Page 96 of Light As A Feather
“You do?”
She grabs my hand, dragging me deeper into the forest, weaving between trees. “I saw him hiding it when he was inside your friend. He put it right back in the same place. He thought it was safe, but it’s always been a ticking time bomb.”
She runs her foot over a patch of dirt just at the base of a tree, clearing the leaves and sticks that cover it. Kneeling down, she starts digging. When it takes more than a few seconds, I kneel down to help her, shocked by how deep it’s been buried.
After another minute, my nails dig into the worn leather of the handle. “Got it.” Dislodging it with a hard yank, I tear the knife free.
“Great, now make sure to put it to good use.” My mysterious ally stands and starts to walk away.
“Why tell me this now? Why help me all of a sudden if you’ve been here all this time?”
“Because I was supposed to be his last victim. I can’t bear the thought of him getting satisfaction out of tormenting any more women. It was the kick I needed to come out of hiding temporarily.” She studies me over her shoulder. “Don’t make the risk for nothing. End this, for all of us.”
“Thank you,” I call after her. As expected, she ignores me.
Turning my attention to the brutal knife in my hands, I feel more powerful than I have in years, my instincts awakening, sharpening with attention.This has to be the way.
If I wasn’t eager for Hawthorne to return before, I am now.This is our chance.
The future we planned was always a thing of delicate gossamer, an intricately spun web, the silk hanging by precarious anchor points. But then Ivan walked in and tore right through it, leaving it dangling in tatters. But the spider always rebuilds. The spider is resilient.I’m resilient.
Nightclubs. A place where women go to dance with their friends and blow off some steam, and men try to find someone drunk enough to fuck them.
The stench of sweat and spilled liquor makes me nauseous as I shove my way toward the bar. This was never my scene—all the try-hardness of it, the top forty hits, the overpriced drinks, the obnoxious show everyone puts on. No, I’d much rather be in a dive bar watching a live show. It’s been many years since I snuck into a warehouse, but even a rave would be more comfortable than this.
Butthis. This is where I’ll find an easy target, so I suck it up, order myself a beer, and slip into a discreet corner to watch the chaos unfold.
For over an hour, I stand here nursing a beer and scanning the crowd. For what? I’m not really sure. Disappointed, I return to the bar for water. Throwing a few dollars on the bar top, I chug the cold liquid, chasing away the taste of the shitty beer.
I’m about to cut my losses and call it a night when I see what I’ve been waiting for. Like a sign, the neon lasers beam down on him—one in a sea of recently graduated finance bros—at just the right moment, leaving no doubt in my decision as I watchthe little shit drop something in the drink of the woman to his left. She’s busy talking to her friends who are ordering another round, and he stays right there like he doesn’t have a care in the world. No shame.Nothing. You’re not that callous if it’s your first time. He’s definitely done this before.
Cutting through the growing crowd, I make a show of tripping even though my every move is perfectly executed as I bump into them, spilling her spiked drink and his fresh one onto his pants. While he’s distracted and in shock at the cold wetness now seeping through his clothes, I slip my hand into his pocket and grab his wallet and the little baggie of pills he has stashed there.
“Shit, dude. I’m so sorry. Can I buy you another?” I stumble a bit, selling the illusion that I’m just another guy who had a few too many.
“Yeah,” he says expectantly.
“What are you having?” I yell over the music.
“Vodka Red Bull,” he replies like it’s obvious. I have to hold back the disgust that rises in my throat.
“Got it, be right back.” And because men never have to learn the hard lesson of not letting people order drinks for them, he makes it exceptionally easy to give him a taste of his own medicine.
“Here you go, sorry about that.” I hand off his drink to him as he waves me off, then I fall back and wait. Without friends watching his every move, expecting him to sneak off with the first girl who pays him any attention, it’s even easier to slip out with him leaning on my shoulder and appearing too drunk to walk. People see me and think, “What a good friend”. What they don’t know is that I’m escorting him to his death sentence. Thankfully, one of the many perks of being ghost-touched means that I won’t be traceable on the cameras, easily interfering with the recording.
I look for that guilt once again, but it’s notably absent.
Is it really kidnapping if he basically throws himself in my back seat? He passes out, putting up zero fight as I cuff his hands and drive off with him.
Back on the road, I take a deep breath of the fresh air that tunnels in through the windows. One step closer to freedom.I’m coming home, baby.
It’s the middle of the night by the time I get home, but luckily for me, my sacrifice is still very much out of it. Half-dragging him into the house isn’t as easy as I hoped, but I’m not about to carry this stranger bridal-style, so struggle it is.
Sweat coats my brow by the time I get him restrained to the chair. Once I’m confident that he’s not going anywhere, I head upstairs to wash the night off of me.
The water rains down on me, rinsing away the decisions I’ve had to make tonight, but it won’t cleanse the wicked satisfaction that courses through me at the thought of finally giving that piece of shit Ivan the end that he deserves. That is, if I can find that fucking knife.
Toweling off, I run through the myriad of ways I could approach looking for the cursed thing. There’s no time to waste with inefficiency, but it seems like the only option is to quite literally search the whole property, which is a huge undertaking in and of itself.
