Dormiveglia [Open]

[Jesse Fforde]

Survival of the fittest, she says, as if that poor waitress were instead a foe with whom I had to fight for my life. As if, in the grand scheme of the universe, somehow the struggle between myself and the human female would contribute to the process of evolution. Maybe that is the case. Maybe we vampires are not unnatural irregularities born from dark magic or the underbelly of some demonic hell. Perhaps we have been here all along, surviving like cockroaches in the holocaust, and we will survive forevermore.
Of course, I never could see how vampires could be the superior species. Unless somehow evolution provides us with the means to survive without human blood, we cannot exist without them. Survival of the fittest, therefore, does not quite gel. If we vampires were to overcome and replace humanity, the Earth would become a desolate place, bereft of any cognizant life. It is a paradise to imagine, really – wildlife would take over. The buildings and quarries and factories would all be overrun by greenery, and the animals would take back their rightful territory. For if, for some reason, the vampire population were to outweigh humanity, the food source would dwindle and diminish to nothingness.

And it would be a grim future, indeed, if humanity were subject to farming, rather than to life. If they were cloned and hooked up to machines in order to continue to produce ‘food’. It would take the fun out of the entire game.

Grey’s notion of survival of the fittest as good enough excuse for my actions does not sit well with me. Of course, this isn’t something that I explain right away. I don’t think I have it in me to deliver such a prophetic and problematic diatribe. Instead I only offer the smallest of smiles; I cross my arms over my chest and move to stand in front of her, so that the light that had been thrown over her from the streetlights was blocked, my shadow helping her in her attempt to hide from the wailing sirens.

She shows absolutely no fear – not in her burned face, or in the way she stands. No fear of me specifically, anyway. Instead, she retorts with smartassery, a sharp edge to her voice that seems to berate me and my need for a reaction. I almost want to know whether she’s killed anyone before. Whether she relishes the idea of murder. Is that why she isn’t afraid? Is that why she seems so careless that I could kill someone without a hint of a skip to my step, or remorse?

I edge closer to the woman. I uncross my arms from over my chest. I lean forward, balancing myself with one hand splayed against the brick wall beside her head. I gaze down at her for more than a few seconds, the silence filling the gap like a third person, standing there between us. I think about what I want to say; I’ve never had to reply to someone immediately before, and nor will I start now. Time isn’t something that pressures me. Time is something that I have more of than I could ever hope for. Time is not a noose around my neck anymore, and I am free of its barked orders – I will no longer dance like a monkey for time’s pleasure. I lick my lips and cant my head to the side.

”No,” I say, simply. Those are not the reactions that I had expected. Those reactions would be out of place. No one ever sheds a tear for people they don’t know. To say that’s too bad is what someone might utter if they were watching a news story, and emitting emotion because it is socially desired that they do so. However, Grey is not watching a news story. She is standing in the street shadowed by the body of a murderer. Of the murderer. She is not an unbiased, unseen observer. She is in the thick of it.

”Why are you afraid of them and not me?” I ask, hiding the grimace as the sandpaper of my voice rasps in my throat. I **** my head toward the sirens, though my eyes never leave Grey’s face.

[Grey (DELETED 5068)]

Grey was quite aware of the sirens that blared in the background. The wind whipped in and out of the building fronts, teasing the edges of brick and steel while smacking across her burned face with a lick of icicles across the fire of her flesh. She nearly would drag in a stilted breath between dry lips. She did not leave Jesse's stare to trail the dwindling lights of the police cars that sped past. As the silence between the two of them dwindle on, Grey's arched brow seemed to fall back into place without his answer.

Her stomach churned, attempting to digest the huge amounts that she had shoved down her throat just minutes ago. She felt relief in the fact that the belt was the only thing that held up the too big pair of jeans. Her chin tipped. Or perhaps, that was her teeth grinding that cause the subtle change in the line of her jaw. It started to be defined as if the woman clenched it to keep away the aggravation or the dropping decimals of the weather around them.

