Consequences (8 page)

When all your mind feels is anger, your
vision becomes red around the edges, and the rush of blood makes
your ears pound. Rage is irrational, deadly, and intoxicating … the
strength is primal, and when it's under the slightest bit of
control, you feel … immortal. I punched in the numbers, and when
the old man answered, I growled out my request for an audience with
him.

“Christopher, I presume. I’ve been waiting
for this call. Of course, you will come to me. I am not stupid
enough to expose myself to you, on your terms.” While under V’s
influence, my senses become stronger tenfold: I listened, pulling
information through the satellite connection between our two
phones. Or, more accurately, I honed in on the man's location, and
became inhumanly perceptive to the traces of hidden thoughts inside
the man's voice.

“Alright, you name the place.” I answered,
still growling, tentatively holding on to my fury. The more I
allowed him to talk the more thoughts passed through his head.
Thoughts that included recruiting me, and ones that argued I should
be killed right away, “The boy is too powerful to be brought into
the inner circle … kill him now, before he can do any more damage
to the company.” His thoughts only fueled my temper.

Trying to hide the fear from his voice, he
crushed a quaver with forced coolness. “I think you should come
here to my office … top floor, just up the strip from James’s
apartment. I believe you already know the place, since you’ve been
seen watching me here.” A laugh escaped from me that sounded more
like bark, holding no mirth. Inside the snide tone behind ‘watching
me’, the old man’s slick persona fell away to genuine fear. His
mind was screaming orders as we spoke: a sniper was to take me
down, long before I entered the elevator of his lobby.

“I’ll be there in two hours.” I could feel a
taunting smirk, cut viciously across my face.

“Midnight?”

“Yes; what’s the matter? Has hanging around
with ‘gifted’ people made you afraid of the witching hour?” From
the tone of my own voice, I could imagine the sneer without looking
in the mirror.

“No; midnight is fine.”

“Good.” Some part of my psyche knew the voice
that left my mouth wasn’t my own … but I no longer cared.

Lune, who learned to ignore what was
happening with a certain amount of false aloofness, growled from
his usual spot on the bed. When I turned my burning gaze on him, he
put his head down on his paws and looked at me with disgust. He
never left my side, always continuing on as my trusted companion …
but our friendship no longer ran as deep as it once had. He left me
with the impression that he was preparing himself for the moment I
turned my anger on him. His preparation didn’t include cowering,
just an unwavering devotion that showed his absolute loyalty to me
… even if that meant, I was going to be the one who brought about
his death.

Sadness seeped into my thoughts while I was
looking at my friend; and I knew V had released me long enough to
torment James once again. I didn’t know what V was doing to James,
but from the sound of his stifled sobs … I could only guess it had
to be horrible. Walking over to the bed, and trying to ignore the
obvious air of agony now filling the room, I kneeled down in front
of Lune and placing my chin on the edge of the bed. I looked into
his eyes, and wished he could read my thoughts.

Whispering as to not attract V's attention, I
pleaded with Lune, “Please, please … help me.”

Exhaustion is the most immediate side effect
to the rage. Adrenalin pumped through my body, reacting to primal
emotions. My brain tried to make sense of the intensity, and
reading it as a ‘fight or flight’ stimulus, it just turned up my
survival instinct to the extreme. I had yet to break the hold V had
put on me, and when he let go, my body felt like it had run a
marathon. Lactic acid seeps into my stomach, always making me sick,
and without the energy to lift my knees up off the floor … I leaned
over and vomited next to the bed. Using every ounce of my remaining
strength, I crawled up onto the bed, passing out, fully clothed,
and smelling of puke; I curled up next to Lune.

Dreaming within my dream, I return to my
beloved spot in Gothic. Praying to see Ellie, hoping she can save
me from my memories … but I only find Michael’s voice.

“Bathing in blood? That can’t be right … what
am I thinking, of course it's right, histories full of stories of
homicidal freaks doing weird stuff like that. Psychologically
though, it would take a real psychopath to enjoy the violence of
killing and draining that many people, of that much blood. Even in
his time, he had to be excessive … and we’re talking about a time,
and culture, where they cut out the still beating heart of humans
as a normal sacrifice.” Michael’s voice has the monotone droning
sound of someone talking to themselves. I have to snicker at the
fact that he’s so analytical, even when he is asleep.

