Life isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair, he’d murmured the first time he’d seen her. She was standing on the corner of West 59th Street during the heaviest rainfall the city was to suffer that year. She stood in a rainbow puddle of dripping make-up, reflected storm clouds and garbage. He wanted her to stay there so he could continue to take in the ugly pattern of her dress that she tried to wring dry without awareness or care that she exposed her womanhood to the world, her dangling earrings and the way she peered into every car that passed by.
Such a delicious treat he thought as a police officer ordered her to leave while she defiantly yelled back at him. Everything in the world stopped just then; the ultimate E.F. Hutton moment as she, cheaply and wantonly majestic stood toe-to-toe with Johnny Law. It didn’t last long before she spit out her gum and disappeared down the steps of the subway to the dry darkness of the underground hiss of trains, street ministers and homeless vets asking for food.
He watched her standing among the scenery of the city’s throwaways and tried to take in as much of her as he could so that he could recall every curve and gesture before the subway came and took her away. Then a switched flipped somewhere and he descended into the depths of the subway station. He hadn’t felt himself move from where he’d originally stood to follow her. His mind and body had comingled and given birth to a new version of his former self that trumped every aspect of who he’d been before he’d seen her. Gone was the man who worked every day in a cubicle who went home to the waiting arms of an indifferent wife and nondescript children.
There was no other option. He had to follow her or risk never seeing her again. The world was too large and people too easily lost. He could spend the rest of his life searching and never find her again and then he would be lost too. The faces of his family faded from the photograph he kept in his mind as he journeyed down, down, down to where she was. There was nothing but her now. Though she hadn’t seen him, he knew that she willed him into this place of forgetting.
The scent of stale urine filled his nostrils as he paid the toll and stood on the platform behind her. The heels of her feet were red, no doubt from standing too long on the impossibly high heels she wore. Instantly the image of him rubbing her feet filled his vision. He would give her comfort. He would protect her from the outside world and its cruelty, and it would give him pleasure to do so. She might fight him a bit at first, but he would find a way to convince her that he meant no harm. But surely she knew that already. She must know it. She was the one who was in control.
Subway doors opened and closed as shades of homeward bound citizens emptied and filled the car to slide through the intestinal tunnels of the city. People came and went; life began and ended as he stood beside her. He didn’t try to speak, that would come later. For now, he was content to share her air as she exhaled exasperated huffs of wet tiredness, soaked resentment and street grime anger.
She exited the subway to one of the edgier areas of the city and he followed, but this time he made sure that he was far enough away that she didn’t know he was there.
The rain had temporarily retreated during their travels, replaced by a cloudy half-darkness that allowed their shadows to touch as he narrowed the space between them.
“You want something?” she asked him suddenly jarring him out of his reverie.
He couldn’t speak. There were no words. There was nothing but her precious voice and the echoes of sex screams and dust-covered prayers reverberating within him.
“Sorry I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said softening.
“What is your name?”
“My friends call me Cherokee cuz I look Indian, I guess.”
Calmness filled all the places inside him that nothing else could as he burst forward and grabbed her knocking them both to the ground. Then the warm throbbing ooze of finally realized dreams squelched out every sound in the world until he awoke standing in the place where he’d originally seen her. This was how it had to be. He was First Man and She First woman, and she had been his blessing and his curse. Now he was bound to repeat this moment with whomever she sent to play her part until nothing was left but eternity.
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This trend towards bourgeoning serial killers is both interesting and creepy. I feel you have tapped a darker well, and I'm both intrigued and a little frightened! :)
ReplyDeleteI keep trying to write happy stories and it's just not happening. I've known too many weirdos. It's not my fault. Thank you for the comment.
ReplyDeleteRachel,
ReplyDeleteInteresting short. Gritty, edgy, dark. Interesting how you let it play. Sometimes you just have to let the story go where it goes. I find I get nifty little surprises that way.
Cheers!
Doc.
Hey Doc! Thank you for the comment. You're right about that. Sometimes the best stories come from just letting your imagination take you where it wants to go.
ReplyDeleteWell you let your imagination take you to a dark place, and you've written it so intriguingly.
ReplyDeleteDescription so poetically rendered. Great last line.
Oh my gosh Rachel, I was scared to death for her throughout. Absolute perfect descriptions of their surroundings here, of everything. I love "dust-covered prayers", and that last sentence - "...until nothing was left but eternity." Gorgeous!
ReplyDeleteThis has an entirely creepy feeling through out, my friend. But it's not like it'd be all roses and gum drops either. Shivers galore!
ReplyDeleteDon't hinder anything that wants to burst forth into happening Rach, for those might just be your ulimate masterpieces waiting to come into the light. Why hold them back?
I tend to let my writings go wherever they may lead. Good, bad or ugly.
