Page 27 of There Are No Saints

I went back to work at Sweet Maple.

My boss at Zam Zam fired me for missing three shifts, but he hired me back when Erin marched over there and bawled him out, telling him she’d never stop leaving one-star Yelp reviews.

Joanna offered to cover the rent for me, as long as I promised to pay her back. That made me want to cry all over again. I kept the tears behind my eyes, hot and burning, while I hugged her hard.

The bandages came off my wrists. The two raised scars, thick and meandering as twin snakes, were pretty fucking ugly. But as Officer Fuckhead pointed out, they’re not the only ones I’ve got.

I’m probably recovering faster than most people.

I’m used to getting over things that really fucking suck.

* * *

7

Cole

Itake my stalking of Mara online.

Like most people, she’s splashed her life all over social media for anyone to see—both on her own accounts, and her friends’.

They’re an artsy bunch, so the photos they share are more eclectic than average. I have to wade through any number of sepia-toned popcorn machines, pictures of people’s feet, and landscape shots to find something useful. Once I do, I find endless portraits of Mara.

Like most struggling artists, they have to use their own acquaintances as models.

Mara is popular for this purpose because—despite not being as sexy as her roommate Erin—she has that stark bone structure that captures well on film.

Her grungy, neglected air, coupled with sharp, elfin features, gives her the look of a female Peter Pan, a wild thing left to fend for itself.

I spend a long time examining her face.

The foggy eyes, tilted upward at the outer corners. The upturned nose, spattered with freckles. The full lips and sharp teeth.

She’s an interesting conundrum. Vulnerable yet fierce. Damaged yet stubborn.

Mara does not make personal posts—no long, rambling dissertations on her inner feelings under a mirror selfie, and no vague captions intended to elicit a flood of comments begging for more details.

She made no mention of her ordeal in the woods.

Her only recent posts are requests for studio space.

This is a constant problem in San Francisco for those at the mercy of fickle landlords. I own my own private studio close to my house, and also a block of studios on Clay Street.

I’m considering offering one to Mara Eldritch. I want to see her work in person. And it would make watching her much more convenient.

I’ve already decided that Mara and I will inevitably cross paths—the art world is too small to avoid it.

I intend to choose the time and location of that meeting. I’ll control all the elements, arranging the players like pieces on a chessboard.

It’s unlike me to fixate on a woman like this. I find most people horrifically boring. I’ve never met anyone as intelligent as me, or as talented. Other people are weak and emotional—slaves to their impulses. Constantly making promises they can’t keep, even to themselves.

Only I seem to have the power to control my own fate.

Whatever I want to happen, happens. I make it so by my own cunning, my own determination.

Everyone else is a victim of chance and circumstance. To arbitrary rules set up by people who died a hundred years ago. To their own pathetic ineptitude.

I do what I want. I get what I want. Always. Every time.

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