The smile brings me further out of my painful
memories of James and V, and as I look around the aspen trees
again, the wind picks up. I know immediately that I will find Ellie
standing by the stream this time. She smiles as the wind whips her
hair, and she brings me home again. Home, the only place where
Ellie still exists for me … in this broken record, skipping over
and over again … and not in the waking world where I pretend she
could still love a coward like me. While I gawk at the only
remaining memories of my soul mate … the voices of the internal
monsters, who reside in my dream forest, whisper arrogantly,
“Finally, he sees his own lies."

When I wake, the haze of my dream world still
hangs thick around my head. Stepping out of bed, I walk right into
my normal, daily routine. It doesn’t hit me that Lune and Ursa
haven’t slept on me, until I am already outside with a cord of wood
in my arms. Listening to the crunch of my boots on the hard-crusted
surface of the March snow, a cold breeze whips me completely into
the waking world. Suddenly, I remember, becoming as excited as a
child on Christmas morning: Ursa had her pups last night. Looking
out to the tree line and seeing the fresh mound of dark dirt
marring the surrounding snow … my heart sinks as I remember the
pups we lost.

“We still have one … one survived.”

“Yes … she is special, and we have to protect
her.” Ellie's voice is a shadow, similar to her dream image, just a
poor reflection of the real thing. I miss the touch of real
electricity that would be a spark of heat compared to the
strikingly bitter breeze.

“Good morning Ell. We had an unusual night
last night, didn’t we? I haven’t dreamt like that since my first
month here, back in September.” I imagine her ironic grin, as she
slowly nods her head.

“When will you let me go? You don't need this
illusion; you do need to understand you’re becoming whole again,
without me. When will you realize, you don’t need me any longer?” I
don’t have an answer for her; the weight of those simple questions
is crushing my windpipe.

Balancing the wood in the crook of one arm, I
open the door of the cabin, where I am greeted by the soft squeals
of the pup rooting around for milk. After restarting the fire in
the stove, I turned to check on Ursa and Lune resting in the
whelping pen. Then taking the food and water dishes out, I refilled
them and added another food bowl for Lune. He isn’t going to leave
his new family long enough to even walk into the kitchen and eat. I
don’t think this is normal behavior for a dog … then again Lune is
anything but a normal dog.

When I hear the squeaking springs of the bed
up in the loft, it dawns on me that Michael is still here. As the
tea pot whistles, I turn to make coffee and Michael mumbles
something about the racket and needing caffeine. From the kitchen,
I watch him walk down the stairs, wearing a pair of flannel pants
and an exhausted expression. His appearance reminds me of how hard
his brain was twisting and turning in his sleep. Now I know why he
always looks like he is one more sleepless night away from
collapsing.

I never really think about Michael’s size,
and considering his unassuming nature, I am surprised by how big he
is across his chest and shoulders. Even though he’s never without a
sidearm, and although his intense scrutiny with wide-set eyes that
are always squinting, studying everyone and everything … I, in no
way, ever think of him as intimidating. Now looking at his stature,
despite the fact that he is a head shorter than me, I can see that
the lack of intimidation comes from his consciously choosing to not
be a bully. Although, I’ve never actually watched him interrogate
anyone, only listened, I can see why when he needs to take command
of a situation … no one can stop him. He is a force of nature; it
would be like stopping a Grizzly bear from attacking, with your
bare hands.

Dark, blond hair is kept cropped short to his
scalp, and his steel-blue and moss-green, hazel eyes give hints of
horrors once witnessed, but never spoken. Usually reserved and
intellectual, his twenty-seven years of age is the mask that hides
a very old soul. He is made up of contradictions, an eccentric
personality that is easy to make laugh, but almost impossible to
stereotype.

Thinking back on the past six months, I
should have seen his potential for brutality; especially after
watching him pick up a deer carcass, easily 300 pounds, and
carrying it over to effortlessly toss it in the back of his
truck.