While the man stepped forward, effectively filling her personal space; Grey did not bother to move. Instead, she almost relished the shield to the wind he would soon provide. Though he wasn't particularly scowling at her, she found no reason to flinch away from his advances. The sweep of her long hair came down, sticking once again into the ointment that had been smeared on her damaged flesh earlier. Her hands remained pressed to her middle. She could have killed for a pair of gloves or mittens, truthfully. Though not realistically, those blue eyes twisted to look at his face.

His face, with the marked, pale skin and the slightly gaunt appearance. He looked tired. He looked like he had been battling a struggle. It was something personal. She wanted to reach out and touch his face. She found herself effortlessly wanting to reassure him. That it would be okay. And here she was faced with a stranger that she felt an uncanny connection to. Her fingers curled more tightly around the hems of her winter coat. She gave him a look of pure perplexity. Why did she have this sudden feeling like she wanted to reach out, tug him closer, and do what? Why was there this undeniable need to put her hands on him like there had been in the diner, sitting across from him, and watching him sketch while she spoke?

No, he said. No. That simple word said so much silently for him. She inhaled deeply, her breath leaving in a curl of smoke from her lips that dissipated quickly into the freezing night air. Then his broken, hoarse voice again tickled her ears. More. Another question. He wanted another answer from her. Flashes from her not so long ago childhood rose up, taunting her with ugly memories. Shiny memories, painful and true. She shook her head as if trying to shake the very thought of them right out of her head.

"Because they are liars with badges. They can make anything legal." The tone of her voice held a slight chill to it. The syllables of her words were colder than the wind itself in that moment. Venom, an ounce or two of it, dripped from her swollen, painfully burned lips. Half her mouth could curl up into a snarl in that very moment that she was transformed from a waif to an angry woman. Her distaste was obvious, but the hatred did not seem to last too long. Either that or she was far too good at hiding her thoughts soon after her admission to the stranger in front of her.

"You don't have a badge, do you?" She twisted her face away from attempting to look over his shoulder. Soon, she gazed up at him again. As if, she were seeing him in a whole brand new light at the prospect that he could be something more than what he told her. That he could be more than the man she saw in the diner that ignored the cup of coffee for his pencil and paper. Apprehension seemed to deepen the lines around her mouth as her tongue twisted in the locked chamber of her teeth.

She already knew her escape options. It was through him if she needed to go.

[Jesse Fforde]

I don’t know what it is about this girl.

Of course I am male, and every now and again my attention is grabbed by a scantily clad woman wearing hooker boots and shorts that show off the cheeks of her ***. More often than not, though, I am attracted to the waifs. To those with natural bodies; to those who do not go to extra lengths to make themselves appear unnaturally attractive. I do not like it when they cake on the foundation so that I can see the powder clogging their pores. I do not like it when they pull their hair back so tightly that I can see the skin flaking at the hairline – a hairline that is receding, because of the way they treat their hair. And when I watch my porn, I do not like the clips with the women who have fake breasts. Give me natural breasts. Pert breasts. Smaller ones, that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. Yes, that’s what I like best.

So what is it about this woman that has me following her down the street?

I suppose it is because although her face is half blistered in burn, she has made no attempt to hide it from me, or to apologise for her appearance. The clothes that she wears and the way that her hair is styled – it’s obvious she’s not like the women who prance around like they are trophies to be won, who hold themselves aloof as if they are better than all of humanity. In this girl, I see something rare. She is a raw gem, uncut, and beautiful because of it.

And I just want to know more about her.

Liars with badges, she says. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. Maybe all police go into the service because they want to do some good for humanity. Maybe that’s how they start. Maybe the power goes to their head, and they are all corrupted by it. Maybe they just follow what those before them have done. Maybe it’s not the cops themselves, but the system within which they are forced to work. I visited the station a lot as a kid. Since gaining my apprenticeship, however, and now working in my own shop, I’ve straightened out. I don’t bother them anymore, and they don’t bother me. Except now, I suppose – I murder people quite frequently. Still… the law enforcement don’t scare me. Sure, I’m wary. I know I have to keep the target off my back. I have stay out of sight, and out of mind. But they are like fleas. Mere annoyances, but easily overcome.

I shake my head.

”No badge,” I say. Again, forced to clear my throat.

