by Mia Wolf
“Move,, and I will slit your throat,” says a woman’s voice. I can’t say who the voice belongs to because she’s standing behind me. All I see is her slender hand holding the very lethal weapon to my throat.
I raise my hands in defeat, but my mind is looking for clues. Where did I slip up? Does she know why I’m here? Is she tailing me somehow?
With my hands raised in the air and dressed in nothing but a measly towel, I have no choice but to do as the woman says. “Who the fuck are you?” I say and regret the acerbic tone, but I’m trying to play the part of a guest who just got attacked by an intruder.
“You tell me who you are and don’t try to do something stupid, or I swear you’ll regret it.”
The woman doesn’t sound too old, maybe in her early twenties, but there’s a tremble in her voice that I also notice in her hand as her blade shakes ever so slightly. I don’t know how I feel about my assailant not having a steady grip. The hand also angles upward, so I’m guessing the woman is short. It’s a slender arm that I could honestly snap in two if the blade wasn’t in the way. I could definitely defeat her in an arm-wrestling match, but as it happens, she has somehow managed to catch me by surprise. Her stance, unlike her grip, is that of a warrior. I can tell she’s not going to let go of that blade, so I don’t try to make a move as she has politely prescribed.
“I’m new to the neighborhood. I’ve been traveling in the woods and decided to make a stop here, and Joshua was kind enough to let me stay,” I say, omitting the bit about me being part of a secret organization that specializes in abducting people.
“Nobody told me,” she says in anger, which is quite misdirected.
“You know, you’re the intruder here. You’ve just broken into my house.” I fool even myself by the sincerity in my voice.
“We’ll see about that,” the woman says and reaches for my bag that’s on the counter in front of me.
I place a hard hand over it to stop her from searching my bag like she has top-security clearance. “You’re really out of line here, miss,” I say, this time with biting coldness. “How about you go and ask Joshua instead of manhandling me like I’m a federal prisoner. Besides, I wouldn’t want to press assault charges against such a model citizen of our country as you.” I eye the weapon, and I know she can see my eyes resting on her blade. Model citizen my ass. There are only two kinds of people who carry a dagger such as this one: the kind that I work for and the kind that I work against.
Much to my surprise, despite the convincing case that I just made, the woman lowers the blade. I grasp my neck, which is stiff from holding it in position for so long and zip up the bag that contains my Code Blue ID and other devices. I wouldn’t want someone as paranoid as this woman to find out what’s in the bag; I have a feeling she wouldn’t let that go so easily.
I turn around to see that the woman has taken a few steps away from me. Her gaze is still stuck on me, however.
“Am I that hard to look away from?” I ask. I don’t mean to flirt, but I realize it comes out flirtatious.
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even bat an eyelid. There’s a scowl on her face, which is hard to attribute to anything else but my existence now that she’s staring at me so intently and with a single-minded focus.
“Do people in this village not know how to mind their own business?” I ask when she doesn’t speak and just keeps standing there. “When can I ask you to leave?”
“When I’ve confirmed something,” she replies with a chill to her tone that sends shivers down my spine.
How lovely, I’ve already upset her. I’m too taken aback by her porcupine personality to really observe her appearance, but now that I look at her, I see that she’s nearly a foot shorter than I am and is wearing a red tunic that would be suitable for a six-year-old. And I would presume her age to be six if she didn’t have big breasts, which are quite frankly extremely distracting. She notices me staring, and her scowl deepens.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course you didn’t, and I would believe you,” she says. I’m thinking that that cold gaze probably means that she has profiled me to be some kind of heinous sex monster.
I don’t have a lot of patience for this now. After Warren, Joshua, and the old guy, this is the fourth time I’m put on the spot since I arrived here, and, while this is routine back at Code Blue, I don’t need to put up with this from random bear shifters. So I let the woman know this.