Even with my talents, I still shouldn’t
underestimate the possibilities for people to surprise me … I can
never presume to know everything about someone just because I can
hear their thoughts. Maybe, that’s why Michael can read people so
well; he never underestimates anyone, always calculating,
instinctively trying to figure out their next move.

He eyes me suspiciously when I hand him his
coffee, and mumbles, “Thank you”.

Carrying the mug over to the whelping pen, he
breathes out a low whistle, “I’m glad to see the little family
doing so well … mostly I’m just glad that we didn’t lose all the
pups.”

Nodding, I step over the gate, scratch Lune
and Ursa’s heads, pick up the pup and hand it to Michael, then
turning I tell the adults to go outside. Letting them out of the
pen, then out the front door, their drive to sprint has almost
completely vanished. No howling to run free, no crazed running
around then sliding out of the door. They just walk outside, do
their business, and come back inside.

I set the pup back down near Ursa, forcing
the little one to stretch her new muscles in search of her mom.
Ursa, understanding what I am doing, lies down out of the pup’s
reach. Squatting down next to her, I scratch her head while we
watch the determined, tiny body blindly search back and forth,
shakily testing each step. Ursa gives me images, and I nod, knowing
that when the pup is weaned, this thought, these pictures are the
only gifts the wolf will be leaving behind for her offspring.

Speaking up toward Michael’s curious face, I
tell him, “She gave me pictures, as a name, to pass on to the baby;
the constellation Ursa Major with the crescent moon hanging as a
pendant from the bear’s neck. She once watched a human, female
hunter, when she lived with the pack … this woman drew back a bow
that was as long as she was tall; her strength and courage was
obvious as she brought down a full-grown bull elk. I think they are
symbols; Ursa’s way of combining our worlds.”

Now looking into his expectant expression I
ask, “Can you think of a name that would include all those images.
I mean … I can show the pup the images and she’ll answer to them as
her name; but I think something spoken is probably going to be
necessary for the rest of the world.” Internally I smirk at how
different and alone I have become … a freak in Michael’s
sideshow.

I wait with my own secret, expectant
expression … wait for Ellie to touch me, as always, proving me
wrong, and reminding me that I’m never alone.

The electricity doesn’t come, and I decide
maybe Ellie is taking a break. ‘Maybe she has gone flying; she has
always loved to fly.’ Silently I try to convince myself that my
musings are true, upsetting the legion of voices hidden in the back
of my skull; they scream, "LIAR!” Flinching, I bring myself back to
Michael’s steady deep voice.

“Well, Ursa Major is actually Callisto,
another name for the great bear; and I’m assuming the crescent moon
would be Lune, since he is named after the moon … and the female
hunter, a huntress.” I can almost see the gears turning in his head
as he tries to put the images together like a three-dimensional
puzzle.

Pacing, and taking gulps of coffee as he
speaks to no one in particular, there are gaps in his words that
make his thought process all that much harder to understand. Then I
hear his clear and deliberate voice from the kitchen.

“Artemis!” He is excited, “Artemis, the
goddess of the hunt in Greek mythology. She turned Callisto into a
bear, and then Zeus put the bear's image in the heavens as Ursa
Major. Artemis is also the goddess of the moon; she rules the sky
at night while her twin brother, Apollo, rules over the sun during
daytime.”

“Artemis” I whisper in Ursa’s ear. She leans
back against my chest, and bringing her muzzle up my neck, she
licks my chin. “She likes it, Michael; she says thank you.”

Then once again, picking up the puppy, I
whisper, “Welcome to my broken, little family, Artemis.”

She squirms in my fingers, making happy
little noises until I pull her close to my chest, where she settles
down and falls asleep. Lune, curious about the exchange, comes to
my side and places his head in my lap. Breathing slowly, he takes
turns licking Ursa’s ear and sniffing his baby in my arms. He is
happy; he tells me in his own way that this isn’t broken … this is
just as it should be. He may see us as whole, but without Ellie …
we’ll always be broken.