”Aren’t we all liars, though?” I ask. All of humanity – and even beyond humanity. We all skirt around each other. We never tell everyone everything. We lie about our state of being. We keep ourselves to ourselves, and we’re never really completely honest. Though I suppose that’s why a lot of people really don’t like me – I’m honest. And blunt. And I don’t give a **** what they think.

Still. There are things that I do lie about. We all lie, whether we wear badges or not.

I continue to stand, unmoving, stoic. Grey is not trapped. She can get around me, should she choose to. I am not in the habit of making women feel trapped or pushed or forced. She has an option for escape – I suppose choose to believe, to hope, that she won’t want to.

[Grey (DELETED 5068)]

He stands there, unmoving and waiting for her answer. She looked down. Pulling her gaze from his face to his shoes, she looks at the footwear and wonders nothing. Her mind is completely blank. She stands there, with her hair playing in the little bit of breeze that is not blocked by his wide shoulders to wonder just what it is he wants. She thought, for a brief moment, she shouldn't have turned around. She shouldn't have given him the benefit of the doubt and the mild ounce of hope that there was something more that would come from this meeting.

She kept her hands to herself. She only touched him for a moment in the diner and she drove herself crazy by wanting to sit on her fingers. She was quite lucky that the fork and knife were soon within her fingers, working to shove down her meal. Never before had she felt such an interesting connection to another person who seemed just as troubled as she tried not to be. Everyone has their battles, her father had said. Be nice to everyone, he had repeated kindly when they were a witness to an awful event of bigotry or crudeness.

She took a deep breath, wondering why he wanted a reaction from her. This all was about the impending swarm of policemen and woman who would no doubt have brought out those tiny paper notebooks with a station issued ink pen to jot down first hand accounts of what occurred. Grey wanted to not be a part of that at all. They'd ask for ID. They'd want to know what she was doing in town. How long she was going to be there. Inevitably, they would tell her to 'stick around' and that would have made things so much stickier.

She caught Jesse's shake of his head. He seemed a little undisturbed by her opinion of those with badges. Forcing herself to take his scrutiny, she just clutched her hands to her middle tighter. His sketch was there of her, after all. She was protecting his gift he had given her. She couldn't reach out and touch him because that would mean that sketch would slip.

"We are." She said, agreeing with him. They were all liars. It might be little lies; like getting to work late because someone hit snooze one too many times on their alarm clock. However, it could be a very big lie; like embezzling thousands or millions of dollars from a business partner to covering up ... well, murder. That analogy made Grey shake her head. It made her take a deep breath, blow it out, and pull her eyes up to stare into his face again. To capture his eyes with her own.

"So what do you lie about, Jesse?" The question was across her lips before she could catch it. She didn't want to ask him another question. She didn't want him to feel like he needed a reaction from her. She didn't want him to think that things were always positive or negative. No, there were in-between things. There were good and bad and mixes of both. Grey was getting colder. Stopping walking was allowing the icy hands to creep up her calves and tease her open neck. But, she had asked a question. She would stand there and see if the man answered it.

[Jesse Fforde]

The wind feels as if it’s blowing in from an arctic freezer. It means nothing to me; I’m cold as death as it is, and I have no warm blood. The ice in the air does not freeze me, as I am sure that it freezes the human in front of me. The way she hugs herself, the way she shivers. I’ve got her trapped here against this wall out in this weather and why should I care? By now, I should have drained her and left her for dead. But I haven’t.

Rather than try to analyse my own actions, or inactions, I instead laugh at Grey’s question. It’s a silent laughter; I’m not used to laughing out loud, just yet. I’m not used to any of this, this vague back and forth. I like it. It’s not ordinary small talk. I ******* hate small talk. I don’t give a **** about the weather or how someone’s day was, and I care much less about their goddamned ******* love lives. Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I’m heartless. Or maybe I’m just so sick and ******* tired of people thinking I’m a good listener just because I don’t talk; sick of people thinking I’m happy to listen to their woes. I’m really not. They bore the living **** out of me.