“I would love to indulge your flippant behavior, but it’s way past my bedtime, thanks to you. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
My monotone means strictly business, and I’m all frown lines and grimace until I hear the woman’s brown bag make a sound it shouldn’t have.
“You know your satchel just chirped,” I say, pointing at it. Before she can say anything, a yellow furball peeks out of it. The woman promptly looks at me to see my reaction, and I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you going to eat that?” I ask. The tables have turned.
“Of course not,” the woman responds as if it would be such a ridiculous thing to suggest. For bear shifters, it would only be natural. Except for a city-dweller like me who has never eaten meat rawer than medium-rare.
“Why would you keep a bird in your bag then?” I interrogate.
“I can explain—”
“Sure you can,” I respond.
Something passes between us. At that moment, she looks down at my waist. I follow her gaze there, and we both realize at the same time that I’m standing there naked with nothing but a white towel covering my groin area, while the floor is sopping wet under my feet.
That makes our sketch show over the little canary come to an end, and the woman storms out of the house without warning, her satchel dangling at her side as she walks away.
“I’m glad to have made your acquaintance,” I shout in annoyance at the woman before she slams the door shut on me. So infuriating.
What an odd set of events, I think to myself once I’m alone again, standing naked and wet in my own home. The bitter realization that there’s no sleep left in my eyes anymore makes me want to reach for the bottle of whiskey from my backpack, but I make do with thoughts of the woman in red with her mysterious satchel-bound canary.
Chapter 8 - Maya
There’s a distant sound of water, but it’s loud enough that I know which waterfall it is. I’m on the edge of town in the dead of night and there’s someone screaming. I can tell it’s coming from the cliffside. I run towards the screaming because the sound is so very familiar that my legs move to their own accord.
“Ma,” I scream in the darkness, barely seeing where I’m going. There are pebbles under my feet, so I know the river bend is close by, and in one horrific moment, I see my mother standing at the edge of the cliff with tears streaming down her face as she mouths the word “sorry” to me over and over again.
“No,” I scream in return when she goes quiet. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but why is she so close to the edge? “Ma, get away from there,” I tell her, but she continues to cry, and I look at my hands amidst this incomprehensible circumstance. I’m six somehow, and I know that by my hands. There’s a gap in my understanding, but I don’t have time to think because when I look up I see my mother inching closer and closer to the fall. It dawns on me that she’s going to keel over, and I lose my voice from a scream that echoes against the mountain in the back.
“Sorry,” she mouths one last time and disappears.
“Ma,” I scream and wake up, sweat pouring from my brow. Everything is back into place; there’s a roof over my head, there are no pebbles under my feet, and there’s no sound of water. It’s just me, alone in the house and my mother is gone. Of course, she’s gone, I remind myself. Don’t you remember that she died?
Just a nightmare, I realize and slip out of bed because sleep is not going to present itself as a likely ally in my shaken state. I lift my hands up and watch them tremble as though I’m not used to landing bu
ll’s eye with them, as though when I swing a blade, it misses its mark, as though all the years of steadying my aim has been of no use. “Stop shaking,” I yell at them, but the futility of my words brings me more pain than comfort. I’ve run my tears dry for the day it seems because none come.
On the porch, I perch on one of the stairs as the immediate chill of the night becomes my unwelcome host. I look up at the sky; it seems to be covered in the splatter of stars, the twinkling diamonds looking so calming. I search for the moon until I realize it’s absent for the night. Impromptu stargazing makes me forget the nightmare, or is it my deliberate effort to bury it deep down? The memory of a memory will bring the same amount of pain as the memory itself, I tell myself. You know better than to live in the past, Maya. Let it go. I have borrowed that wisdom from my brother, and now he too is gone, leaving me with all his life lessons.
A chirp comes from my left; it’s the canary slipping out of the basket that I had kept for her. She stumbles and falls but moves toward me like I’m her mother. She comes and stops at my feet; I caress her head while she pecks at the ground. What a moronic thing to do. But she’s a bird, that’s what birds do.
