by Vivien Vale
With fast, fluid movements, I skim above the snow. Snowshoes really are an awesome invention.
The sweat is pouring down my neck and back. I’m tempted to strip down to my bare chest, but resist the temptation. I don’t want to end up with frostbite.
Less than five minutes into following the trail, I come upon the poor creature responsible for it.
It’s hairy, it’s massive, and it’s a bear.
Slowly, I approach. Instinct tells me my caution is not necessary. However, this is one time where I don’t listen to instinct.
When I’m standing right over the poor creature, I see there’s no need to worry about an attack. This bear is well and truly dead.
It seems to have been shot. Blood is still trickling out of its wound.
Fuck.
I hate poachers. Only poachers can have inflicted the wound. Judging from the entry point of the bullet, they were not very good shots, either.
I mean, if you come out here to hunt a bear, you should aim to kill. The shot in the stomach meant it had time to get away. Obviously, it died a slow and painful death.
As my eyes take in the size of the creature—at least six hundred pounds or so—I’m also checking out its brown fur. I could do with a new bearskin. Mine’s getting a bit old and worn.
If I take him back to my cabin, I can skin him and prepare the fur for a new bearskin. At least that way, his death would not have been total fucking waste of time.
With my mind made up, I roll the bear onto its side. Then I crouch down and haul him on my back.
With one loud grunt, I throw him over my left shoulder. I can feel my chest muscles bulge and my back muscles contract.
The six-pack I’ve acquired from all the wood I chop comes in handy. Those muscles contract at the same time and make sure I stay fucking upright instead of collapsing flat on my face into the snow with the bear on top of me.
This is better than any exercise a gym can offer. Lifting and carrying over five hundred pounds beats the monotony of squats, bar lifts, and all the other shit the blokes do to impress the chicks.
The way back is a little slower with the weight of my friend, but only a little. As I carry the lifeless body of this powerful yet innocent creature, I can’t help by empathize. I, too, am hunted. Not by poachers, but other forces—powerful, evil forces.
So far, I’ve not been caught. But who knows? One day I might be the bear.
A shiver runs down my spine. I push the morbid thought aside.
When I get back to the cabin, I’m drenched in sweat. I’m so wet I decide to leave the bear in the snow out the back of my hut. The freezing weather will keep it preserved until I’m ready to cut the skin off.
It takes time and skill to de-skin a bear, and right now, I’m not in the right frame of mind. Tomorrow is another day.
Inside my four walls, I strip down to nothing and walk over to the fireplace. My wet clothes are in one hand. As I pass the mirror in the hallway, I pause.
Muscles of steel, hairy chest, and a wild beard stare back at me. I’ve shed any unnecessary pounds and look taut and terrific.
It’s been a while since I’ve looked at myself in the mirror, and I’m surprised by the wildness about me.
If I just glance at myself, I’m reminded of the bear lying outside my cabin.
The logs in the fireplace are still crackling, and I add more wood to it. Once my clothes are laid out, I stand against the flames to dry my hairy chest and back.
The warmth feels good against my naked skin.
For a few minutes, I stand in the room, listening to the fire speak. The wood tells of tales long gone, and I think back to the bear—such a mighty powerful beast and yet so helpless against a gun.
With a sigh, I make my way downstairs to my secret undercover bunker. It’s that time of the day where I undertake my surveillance. Along the way, I grab some pants and a drink.
Once I’m down there, I tend to sit and contemplate, sometimes for hours.
It’s the time of day where I make sure nothing happens or has happened to my Emma.
Emma.
Her name rolls of my tongue like chocolate. She’s as delicious as chocolate, I imagine.
I can only imagine because I never fucked her in my old life.
I sigh and sit down.
The monitors show nothing, other than her empty apartment. No doubt she’s gone out with her socialite friends to party and drink in some club. She might not get home till late hours, and I won’t get to see her.
Of course, it doesn’t fucking matter if I get to see her or not. I mean, I’m not watching her to perv on her. Actually, I’m not even watching her—I’m keeping an eye on her to make sure nothing bad happens to her.
I vowed to keep her safe. I vowed to protect her. The only way I know to protect her is to keep her under 24/7 surveillance.
Of course, there’s only enough that I can actually monitor. I can’t monitor where she goes, who she drinks with, or with whom she goes home.
I can only look at her apartment.
Better than nothing, I tell myself and then take a sip of my tea.
My eyes are glued to the monitors. Still nothing.
What the fuck was she up to tonight? Had she scored at some bar and is not coming home? If so, it would be a long lonely night.
I sigh and stare at the screens. The picture stays the same. I almost will her to come home so I get to see her.
The longer I sit here, the more morose I become. I can’t believe this is what my life has become—to sit and watch the woman I loved in secret from a long way away. Why had I been so fucking blind and did not see what I had when it was right front of my fucking eyes?
It was only when I lost her that I realized how much she meant to me.
I sigh.
Human nature. I put it down to human nature. Just like we always think the grass is greener on the other side, we often don’t appreciate what we’ve got until it’s too fucking late.