There’s none of that here, though. No, this conversation is actually rather interesting. I want to continue it. I want to get inside this woman’s head and find out what it is that makes her tick. In order to do so, she has to live through the night – and the next week. And so I should let her go; if I don’t, she might catch some kind of life-threatening disease from being out in the cold for so long. And it’d be all my fault.

Of course I plan on following her, if she doesn’t let me walk her to her final destination.

”I could tell you. But I might be lying,” I finally answer; and as I do, I push away from the wall and take a step back. All the sirens have passed. No one has given the two of us a second glance. No one cares about a couple of people walking away from a scene of a crime. They don’t even know we were there. They have no reason to suspect us.

I gesture in the direction within which we had been walking; I cant my head to the side, brow arched. Maybe it’s a little creepy. Maybe she’ll finally start to think I’m a bit odd, but I don’t suggest that I walk her home. I don’t do anything but stand there inquisitively, waiting for her to start walking so that I can fall in beside her. I’m not used to making my intentions known, verbally. I’ve always left it to the other person to figure it out; a test of wits, of sorts.

[Grey (DELETED 5068)]

Her lips were frozen. Her teeth ached. Her mouth was so cold that at any moment, if the white squares started chattering together, her teeth just might break. For a moment while she was staring at him, all that she could think of what how cold it was. How very, very cold it was. She did not like this weather. She wanted sun shine and warmth. She would give anything not to be bundled in layers of layers of different people's clothing, gathered out of Lost and Found boxes or lifted with no anti-theft devices still attached.

With each blink, her eye watered more. The trail down her left cheek could not barely freeze due to the heat her face was giving off. Burned flesh, so puckered red and swollen nearly had her wanting to just find a corner and sob. It was nothing like broken bones. No, broken bones hurt in essence a lot worse than burned skin. Instead of the ache being deep and throbbing around swollen muscles and painful tendons, anything that touched her face was like sharp needles penetrating her skin over and over again.

The constant rub of her flesh and her hair that grated over her sore skin was almost too much to bear until his voice broke the silence between them again. Teasing. The staccato teasing of his husky sound that broke from his lips had her own right side of her mouth curling into a light grin. She was getting tired. The shelter was only open for those to claim cots until 2 AM. If she wanted lunch money for tomorrow and a little to splurge on a fancy coffee, then Grey needed to get a move on it.

"Well, then keep your lies to yourself, Jesse." With that, she 'hmphed' as she took her next step. Of course, in his grand gesture she fell into step upon the way he indicated. She was in a hurry. She took off without waiting to see if he followed. Steel toed boots didn't even dare slip or slide on the tiny patches of ice as snow was kicked up each time she crunched along. "I've got errands to run and people to see. I'll bore you. Take care!"

It was a warning, perhaps. A warning that she wasn't a complicated woman. It was a warning that she didn't ask for much. It was a warning that she didn't take what wasn't rightfully hers. Hell, Jesse could have even taken it as an excuse or at least a way for him to be gone. No doubt he had business to attend to of his own. A job that he had to complete or friends he had to meet up with and clink a couple beers together. So while the snowflakes fell, she turned down the street corner and pulled open the Wickbridge's Bank doors. By now, the belated signs of her fingertips being a little singed no doubt showed. Blisters upon her knuckles of that right hand seemed to just pop out against the cold's kiss.

He had no idea that she was a nameless, homeless woman who didn't mean anything to anyone. She got in the long line at the branch counter, not even looking back. It was easier that way, she told herself. She didn't plan on making friends in this city. She didn't plan to stay here. She just needed a job and some cash to fill up on before she left again.

He didn't need to know that.

[Jesse Fforde]

I watch as she walks away from me. I let her think that she has a head start – I let her think that I am not following her. Though of course, as sure as the smirk that rests on my lips, I do follow her. I remain behind, nonchalant, my pace matching Grey’s. I am not done with her yet. For whatever reason, this woman has piqued my intrigue. It’s not often that people pique my intrigue. I was a solitary creature with acquaintances that came and went; with no family to speak of, the only friends that I had were are those that I chose to keep. And I never did choose to keep many, as could be evidenced by how easy it was for me to shed the skin of my old life and dress neatly in the new.

