In that instant, I decided that today was not a good day to chat with my obsession.
Pretending to have slowed down for a stretch, I extended my arms, bending them over my head,
very quickly grabbing each elbow. And then I picked up my running pace again.
I followed the pathway through the field that surrounded the projects, and, as it slowly veered
to the right, I finally felt it was safe enough for me to look back. At a far distance, I could
still see him standing there with the other man. They seemed deep in conversation, possibly
arguing. Another runner came through the clearing of the cemetery, and I saw Meatball feverishly
tugging on his leash once again. I made my way down the hill and out of sight, and I smiled to
myself, glad that I wasn’t the only one that Meatball liked so much.
I was coming close to completing the first third of my run when lightning split the sky a few
yards ahead of me, thunder exploded, and the rain suddenly started to pour. I took my headphones
off and put them in my pocket—I was already attached to my new toy and didn’t want it to get
wet—and I kept soldiering on.
The drops of rain quickly turned into buckets of water, and I was getting soaked. Lightning came
to light up the black sky. The grounds were soaked. Either I gave in to the weather or I was
going to get zapped. I turned around and retraced my steps back through the projects.
The rain didn’t bother me, but the lighting was making me very nervous. I ran faster, looking
forward to the shelter of the trees in the cemetery and their momentary refuge. I ran back up
the small hill into the fields of the projects, seeing through the gravel-sized drops that the
boy in the gray sweater and the other scary man had left.
I finally made it through the entrance back into the cemetery. Just as I thought, the lofty
trees managed to keep most of the rain out. I slowed my pace a bit to catch my breath and shake
off a bit of water. My sneakers were submerged canoes.
With the sun out of sight, the cemetery was dark. I could barely make out the contours of the
winding pathway. I squeezed some of the water out of the bottom of my T-shirt and sloshed
forward. I had run this route so many times—I knew every curve, every bump in the road.
I picked up a jogging pace, came around to the big chestnut tree … and heard a bone-chilling
cry, as if an animal were being tortured.
I was used to Bob’s voice here, not this.
I stopped immediately, wondering if my horror-movie-infected brain was playing tricks on me.
Then there was another cry, even more ear piercing this time.
Too afraid to move, and beating myself up for having stupidly decided to run through a dark
cemetery alone, I stood there like one of the tombstones. I could hear muffled voices, and then
more cries of pain. Not knowing where the sounds were coming from or what was making that sound,
I didn’t know whether to run away or stay put or even which direction was a safe way.
My body decided for me, and I started to move quietly on the uneven footpath. Something,
instinct or impulsivity, was leading me toward the quickest way home. I made it to the massive
tree—a familiar mark. I didn’t have much further to go before I was on the street again.
I took a few more steps … and heard a scream again, but this time it was much closer—I had
picked the wrong direction. When I heard the bark that I recognized, I took a peek around the
tree without thinking.
That was when I saw him, standing there with his dog, the gray sweater giving him away in the
shade. He had his back to me, and the tattooed man that I had seen with him earlier was next to
him—I could see a spiderweb tattooed on the back of his neck. There were two other men flanking
both of them—I didn’t recognize either of them.
Meatball was a different dog. He looked vicious and rabid, slobbering madly and trying to crunch
into something that I could not see.
When one of the men shifted his stance slightly, I saw what all four of them were looking at and
what Meatball had been trying to sink his teeth into. There, crouched on the ground, was a man;
he was groaning. His pants were ripped and blood-spattered. From the bloody wounds on his arms
and legs, I could tell that Meatball had already had a taste.
The boy who I had obsessed over was murmuring to the crouched man. I couldn’t hear what he
said, but whatever the crouched man said in response displeased the group. The tattooed man
proceeded to punch and kick him.
The others stood around, silently, calmly watching him do this, while the man on the ground
curled into a ball, his head hidden in his arms, wailing. With each punch and kick came a
disgusting thudding sound, like meat being pulverized. My ears were drumming, and I thought I
was going to be sick, but I could not move away, could not look away. I wanted to yell, beg them
to stop, but even if I’d had the guts to say anything, the muscles of my mouth were numbed.
At last, the beating stopped.