Everything Under The Sun

Mark reached inside a hidden pocket on the side of his backpack and pulled out a black bandanna, the four corners tied into a knot at the top like a little pouch; its sides were full. With both hands, he worked the knot loose and pulled away the fabric, letting the corners drape over his hand. A little mound of sparkling jewelry sat on display in his palm.

“All real gold,” he said, his dark-circled eyes gleaming over the stash. “Some silver. And a few diamonds and one ruby.” He prodded the tip of his index finger in the tangled jewelry.

I looked at it. I looked long and hard.

“Yeah?” Mark traded his smile for a wolfish grin. “Thought that might catch your interest.”

I raised my eyes from the jewelry and looked at the dead man holding it.

“What are you proposing?” I asked; I was no longer gritting my teeth; the bones in my fingers were no longer stiff; the tick in my brain was no longer ticking.

I smiled at the stranger, vaguely, just enough to display my fallacious interest, my willingness to bargain, just to see him show his true colors.

Mark’s dirty fingers collapsed around the jewelry, and then he let his arm drop at his side.

“Well”—he shrugged—“I was thinking half of it for…an hour with your wife?”

“Hmm.” I crossed my right arm over my midsection, raised my left hand to my mouth where I dragged my fingers across my bottom lip contemplatively. “The thing is…well, my wife would never agree to it”—I held up a finger—“But…she’s worth more than half. And if you’d be willing to pay me what she’s worth, I’d be willing to overlook her begging me to stop you.”

The moment of truth.

The moment of truth…

Mark took deep breath, looked down into his hand again, the bandanna still covering the contents, and then he nodded.

“I’ll try not to hurt her,” he agreed.

The tick in my brain had stopped ticking a long time ago because it had become a vociferous pounding in my ears. My jaw had stopped grinding and the bones in my fingers had relaxed because I had already made up my mind. Everything had been set in motion; everything was waiting for the moment of truth, when Mark Porter would seal his own fate.

The jewelry fell to the ground; gold and silver and gemstones reflected the moonlight stark against the black soil. Mark Porter struggled as the crushing weight of my arm snared his neck, crushed the side of his body against me; the heavy weight and bulk of Mark’s backpack attempted to topple him in the opposite direction, but I held him in place. The jangling of the chain attached to his pants was muffled in my ears, like the swish of our clothes rubbing against one another, the stomping of our boots heavy and chaotic against the ground, the wild rustling of dead leaves being tossed about beneath our fighting steps—all muffled by the sound of swift retribution, the fire pumping through my goddamned veins, the pounding…the pounding…the pounding…

Forgive me…

Mark’s thrashing body slackened; his hands relaxed and tightened on my arm crushed against his windpipe; his eyes opened and closed in his bloated, purplish head; the choking and gasping and spitting quieted.

Grinding my teeth, pain shot through my face; I gripped tighter; my breathing became deeper, faster, louder with every exhale, and each time I sucked in the humid night air it stung my lungs. Through clenched eyes I should’ve seen blackness, but through them the only shade I saw was red.

Relaxed and tightened. Opened and closed.

Red. Crimson Red. Murderous Blood Red.

And then black—everything went black.

Silent.

Motionless.

Lifeless.

I was on the ground with Mark Porter’s body still pressed against me, my arm tight around his throat. On the edges of my sight I saw Mark’s tongue hanging from his mouth. His eyes were open, empty, glossed over. The smell of urine rose up in my nose. And sweat. And rancid breath.

I felt the heat from the ground coming up to meet me, pushing its way from the back of my legs and my bottom, spreading throughout every limb, filling every pore and line in my skin. Heat. But it was not the heat of summer; it was the heat of damnation, another demon I had let in, and this time I knew it would stay with me forever.

The pounding in my brain reduced to a tick once more, then to a soft murmuring, like a faint voice reminding me of my transgression, haunting me. How could it both mock and pity me? But it did—and it loved me and forsake me, laughed at me and wept for me.

I cried out, and heaved the dead man into the leaves. Tears shot from my eyes. I tried to stand up, but my legs were too heavy, my mind too heavy to will them, and I fell back to my knees against the hot, desecrated ground. And I wailed into the night, teeth clenching, fists clutching, until my body fell forward, and my hands ground against the earth. I vomited and then wiped my mouth with the bandanna that once held the jewelry. Then I wiped the tears from my face with the bottom of my palm.

I sat there, staring up into the sky, seeing only the scattering of stars above me, but no moon for the trees.




THAIS




An hour had passed since Atticus left me alone in the cabin. I was beyond the point of worry. I paced the floors from one room to the next, but always found myself back in the kitchen where the window overlooked the backyard. Any second now I thought I might see his shadow before him, but I saw only the shadows of the trees crisscrossing the grass. I became desperate to see his face, to know that he was still there, still alive, that I hadn’t been left alone in the world without him. Oh, to be alone in any world without him…

The gun I no longer held in the back of my pants—it was in my hand. Waiting. Ready. For what, I did not know, but Atticus would have wanted me to be ready, I told myself. Atticus would have wanted me to be…

Why am I thinking of him in past tense?

I placed the gun on the windowsill and opened the back door, and just as I was shoving my feet down into the oversized hiking boots, hell-bent on setting out to find him, I glimpsed a moving shadow.

I stopped.

I sucked in a sharp breath; my heart filled with relief and pain—I was so happy to see that Atticus was alive.

But why did he look like that? Why was he staring at the ground, his arms heavy at his sides, his boots no longer moving over the grass toward me inside the cabin waiting for him?

Atticus stood on the fringes of the trees. I got the distinct feeling he did not know I was watching, that he was not only oblivious to me, but to everything around him.

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