Yes, my habits have changed in this new life. I do have ‘family’, to an extent. I prefer the term ‘bloodline’. It lacks all the connotations that ‘family’ has. There are obligations toward family; unconditional love. I find that unconditional love does not exist where vampires are concerned, at least not in my case, just because of a ‘blood’ connection. Perhaps it is because of my lack of family growing up. Perhaps it is because I have never felt inclined to suffer obligations toward people I do not care for, that I refuse to pick up the habit now.

Long story short – there’s something about this woman that is different. Maybe there’s something about the scent of her; it’s sweet, pure, somehow. A rarity in this city. And yet, given the conversation that we have just had, there is an edge to her. A hint of mystery. I don’t want her to be like the rest of them. I don’t particularly like playing with my food, but this time I feel like a game.

The weather is undeniably frosty; no one’s really paying attention to anyone else. They’re only paying attention to huddling, to keeping their eyes on their feet to make sure they do not slip and fall, to getting to where they’re going as fast as humanly possible. In contrast, I meander behind my target. She slips into a bank, into a waiting queue inside. I always wondered about these banks. They’re open so late, open all the time. They must wonder why people need to do their banking so late at night, but no one ever says anything. I suppose it’s something that I always took for granted. I never really asked the question before. Simple bank opening hours never aroused any kind of curiosity in me, so I doubt it’ll arouse any sort of curiosity in anyone else.

I do not follow her inside. I don’t need to do any banking – and besides, I’m playing a game. And so, as Grey lines up and waits to be served, I lean against a wall near the exit outside, out of sight. From my pocket I retrieve a squashed packet of cigarettes; I put one in my mouth, light it, and push the packet away again. I inhale, slowly, relishing the feel of the smoke against the back of my always-aching throat. Smoking has no negative affect on my health, these days, and it proves to be ample though fleeting distraction from my hunger. Sate one addiction with another, kind of.

Every time the doors slide open I glance sideways, waiting for my doe.

[Grey (DELETED 5068)]

They are staring at her. The clerks behind their secure counters, with their guarded looks and their wide eyes. In front of Grey, there is a young child. A boy who could not be more than five or six and he steps closer to his mother's side. He grabs her hand, tugging on her fingers to get her attention. She shushes him, trying to get him to behave as he yanks harder and starts to point at the burned woman. She looks back, with her bright blonde hair and her blue eyes and gasps.

It should make Grey feel ashamed, shouldn't it? It should make her want to hide her face. She knows that she is not beautiful, after all. She is ugly. The burn just marred her skin even more, showing the truth of a blistered soul on the outside now. She pulls her son up into her arms, shielding him from looking at the pained woman. Even though a smile is plastered on the half of Grey's lips that can react, she is frowning on the inside. Truthfully, she didn't mean to scare that child. It is obvious that the little tyke is sheltered from accepting differences.

There was a tired call for next in line. Everyone moved up two steps. She took a moment to look over her shoulder, startling the young man in line. He was about her own age, and there was quite a shocked expression upon his face. Everywhere Grey had looked, there were downcast eyes or teller clerks busy hoping they didn't have to wait on her. She stood in line, holding her withdrawal slip.

She crunched the corners, smoothing out the lines she made to the dented paper. It took little effort at all, her nails now stained with grease and oil. No amount of Orange Goo could clean up her rough hands. Someone once gave her the tip of Listerine soaks when she gave up the excuse that her boyfriend spilled it all over the garage floor. It was more socially acceptable to have a boyfriend after all than it was to have a predominantly male's job.

'Next!' was called and Grey stepped forward. She shuffled her coat, having tucked the drawing underneath the layers of her shirts to ensure it didn't move or fall to the ground. Tucking it into beneath her closest shirt, then into the waistband of those too big jeans, Grey had time to digest the disgust and concern upon the face of the middle aged woman. "I'd like to take this amount out of my account please."

She waited for the woman to do her job, but nodded when the woman asked if she were okay. Was it going to matter? What was the woman going to do? It wasn't like she could stop her job and assist Grey in any way. She was already walking fine, her fingers were sore and red, and her skin looked painfully angry now that she was inside the heat of the building. "I'm fine. Could you imagine all this over a plumbing issue? Too hot of a water temperature out of a shower head. Believe you me, that plumber has certainly been reported."