“Can’t sleep?” comes a voice suddenly out of the darkness. I jump; I hadn’t noticed the person it belongs to. I look up to find the white towel guy, this time fully clothed in a black hoodie and black jeans, his hands shoved warmly in the pockets of his pants. He looks at the canary then at me then back at the canary. I can tell by the look on his face what he’s thinking. So, she didn’t eat the bird after all. Of course, I didn’t eat the bird. What am I? Some kind of feral beast?
“Don’t talk to me,” I say to the guy because let’s be frank, we don’t need to be friends just because we’re neighbors. I’d much rather prefer the house next door to be empty than have this insolent, pompous brat live in my vicinity.
I try to ignore the guy’s presence because the night is too pretty, and I don’t want him to get the idea that we can be on talking terms, not if he’s going to be living next door.
“What’s wrong with the canary?” he asks. I’m both surprised and annoyed to find that he’s not gone.
“I found her in the woods. Her wing’s broken.” I’m thinking that if I just satiate his curiosity, he’ll go away.
“Have I upset you somehow?” he asks, and I look at him with a deadpan face, so he understands my intent. He’s sadly dense enough not to. He shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong. You’re breathing, I want to scream at him or, leave me alone before I smack your head. Instead, I take in a deep breath.
“I’m not looking to make friends,” I say politely, and he passes me an understanding nod.
He’s about to walk away when the canary starts waddling towards him, I want to pull her back to the front porch but seeing her putting so much work into walking, I relent. She goes up to the guy and starts pecking on his shoes. Are birds supposed to be this social? I wonder.
“She—” the guy begins then shuts up, clearly remembering what I just said.
He crouches down and presents his index finger to the bird; she enthusiastically climbs up on it. He picks her up, still crouching, and examines her wing.
It’s as if I see him as a real person for the first time as he holds the bird on his hand. When he puts the canary down, I meet his eyes, and I feel an instant ignition between us.
He’s looking at me, right at me, and perhaps right through me. Why can’t I look away? It’s the first time I see him as a man and remember what his naked body looked like in that white towel. My face flushes when I notice what I’m doing. He doesn’t look away either and shamelessly lets his gaze run down my body, down to my breasts first, then further down until he reaches my legs and then back up again. A few moments ago, his scrutiny would have annoyed me, but now I am flustered. He is setting me on fire with his attention on all the right parts of me. God, I hope I don’t pounce at him right now and ravish him like some aphrodisiac.
I bite my lip out of lack of control, and his expression turns more and more hungry. I have never felt more turned on by seeming nothingness, and the want in his eyes is holding me hostage. I’m unspooling, and I want him to stop, but the feeling only grows stronger, and a gasp leaves my lips. I know he hears it.
“I think I should go and sleep now,” I stutter.
Between us, the canary limps back to her basket.
“What’s your name?” he asks, while I’m still recovering from what just passed between us.
“Maya,” I reply to my own surprise. “Yours?” And why would you want to know that, you stupid girl?
“Sebastian,” he says. The roughness in his voice sends a chill down my spine.
I pull away from his gaze because I’ll end up making all the wrong decisions if I continue to look at him. I shut the door behind me and place a hand over my pounding heart, the volatility of the situation finally dawning on me. What was that? I have no explanation for what just happened. I let the high of the exchange come down until some sense comes back to me.
I’m going to have to be wary of him, he’s dangerous.
Chapter 9 - Sebastian
After Maya leaves, I’m still standing as if glued to the surface, hoping that some turn of events will bring her back. I want to hear her talk some more; try as I may, I cannot erase the image of her full, pink lips from my mind. Why would I want to? I’m left feeling charged and on edge like I’ve never felt before. I don’t know what to do with myself right now because my legs won’t move; they’re transfixed into place by some invisible force. The feeling is oddly familiar and yet something that I’ve never experienced before; it’s a paradox, and I’m stuck between two worlds. One where I get to close the distance between Maya and me and one that I’m in right now where there’s longing but no repose and no release.