If I had my time over, I would make a move sooner—what the fuck am I talking about? I never made a move on Emma while we were working together.
If I had my time over, I would make a move on her, period.
Movement catches my attention. The door opens, and Emma walks through it. I hold my breath, waiting to see if a bloke is following.
When she slams the door shut with her right foot, I breathe a sigh of relief. My behavior is totally fucking childish, I know.
She should be happy. She should be with someone. I should not be sitting in the fucking mountains wanting her to be a fucking nun.
And maybe if she found herself a nice man, she might not be in any danger anymore.
But those thoughts are too painful, and so I push them away.
Emma looks beat. She obviously has been partying or some such shit with her socialite friends.
I feel myself turn green with envy. I hate her friends. My feelings are totally irrational, and yet I cannot stop them.
It takes her less than five minutes to collapse into bed.
In my mind, I give her a kiss good night.
I’m about to walk upstairs when something catches my attention. At first, I think I’m simply not able to let go and shake my head. But then I can see shadows glide across one of the monitors.
The shadowy figures disappear out of sight and then reappear. I furrow my brow. This does not look good. My fingers clench into fists, and I feel like punching the monitor.
Mesmerized, I stare at what’s unfolding on the screen in front of me.
My brain is not processing the information fast enough.
There are strange men in Emma’s apartment.
Fuel.
Matches.
Flames.
Holy fucking shit. Those dudes just set fire to Emma’s apartment.
I can feel my blood boil. They promised, and they reneged on their promise. Someone’s going to have to pay.
Emma
It's exactly six o'clock on a Frid
ay night, and barely anyone’s getting off the train at Columbus Circle.
Anyone besides me, that is.
It's eerily quiet when I get above ground, too. I hear a horse clip-clopping in the distance—probably a carriage going into Central Park.
I look down Broadway and see the lights of Times Square. I feel like I'm about to pass out on the sidewalk. That's how I always feel after work, especially on Fridays when I have to push everybody to get all the shit done that they should've finished earlier in the week.
It kind of makes sense that there's no one around. Everybody wants to live downtown somewhere these days—or in Brooklyn. That's what a good ninety percent of our clients want anyway.
The way I see it, now that I'm so high up in the company hierarchy, I might as well live uptown—even if it's not as trendy.
It doesn’t fucking matter that none of my friends or co-workers live around here.
I think Dylan had a place here once, around Lincoln Center or something. Maybe I should ask him about that—if he ever reappears.
His vanishing act five years ago left a lot of questions unanswered.
Five years. And I'm still fucking thinking about it.
It's hard not to, when his talents and his instincts helped make the company what it is today. Even though I’m at a competing company now, his absence still stings with every new headache at work, and there's no shortage of that.
Without someone like Dylan around to keep things on an even keel, things can get out of hand.
I stop outside the lobby of my building to check my phone. I want to see if there are any messages or any of those weird missed calls while I was on the subway.
Right now, the line between pranks, random weirdness, and the past coming back to haunt me is getting too blurry for comfort.
The lock screen on my phone is blank. No messages, no voicemails, no missed calls. That’s always a welcome sight.
Magically, my phone buzzes as soon I start walking again. I make a growling noise when I see that the caller ID is my own number. It’s probably a telemarketer using a caller ID spoofer to hide their real number. My finger finds End Call and presses it firmly.
“Good evening, Miss Clayton.”
I think I actually jump at the sound of my concierge’s voice.
“Fred, you scared me half to death!” I laugh, trying to temper my overreaction.
“Only half, I hope,” Fred responds.
I chuckle halfheartedly because that’s a fucking weird thing to say.
My phone starts buzzing again, and, this time, it’s a number I recognize.
“What’s up, Jen?” I answer the phone loudly so weirdo Fred doesn’t say anything else to me while I walk to the elevator.
“Don’t ‘what’s up’ me. You know we’re all hitting the club tonight,” Jen says with a scoff.
“Oh, god. Do I have time to sleep for a couple of hours first?”
“Fuck, no! We’re meeting at Jing on Ninth Avenue for dinner at eight. Get yourself looking good. Shit’s gonna get turnt.”
“You know it. Hey, I’m about to get on the elevator, so the call may dr—”
I hung up immediately and sigh. I just didn’t have the energy to keep up the conversation. I drag myself up to my room.
***
"You should know how lucky you are to even be here."
He says this with a smile. I don't even know this guy's name. I'm sure he told me, but I don't care.
I wish I didn't have to hear him speak. If the music blaring through the club speakers was just a few decibels louder, I could be blissfully ignorant of his sniveling little voice and misguided attempts to impress me.
"You're right," I yell. "I have no idea. I'm sure I never will."
My voice is a touch louder than it needs to be, which makes him wince.
Good.
I'm trying to send a clear message: I'm unimpressed, and no, I don't feel fucking lucky to be here.
That stupid smile is still plastered on his face, though. I don't think he gets it.