Grey took her three hundred dollars with a pained realization that the shelter was probably closed by now. This was why she stopped again at the bank. She knew there was a motel that had rooms for the night for just under a hundred dollars. However, if they were full, Grey would have to move up the ladder in luxury. She would do it all over again, though. Grey thought to herself, that she would sit with that man who barely spoke to her again in a heart beat. Reluctantly, Grey gave the woman a smile she didn't deserve. "Thanks!"

It was almost two. She could try to make the shelter. She saw the clock on the wall as she turned to exit the bank. She stuffed the money carefully into her pockets, tucking her coat over the denim. She pushed open the doors, taking several steps until she was in the middle of the sidewalk. Thinking she gave herself enough room, she lifted her palms both free and tipped her head back to the sky.

As the wind started to play with the ends of her split hair, her red palms and her swollen face tipped up to the cold sky. The right side of her mouth curled into a smile and she seemed to take in the relief of the cold caressing her skin. Her lips opened, the in and out breath of her chest seemed to just curl into heated wisps that were shooed away by the icy breeze. Yes, Grey was different. She looked up at the cloudy darkness and enjoyed the sights of the moon and the puffy clouds.

Maybe she would see Jesse again. Maybe she would see Solene again too. To Grey, she was lucky to have met either of them. Those blistered fingers lifted, hugging her coat together, yet peeling the collar away from the right side of her neck. It was as if she were cleansing herself from all the scared hostility she invoked within the bank. When she turned, her eyes collided with him. She blinked, not even bothering to take a step back. There was no recoil that gathered in her person.

There was just disbelief as she blinked that not affected, blue eye. Her swollen lips opened, not even a sputter. There instead seemed to be a chuckle that turned into a laugh. It was a deep, grinning laugh that traveled up to her eyes. "You are still here?!"

She wanted to know why he waited for her. She wanted to know why he didn't have anything better to do that time of night. Shaking her head, she rolled her eye at him with a grin. She started in the direction of the shelter, passing him. However, not before she reached out and brushed her hand against his shoulder. She gave him a nudge as if telling him he was silly for holding the fort down outside. So, with a smile she tossed over her shoulder at him, she started to cross the desolate street.

There was a spark of excitement that crossed her painful looking face. It was for him.

[Jesse Fforde]

There’s not too much happening on the street, as I stand there and watch. The foot traffic is a little heavier around the outside of the bank. There are people coming and going. People bringing money and people taking it. People coming home from work or going to work or on their way to a party, or on their way home from a party. This part of the city is a hub of activity, and I find it interesting – as I always have – to watch the people. I’m more savvy, now, to the wiles and ways of the more degenerate people. For example – I can sense another like me in the vicinity. A vampiress whom I do not recognise. I know that she glances in my direction. I know that she knows me for what I am. A silent understand passes between us, as she assesses me, and I do the same in return. As if we belong to some cult, and yet within the inner circles of the cult there is division. She is assessing me to make sure that I am not a rat. That I am not opposed to her. For a moment or three we are still, staring. And then I wink; a small, inconspicuous gesture. A gesture of goodwill.

The corner of the vampiress’s lips twitches, and she goes back to what she was doing. The way she moves, quick as light, is something that I even find hard to catch. Like a silver fish glinting in the sunlight of the river, but blinking out of existence as the sun slips behind a cloud. The perfect place for it, isn’t it? Outside the bank. She’s thieving. Taking money from the men and women who are oblivious to the creature amongst them. They do not feel as her hands slip into their pockets, relieving them of the weight of their notes. I watch for a little while, but then turn my attention to other things.

I will not begrudge another vampire their livelihood.

I notice the way the river of foot traffic divides around me. The way most people veer away; they stick as close as the road as possible, if they do not cross the road entirely. Some don’t even have to look at me. And I watch them, carefully. I watch their faces, and their darting eyes. Smoke billows around my head, slithering from my nostrils as I breath out—and yet, it’s not the sight of me that has them skittering. No, some of them don’t even have to look at me, and yet they try to keep as much distance between me and themselves as possible. Like I give off some kind of menacing aura. It’s fascinating.

