello or good-bye on the phone. With as frugal as he is with words, I always imagine he has a word limit each day, and doesn't want to waste them on pointless chatter.

I ponder Juanita's death (though I admit I think of her as Jo-Jo), trying to find the elusive detail that is hounding me. The death was nothing out of the ordinary - in fact, as murders go, it wasn't even all that gruesome. The body was in one piece, the skin was cut with minor lacerations, but otherwise....she was meant to be found. That I'm sure of. She was a pretty girl - which is not something unusual for crimes of passion. What is it that drives my mind to beat itself against my skull? What is it about this girl that has imprisoned my attention?

I push Jo-Jo from my mind and set about to get some work done. I build websites, working in tandem with a local hosting service. It is a lonely job, but given my extracuricular activities, few people are comfortable being around me. My home-office is a back bedroom, previously my oldest sister's room, which I converted. It is hooked up to a fast cable connection, a customized computer tower, and a big, LCD flat screen. Lucy sits on the top of the desk, staring at me while I start working. The site I'm working on is for a small accounting firm from the midwest. It is a standard layout, and I can use a template and plug in the information they want on the site.

The house I live in is where I was born. I never left. I spent some time in Illinois at The Art Institute of Chicago, and quickly discovered that even if I did not try to be different, did not let one to my oddity - people knew. Consequently, only a handful of students could be considered acquaintances. When I returned home, I determined this was where I would stay. While the town is small, and does not accept me any easier than anywhere else I'd been thus far, I knew what to expect, and there is comfort in that.

Machines

I am tired. Exhaustion courses through my veins, as my bones seem to sag against the soft cushion of my mattress. Light glows softly from the small machine. It is an environment enhancer, with a multitude of sounds and a water fountain to soothe the weary mind. I set it on "sunrise," and listen to the mellow chords that are not a song, just a pattern of musical ephemera that flits in and out of my consciousness. My room is a mossy green, with patches of white along the carpet testifying to the forgetfulness of the painter who forgot to finish. In the corner is a brigh pink door, hiding the closet. The paint swatch referred to it as "peony," though gazing upon it in all its blushing glory, I can only describe it as fushia. In the faint light, though, it softens and seems to fade into the darkness of the room.

Night seems to be the only time in which I find solace. The too-loud roar of the furnace reminds me of a boisterous seashore, and thankfully, it cannot be ignored. The intrusive sound purchases the flurry of thoughts and frustrations that race through my head, and forces me to settle into its rhythm. When it shuts off, with a loud "chink" of air suddenly stopping in its course, I am left with the polite tinkling of the water fountain and the soft noises the machine creates.

Irony....the machines are what give me peace. Their sounds and rhythms invade my space, and while I often curse my reliance on them and their inconvenient volume, it is also my savior in the over-burdened silence of the night. Their insistent mechanics quiet the soul and allow the mind its brief moment of rest.

The Shelter

Her face was white, with several wrinkles under each eye. A wet blotch was left on the back of my hand as her wet nose brushed against it inquisitively. My fingers brushed her soft head and back in a relentless, horizontal pattern, bumping over each small vertebrae of her malnourished body. She wanted to know if I would take her home - I could see it in her gentle eyes. I didn't want to give her false hope. Then again, what is life with no hope at all?

In the small, dank room, I crouched closer to the floor. She smelled strongly of a nasty odor, and there were distinct stains on her legs and belly. One ear stuck straight up, as the other leaned down to brush her cheek. She was determined to let me know her interest in me, and insisted on being as close to my chin as possible. She pushed against me and nearly knocked me over. I chuckled at her insistence and leaned against the cement block wall. I rubbed my hands against her protruding ribs, creating a barely audible tattoo as they passed over them again and again. I could not imagine a life in here, with no warmth or fluffy rugs to soften the hard surfaces that pressed against her bones.

The attendant returned, and looked glumly at me. Often the question was asked, and too often, the answer was disappointing. "What do you think?" he asked, his young voice cracking. He reached for the small, red rope that was connected to her neck.

I caught it before he could grasp it, and I walked past him, anxious to get out of the small cell. She followed me happily, her long nails beating against the floor with each step. We walked down the hall to the front desk, where her new life would begin

Dialogue

I could feel the bed move as he slid under the covers, his cold legs sliding up behind mine. I turned to him, burying my head in his chest and trying to give him some of my body heat.

"How was your day, sweetheart?" He asked in his cheerful way, embracing me warmly.

I sighed, not wanting to answer. "It was okay." I paused. "Long." Even I knew it was not a convincing answer.

He was not fooled. "What's wrong?"

I snuggled closer and ignored him. He pulled back, forcing me to move. If the light was on, he would insist on making eye contact. As it was, I could feel his gaze on me, though I could barely make out the oultine of his face in the dark room. "What's wrong?" He repeated. "Can't you tell me?"

I blew out my breath and held my empty lungs for a few seconds. I didn't want to tell him, but I couldn't keep it from him either. "I had to tell them about you today."

He knew what I meant, and his body immediately tensed and I could feel the distance between us grow, despite being cuddled together. It seemed as though an hour passed before he responded. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking you to be sorry." I was irritated. "You asked me what was wrong - I'm not trying to give you a guilt trip."

He moved onto his back and placed on hand behind his head, leaving the other around my waist. "I know you're not. But this is all my fault, and you don't deserve this."

I was silent for a long time, listening to his breath. "No, I don't. But I love you, and we don't always get what we deserve." I wanted him to understand that I was not angry - I just needed to know the truth. "I can handle just about anything in life, as long as I know what is coming. Please don't keep things from me."

His other hand came down to rejoin our embrace, and he held me close. "I won't ever again," he whispered into my ear.

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