This is what making art feels like, the same transgression of unearthly emotion that grips me so tightly that I cannot escape its claws. It uses me as a vessel to meet its own end, and I become its willing vehicle.
I remember seeing a blank canvas and some oil paints somewhere in the attic of the house. I rush inside and retrieve the art supplies, clearing the living room of unnecessary furniture and pushing the sofa and the center table aside to make space for the easel and the four-foot tall portrait canvas that I plant on it.
The inspiration comes unbidden and unencumbered. My hand reaches for a brush and begins instantly, the dread of the blank canvas never registering. I’ve been stuck with the writer’s block equivalent for the artist for what feels like forever now. Not that I didn’t have things to paint, I just didn’t feel like making anything good. But not tonight, there’s nothing stopping my hands from staining the white canvas sheet tonight.
It doesn’t occur to me that it’s four in the morning, not until my phone’s screen glows on the table from a notification, and I notice the time. Nor does it occur to me that I’m making a portrait of Maya, dressed in red and looking ephemeral like she’s from another world.
There’s a splatter of red, and thousands of brush strokes go by. Night turns to day as the sun slowly peeks through the window. I realize I haven’t slept and I’m hungry too. My stomach growls, but my hands don’t let me leave; there are still some final touches to make. I don’t know what to do with the painting once it’s done, but something tells me I’d be better off hiding it, so Maya doesn’t find it when she decides to march into my house again. She might not appreciate an artist’s call to creativity. Besides, it’s not for her. This is for me.
Instead of black, I’ve colored the woman’s hair with hues of orange, red, and yellow, which makes Maya’s head look like the sunset is descending on her or as if she’s on fire. In my head, I title the painting “conflagration” but I was never good at naming my work, so I leave it alone. It doesn’t need a name; if it did, it would just be “Maya.”
Once I’m satiated, I step away from the painting and stretch my neck to remove the stiffness. There’s
an unmatched feeling of content coursing through me like I’ve just released something that has been locked away for years. Satisfied, I drop to the floor and fall asleep in the middle of the living room.
***
The evening is setting, and the windows at the front of the house let the sunlight pool in and settle on the living room floor, setting everything ablaze in a golden glaze. I’m in the kitchen trying to fix something to eat. In the city, I usually eat food from restaurants, but I’m tired of it. Besides, the village barely has any places to eat. I’d have to take the highway out and find someplace to eat on the roadside. This village is very conducive to living like a hermit and practice all kinds of abstinence. Except for pleasure of the flesh. My brain remembers last night and the immediacy of the moment returns with it; all I wanted to do was reach for Maya. Which means I better keep my distance from her; that’s not what I’m here to do, and distractions never help during missions. Another lesson I have learned from experience and I know it would make Daniel proud to know that I remember it. Not that I ever do anything only to make him proud. No, not anymore.
I’m diligently chopping onions and humming a tune when a slip of my hand makes the knife dig into my index finger deeply; it starts bleeding instantly. I throw the knife on the counter and look for something to cover the wound with. Gripping my wound with the other hand, I check all the kitchen drawers, hoping there’ll be something I can use, but there’s nothing useful in there. I grab a small white hand towel and wrap it around my finger. It’s bleeding in earnest now, and though I’m no stranger to blood, I figure it might be a good idea to see if I can borrow some gauze and antiseptic from someone.
I go to the place on the other side of Maya’s house because I don’t want to ask her, but the house is empty. The one next to that is the old man’s, and I’m not very excited to see his face. So I begrudgingly go to Maya’s house; I just need some gauze and nothing else. She doesn’t answer the door, which I guess is a good thing. I really don’t want to do anything stupid, and knowing the electricity that passed between us yesterday, I better be cautious. I find a window at the back of the house that’s open. Figuring that since she broke into my house, I’m allowed to break into hers too, I clutch my wound tightly in the towel, hurl myself up with one hand, and slip into the house.