Except this one person. She has come to stop, almost directly in front of me. The woman who I have been tracking. Grey. The one who is about as fascinating as humanity’s aversion to me. All the more curious, that she does not share their aversion. She doesn’t notice me, to begin with. Her chin lifts and she seems lost, for a moment or two. I straighten, slowly. And only then does she turn toward me. She blinks, her delicious little mouth dropping into a surprise ‘o’. I grin as she laughs. There’s no fear in her. No wariness, that she is being stalked. This, in itself, is fascinating.

It doesn’t occur to me that I could answer her straight away. The reaction is slow anyway; the words aren’t there on the tip of my tongue, the quip that I could throw back at her. It doesn’t exist. I suppose it’ll take time to learn how other people do it. How they converse with such ease. I’m used to having time to respond, to reason out my answer slowly as it goes down on paper. And sometimes I don’t even bother thinking about how I should respond. I don’t need to. That’s the conclusion that I had come to, over the years. People could go get fucked, as far as I cared.

She nudges at my shoulder. The touch, the heaviness of the nudge, it lingers, even as she begins to walk away. As she tosses that smile over her shoulder, crossing the road. A clear invitation, if ever I saw any. I drop the cigarette to the ground and grind it to ash beneath my shoe. I shove my hands into my pockets. As she reaches the other side of the road, I follow. I don’t run to catch up with her. I catch up with her naturally, my strides a little longer than hers. And when I reach her side, I grin sideways at her.

“Maybe…” I say, and then I pause. I cant my head to the side.

“Maybe you’re a stray,” I say. The way she’d scoffed that food, and hadn’t offered to pay for it. The way she’d happily had it given to her. The scruffiness of her clothes – maybe she’ll be offended. But she does look like a stray. She acts like one. I’ve been one before. I know what stray looks like. I have to clear my throat again – I reach up a hand, fisted, and rub my knuckles over the stubble of my neck. Massaging back and forth. God, it itches like a ***********.

“…maybe I want to see if you’ll follow me home,” I finally let out, the words enunciated slowly. This kind of thing seems to work on paper, sometimes. Uttering it out loud feels… different. I watch her, as I walk. To what end?

[Grey (DELETED 5068)]

Grey knew the man pushed off the building and followed her. Why wouldn't he, after all? He followed her from the diner. He followed her to the bank. He waited for her until she left the building's front doors and now he was just going to leave her be?

She could see the stricken look on the faces around her. She could see the way they moved to the side, into the street, or across it altogether. She frowned. No, it wasn't just because of her. It wasn't because they saw a woman with a burned face and multiple clothes hanging this way and that on her. It wasn't because of the aura she gave off - knowing it wasn't special nor did it keep anyone from ever bumping into her.

No, it was because that man was behind her. Not right behind, but close enough for people to move out of her way too. It was nice, for once, not to have to try and dodge people's distracted walking. With their cell phones plastered to their ears or their eyes on the tiny screens while texting. They just ... moved away.


My father always used to tell me to be nice to everyone. He used to tell me that you never know another person's problems. Some were mean at first, and that was okay. He used to reassure me that sometimes it was just their thing, their defense mechanism. He used to tell me stories about himself and my mother when they were growing up, he called it. When they were in school, he used to try to get her attention. He used to bump into her, pull on her hair, and take her pencils or pens just to see what kind of reaction he'd get from the girl that wouldn't give him the time of day.

My father used to tell me that my mother was beautiful. That she had a gorgeous smile and a hearty laugh. He used to tell me that she was shy and kind. He used to tell me that she had the attitude of a substitute school teacher, keeping everything orderly and in their own particular places. But, the story would get ugly. He'd give me a sigh and shake his head as he reached for the tools in the garage I handed him. She had me and everything changed. Even though my father had always called me his princess, I wasn't that beautiful in my mother's eyes.