Awesome writing as always, Rach.
jkb
You say you keep trying to write happy stories. Did this one start out with a happy end in mind? Because I totally knew he was a dangerous stalker from the outset.
ReplyDeleteIt would be pretty funny if he fell in adulation with an Amazonian bodybuilder who smacked him around whenever he tried to kill her. That romance might last for him.
Thank you for the great comment @Marisa.
ReplyDelete@Deanna, glad I scared you. That's the best compliment a writer can get for a story like this.
@James thank you for your kind words. I'm coming out of a very dark period of my life and it's definitely reflected in my writing. Good thing I have this outlet or I might be dangerous to deal with.
@John, I was thinking of writing something happier before I began writing and up to the very first sentence, then everything changed and the image of her dripping wet and his reaction took the story elsewhere. I don't see myself writing a story about an Amazonian bodybuilder anytime soon, but then you never know where your imagination is going to take you. Thanks for the comment.
I like this - very dark and edgy as others have commented. I find it interesting that you start out to write something happy and the darkness prevails. Happens in my writing all the time. I agree with the other commenters that we just have to let our writer take us where it wants to go.
ReplyDeleteYou have such a wonderfully lyrical style, and your descriptions are written with such a deft touch. Extremely vivid both in imagination and tone. Very enjoyable, despite its darkness.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite bit was when the photo of his wife and family dissolved in his mind. Such a great image among many great images.
ReplyDeleteAnd then his illusion of grandeur, picturing him and his victim as First Man and Woman. Completely terrifying.
Chilling tale, well done.
I could see him in so many different people I've heard of who led dual lives. Happily married father by day, stalker serial killer indulging fantasies by night. The subways are "intestinal tunnels of the city" and I loved that phrase.
ReplyDeleteAs for happier stories I find myself writing some very intense stuff without that intention. I am not the writer, just the instrument that connects my brain to the keyboard. It seems like I have no control over my characters or the direction my stories. Occasionally they end on a satirical or humorous note and that surprises me even more. Just go where the keys take you. It worked for me.
Very creepy tale...You're right for letting your imagination take you. Your muse knows what she/he is doing. Dark is good, and this is very good. One minor detail...E.F.'s last name is spelled Hutton. Other than that: wicked, wicked tale! :)
ReplyDeleteThank you for the comments @thenightwriter, @icy, @Gracie, @Susan and @Maria. You, none of those who comment my work, have no idea how much it means to me to come here and your comments. Yes I will definitely follow my imagination where it takes me. I'm coming out of an extremely dark period in my life, so these dark stories make sense.
ReplyDeleteThank you again.
(I fixed "Hutton.")
Goodness. The birth of a serial killer.
ReplyDeleteThe language in this was glorious. Your descriptions of the people, the city, the weather created a complete world of half-light/half-dark that you guided your readers through. (And then the world went all dark.)
Excellently done.
KJM, thank you. This story sprung from a conversation I had years ago with a friend. We discussed how the serial killers were out there but they hadn't had their "event" to trigger them into action, since that is what it seemed was the case with so many of them. They're fine one day and then suddenly the idea of killing others is all their is. What causes that? Their "event" may be as simple as seeing a woman a in the rain or something else. Scary thought, which I may continue to explore.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the comment.
Once again I am captivated by your imagery. The reader is whisked away into your narrator's world. Your dark edge is beginning to reflect my own.
ReplyDeleteRachel, I don't know what to say other than "wow." You allowed us a glimpse inside a very twisted mind and made us enjoy the journey. Excellent job!
ReplyDeleteYou just can't tell the muse where to go. This story is a perfect example. Excellent detail and an interesting ending. Don't fight what works. :)
ReplyDeleteSuch a questioning and dark tone to this piece, yet its full of detailed descriptions and colourful pictures. Nice work :)
ReplyDeleteI live in Bradford West Yorksire, the home of the notorious Yorkshire Ripper, and the Black panther Donald Neilson, so this story really strikes a dark chord.
ReplyDeleteVery interest-holding to read, and at the same time shadowy, and unnerving.
Thank you for the comment Steve. I hadn't heard of the Yorkshire Ripper, only Jack. Off to google him.
ReplyDeleteI was in my twenties when the Yorkshire ripper was at large, the city was in virtual lockdown for about 5 years, I think he killed 13 women, he said god told him to kill prostitutes, well, some of his victims were students, and one was a 16 year old schoolgirl. I think he was a beast that fell back on the old insanity plea when he got caught.
ReplyDeleteI think Donald Neilson murdured 5, he used to rob post offices during the night, his most notorious killing was of the teenage heiress that he kidnapped for ransom, Lesley Whittle.
Lovely little city this one of ours is. :D