Of course, he has a point. This is one of the toughest clubs to get into below 14th Street. At another time in my life, I would've been happy to be in a spot like this, and I would’ve fit right in.
Once, I may have even been impressed with this troll-like man in the wrinkled button-down, popping a breath strip while wearing a stupid smile.
I scan the immediate area to see if any of my friends are still around.
They're not. They're all off dancing. It's just this nameless guy and me.
The bottle of Swedish vodka in the center of the table is rattling in rhythm to the dubstep, as are the ring of highball glasses surrounding it.
"Holy moly!" the nameless schmuck enthuses. "This DJ set is getting seriously hot to trot."
I give him the biggest and cheesiest grin I can muster as he starts bopping his head like he's one of the Night at the Roxbury guys.
Holy fucking hell! Is he for real?
I see the self-consciousness in his eyes, as well as a dash of pain that he's unsuccessfully trying to hide. Maybe there's someone here, or someone in the city who would be impressed by...whatever he's trying to do.
But I need to leave. I'm starting to feel bad for him. Fucking sad, too.
I nod, grin, grab my handbag, and slide out of my seat. I don't look back; I walk quickly towards the stairs to the main level, then to the exit.
There’s a crowd of cigarette smokers outside, which is to be expected. People are drunk, laughing, screaming, and having a great time, but when I see a vacant cab driving down the block, I run over toward it, waving my arms.
It’s time to go home.
I fight the urge to fall asleep on the ride up to Columbus Circle. This isn’t the image of Emma Clayton that most people have.
Even before my rise through the New York real estate world, I had an established reputation. I had a knack for showing up at all the hottest spots when they were at their hottest. I also had a knack for looking especially hot.
Well, I still have that knack.
What’s more, for me, the hottest spot in the city right now is this cab dropping me off in front of my building.
In just a few short minutes, the hottest spot in the city is going to be my bed because that’s where I’m going to be enjoying some well-earned sleep.
The prospect of a good night’s sleep, with nothing I need to wake up for tomorrow, energizes me enough for the trip upstairs and to my bedroom.
In fact, by the time I’m there, looking at my bed, ready for sleep, I’m not feeling tired at all anymore.
I finish putting on my pajamas. By that, I mean I take off my bra and panties, because sleeping au naturel is the way to go. I slip into my super comfortable Egyptian cotton sheets, expecting to feel that familiar fatigue sneaking up on me again.
Comfortably snuggled in my bed, I switch off my bedside lamp. The traffic noise is usually low this high up in the building, but tonight it sounds louder somehow.
I hear some sirens in the distance.
As I lie there, thoughts creep in, memories of a past I’d rather leave forgotten.
I shove them away. Why should I have to worry about the past coming back to haunt me?
The people who worry about that kind of shit are people who make big mistakes—moral mistakes.
And what I did five years ago was right. Even in this city, there’s no reason a top real estate firm needs to engage in anything underhanded.
When I noticed something like that, I had every reason to bring it to the attention of…
Dylan.
His smooth, classically beautiful face, his perfectly trimmed and styled hair, the way those Armani suits hugged his incredible body…
And there it is. The reason that, no matter how tired I am, I often have trouble falling asleep.
That’s also the reason I’m still not sharing my king-sized bed with anyone.
I can admit it now.
And seriously, those haircuts
must’ve set him back a grand or more. And those suits…
He didn’t know what was going on. He would never have taken part in such an illegal, greedy nonsense…
Until I informed him of the illegal, greedy nonsense.
And he disappeared.
I still feel like I did the right thing—but I wish I had done things differently.
Maybe if I had, Dylan would still be here.
It’s all in the past now.
Those are the words running through my head as I finally succumb to something resembling sleep.
And there I stay…for a while.
But then, Until I’m awakened by my own coughing. I better not be coming down with something. Now is not a good time for that.
Fuck, it’s still the middle of the night. I cough again, harder this time, and it feels like I’m choking now.
My eyes are open, but all I see is darkness. I don’t even see the dull light of the city shining through my bedroom window.
I’m coughing like mad, trying to breathe, and feeling really, really hot.
I finally see something—hazy and thick…
Is that smoke? Oh my god!
There’s a fire in my apartment, and I’m still in bed, barely able to breathe.
This cannot be happening. I need to get out of here right fucking now, but I can hardly move.
I can hardly breathe.
The worst part is I can tell it’s not a dream. This is real. Holy shit, this is real.
Oh, god.
I try pushing myself towards the edge of the bed. I know if I can get to the floor, I may be able to breathe more easily.
It’s as if my body forgot how to function. I’m cemented on the bed, and I can see the smoke growing thicker.
I’m about to try and move again, but I hear a voice. Someone’s yelling—and it’s in my fucking room. I can’t make out the words, but it sounds close, and it’s getting closer.
I just want this all to go away, whatever this is. I feel like I can’t move any part of my body. Then, I’m finally able to open my mouth.
I see a distinct shape moving towards me through the thick cloud of smoke.
I try to yell, to scream, but no sound comes out. I feel smoke pouring into my lungs as the world goes slowly and completely black.