He said I was a fussy baby. But, babies were supposed to be fussy. I had some issues with colic, and I would cry a lot. That's when she found the drink, he called it. Alcohol. She would drown herself in it just to get through the day with me. This I know because she still hid the bottles. She still had that preferred glass in her hand when I'd come home from grade school and she'd sit me down at the kitchen table, slapping my hands with a ruler or a pencil or a yard stick whenever I got the answer wrong.

My father just used to smile at me, tell me it wasn't my fault I made my mother so mad all the time. It will get better, he promised. He'd pull the cartoon bandages out, kiss my bloody knuckles and tell me it would get better. He used to tell me everything would be okay. It was after their argument that night that my father didn't wake up for work the next day. The doctor said he went peacefully in his sleep. What did that mean, peacefully?

She couldn't go back to work, see. She was too bipolar. Her cycles were quick and I knew all this stuff about moods and medications before I even attempted high school. By then, she was normally so drunk I could steal food from the fridge and she wouldn't even notice the cheese missing or a slice of lunch meat gone.

But, thinking back on it now as I hear the footsteps behind me, it never got better. She got worse. My mother had no maternal bone in her body. My childhood was whisked away with my father's untimely death. No one ever took an interest in me. I was always that girl. That poor, sad girl.


"Why are you still following me?" She called out over her shoulder to him. Grey had been lost in thought. It had taken almost two blocks for him to catch up. Sure, her legs were shorter. However, she moved quickly. She moved like she had a place to go or people to see. She had a cot to try and reserve. Ten minutes. Ten minutes and she was almost there. She sped up a bit more, finally looking to the side of her when he came into view.

There was his grin. It was a **** eating grin and she couldn't help the curl of her own lips. That is, just the right side of her mouth since the left was still swollen. She had gotten into more of a jam before than just a camera blowing up in her face. There was that police officer or two who would take it upon himself to rid the alleyways of all the street rats and homeless vagabonds. They had a hero complex, wishing to keep their neighborhoods clean and their tiny towns free of riff-raff.

He made it seem like it was the other way around. This man, this artist, this loner along side of her made it seem like she were the one that had the complete interest in him. She would stop and gape at him if she had more time. Instead, she just gave him the roll of a shoulder and the scoff of a laugh. Yes. She nearly snorted at him too. "Yes, you are right."

There was no denying that she was a stray. There was no denying that she was wearing other people's castoff clothing, their second hand items that they threw away. It made her uneasy. Of course, she tried to blend in. She tried to just grab and go. Whether it was food or clothing or tampons or waterless soap, she just did what she had to do to get by. "What do you care about it? I didn't take anything of yours."

She muttered those words a little bit more defensively then necessary. They came across her lips in a way that she didn't dress to impress or care for make-up or to make herself into something she wasn't. Not for him. Not for anyone. And certainly not for herself. The only place she stuck around long enough was that community college town to get her GED. So what if the name on the diploma she was sure to carry in her satchel was her alias and not her true identity?

"What kind of pick up line is that?" She did stop now. She stopped and stared at the man in front of the shelter. She stared because in essence, she was looking right past his person. She was looking at the worker with a gold badge and the 'Robin's Nest' vest come to the door. Grey watched as the worker, the blonde middle aged woman just turned the lock, shook her head, and frowned for the stray's lateness. It wasn't long before Grey felt her heart double in its worried beating now. The light of the building went out and the Closed sign swayed back and forth on the front of the glass door.

God damn it. Damn it!

Her blue eyes drifted back to Jesse's face and she smirked at him. "I bet you say that to all the ladies you find irresistible. Well, I have news for you. I don't sleep with men on the first date!" Nor, in truth, did she consider this a date. She shoved off, crossing the street and giving him her backside as she would now wonder around. She had remembered the motel she stayed at the first night in this city. She knew it was some ways away yet.

There was no way in hell she was going to admit to being homeless to the likes of the man that just labeled her as a stray. There was no way she was going to even admit to him that she had missed the closing time for the cots at the shelter and now she was off to her next attempt at a sheltered bed that night - a motel. She just bundled up, walking along the middle of the street now. Sure, her gait was a little slower. The boots had ached after all. It was only her fourth day of wearing the required footwear and she heaved a sigh into the thin, winter's air.