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"Oh, Hi again. You followed me?" he said.
"Yes," she said.
"What's that? I mean—"
~~~
It's not like Jake meant to walk there, on that day,
but you know how it goes... you get up, you get out and you unfold like a slab
of plump dough onto a never before discovered path. It's slow by increments,
see, so no one notices. Not even you. And never Jake.
He hadn't even brought his kill bag with him that
day, and he never goes anywhere, well there,
in his head, without it. It was an old bowling ball bag he nabbed for a buck at
the Goodwill store down on Vine & Sycamore, and boy, had it come in handy
all these years. Be prepared. Boy Scout
motto is never wrong. Jake grinned every time he hauled it out of the
closet. If Bedrock’s Fred Flintstone could see him now.
Yesterday’s trek was a breather, that's all. Get
out, get some fresh air—the mix of heating oil, basement dust and rotting
innards can get stifling after a while.
So Jake found this trail, right? It was a thin
ribbon of packed dirt. Bluebells and jack-in-the-pulpit wild flowers lined it
on both sides. He smiled at the thought of Little Red Riding Hood on this trail
ahead of him when...
"Hi."
A bit startled, she tipped over her water jug at
Jake's sudden appearance, the clear liquid falling in large dollops that landed
like blood splatter on the path, a dark line culminated and took the road of least
resistance, right to Jake's work boots. Jake wasn't worried. The boots were
waterproof and the blood stains had already ruined the soft leather nap.
"Uh, Hi. Sorry. You startled me. Didn't hear
you come up," she said, as she levelled her drink and adjusted her red
Nike running shorts. She had wondered at their ultra-shortcut hem in the store,
and now with this man, she wished she had bought biker shorts instead. At
least my red top isn't clingy. She continued to do leg stretches.
Jake smiled. Women made him virtually mute. He
wished he had his bowling ball bag. He could talk to women when he had his bag.
"Uh, listen, just go ahead of me. I'm taking a
break."
The
woman is puffing. But he hadn’t seen her run. He smiled and sidled
around her, careful not to stomp on the bluebells with his boots. The nearness
to her glistening body... inhale without her noticing... he could almost
taste it.
She jerked out of the way, mashing the verdant pulpit.
No care for living things,
Jake mused. No, not today, stupid. You don't have your bag.
Jake ignored the growing arousal. He looked down at
his pants and silently swore at it to disappear.
Not every woman, right? Not every time. I still
haven't finished the other one yet. I don't have room. You know it. I
don't have room. Stop it!
The member must have heard. It flattened and
slinked back into its foreskin.
Jake put the running girl out of his mind. Sunshine
winked through the foliage canopy and small creatures rustled in the
undergrowth as the lush green hues mixed and mingled. The musky woodland scent…
that sweat on her back. He caught a faint hint of female B.O. Jack
slammed his boot into the path. Nobody like him lasts long without
self-control!
Jake killed that kind of thinking and headed for
the sound of rushing water. The trailhead sign noted falls, dead ahead. Dunk
my damn head in that cold water, calm the hell down, and sober up, man!
He reached the rock wall, a three-tiered design
Mother Nature crafted as her own overflow sink. The water pooled in each tier,
then by some unseen force cascaded over each cliff, foaming turquoise-white.
The roar was freight engine level. Jake could feel the noise as well as hear
it. The rumble vibrated into his core. The desire died. He exhaled relief.
Taking a seat on the jagged quartz, the cold slab
refreshing to his overheated legs, Jake dangled them over the edge, closed his
eyes and let his other senses wander. Recurring fantasy, acted out over and
over again. He knew it wasn’t right.
Thoughts
should be pure like this place is void of evil.
Problem was, nobody understood. No court in the
land would empathize. Maybe if he had stopped at the first one. He should have,
you know, because his release—seeing the fright in their eyes, feeling,
squishing the blood between his fingers, doing those things to their
heads—he never again achieved the same intensity, that zenith level of euphoric
high. No, not with the others. And there had been so many. He was running out
of room on the hatchet’s wooden handle to carve out anymore notches.
No. There was no stopping, no permanent reprieve. Still, I have today, don’t I? This moment.
Jake inhaled the humid air and opened his hands,
palms up, to feel the fine mist kiss his skin.
It was the droplets he noticed first before he felt
the blow, not clear like water, a purple-red.
Funny.
His thumb and index finger rubbed at the gooey mess
five times before his autonomic nervous system died. Muscles must retain
movement memory for a time even after the brain stem is severed.
Jake never got to witness his head fall those 90
feet to the bottom falls. If he had, he probably would have been impressed, who
knows, maybe even aroused.
He never saw her knapsack sitting against the elm.
It wouldn't have mattered if he had. Women didn’t act like him. Or do they? Jake should have paid more
attention. Her kill bag held similar toys; machete, body bag, a small folding
shovel, rope, duct tape, and an ice pick.
Unlike Jake, Doris brought her kill bag with her on
that run.
Unlike Jake, Doris didn't have a fresh kill; her
basement workbench didn't hold any leftover pieces marinating in their own
bodily fluids.
She needed a fix.
She needed it bad.
Doris didn’t hide from the truth. She had that
blood thirst. She knew no other way for release. She wasn't about hiding the
fact.
Embrace
it.
Go
beyond the truth.
Luxuriate,
celebrate… bathe.
Even in the wild kingdom, not all are lambs; some are
crocodiles.
The only discipline she encouraged: Doris always
wore Wash & Wear red. It laundered easy, and it hid the stains. A
female predator, unlike her male counterpart, is smart enough to always be
prepared. Girl Scouts live by that motto, too.