Double Edge // ONC 2024 Novella

Chapter Two

The café bustled with the morning rush. I already had my latte, and scrunched up in the corner near the window. Soft alt-rock tinkled out of the overhead speakers, drowning under the loud grind of the coffee beans. I was still groggy from last night, but the heady scent of brewing coffee gradually brought me around.

The previous patron to have my seat had left the newspaper behind. Along the side of the headline story was a photo of a young girl. Tera Miller. She had gone missing from the local college campus a month ago. Even in the black and white picture, her eyes sparkled. The girl was frozen in time, forever smiling and tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. Such a shame. I hoped nothing horrible had happened.

What about what Rudi said about a serial killer last night?

A shiver sprung up my spine.

Despite my love of fictional horror, I could not stomach the terror of the world. Seff often said I was too soft.

My sketchbook was open on the table. I drew the people at the bus stop outside the picture window and the pigeons pecking around their feet. It took my mind off the woman. I almost felt guilty for distracting myself. Graphite stained the sides of my hands and smudged patches across the thick paper.

I didn't notice the barista had come up behind me until she cleared her throat. I looked over my shoulder to see the same yellow eyes from last night.

Rudi's buttoned white blouse concealed most of her scar. Pieces of her wavy brown hair had come loose from her high pony-tail, forming ringlets around her face.

"Here's your bagel," she said, placing the plate on the table, then pointed to my sketchbook. "You're good."

"Thank you," I said, blushing. I snapped the book shut. "I trust you made it home alright?"

"Were you worried about me?" Rudi's eyes flashed with her impish grin.

"Of course I was, especially after what you told me."

"You're very sweet," she said, turning to go back to work. Her hand brushed my shoulder as she passed. Pointed fingernails trailed the nape of my neck. "I'll see ya around."

I stared at her.

What a strange lady.

I finished my latte and grabbed my sketch before heading upstairs to paint.

****

My eyes peeled open. The evening sun filtered through my peach curtains. Everything looked soft like a dream. Sometimes, the world would strike me in a moment where all the colours looked right. The way dust floated idly in the sun beams above me in the still summer air. The green of my couch, (a mix of PO62 and PG7 Permanent Green Olive) the perfect shade against the PO73 Pyrrol Orange walls.

I'd capture these moments like photographs in my mind, making sure to carve them into memory. Sometimes at night I'd picture them again, falling asleep to naming each colour, formulating a palette, and devising mixes. I'd visualize and align swatches in my mind's eye, watching how they layered against each other in gradients.

It was far better than counting sheep.

That damned eye wouldn't leave me alone.

I sat up, still groggy and slow. The sun was nearly set now. I hadn't meant to sleep so long. Normally, I'd close my eyes on the couch and float just on the top edge of sleep to make sure I didn't waste too much time. Last night must have taken more out of me than I thought.

Sleep crusted my eyes and I rubbed them with my fists. I got off the couch and padded across the living room to the studio. To anyone else, the room would appear to be in chaos, but I had my systems. Everything was exactly where I wanted it.

I layered rugs over the hard wood, making sure to choose dark, messy patterns to conceal the inevitable stains. My laptop drowned under my pile of concept sketches on the desk. The room had come with thick, built in bookshelves embedded in the right wall where I stacked containers full of supplies. All meticulously labeled. Blank canvases leaned against each other in the corner, next to the threadbare arm chair.

My reference books were crammed tight on a narrow bookshelf. Collections of horror and sci-fi artists such as Les Edwards and H.R Giger pressed against Picasso and Da Vinci. Thick anatomy text books took up places all their own while nature photography and How-To's, brushed elbows with colour-theory. 

That was what I loved most about art. It covered and included everything in life like a mirror, capturing the specific reality of the person who made it. Emotions and all. Forget that. It was bones and all really. Blood and guts next to blooming flowers and sunsets.

Then there was my easel with the sheep carcass and transient wolves.

I stared at it with narrow eyes, hands on hips like a disappointed mother.

What in the world am I gonna do with you?

****

I spent the day painting, putting off getting groceries for as long as I could. Hunger got the best of me, but the fridge and cupboards were bare. It was past midnight. The only place open at this hour was a small pizzeria a few blocks away.

I left the restaurant with the grease stained box and a can of Pepsi in a plastic bag. On my way home, I crossed the desolate park. Normally teeming with pigeons and people during the day, it sat in stillness. Leaves whispered in the trees and I heard the sound of my footsteps on the paved walkway.

Movement caught my eye up ahead. A black dog slunk out of the shadows. The street lights were reflected in its yellow eyes. It looked up, catching my scent in the air. It stood so still, coiled to run away from me or at me, I wasn't certain which.

I tensed. I loved dogs in the broad light of day, but this one was alone and scraggly. Shaggy around the jowls. Its pointed ears rotated in my direction. At first, a pang of sympathy for the animal throbbed in my chest. It was either a stray or escaped. Either way, it needed help, but I wasn't sure what I could do to wrangle it...

The animal stepped forward, closer under the light. I sucked air through my teeth as a primal fear slithered up my spine. This was no dog.

The wolf whined, licking its lips. It tapped its paws in place.

Oh God, what do I do? Scare it? Play dead? Run?

Run.

I gotta run.

My body moved, faster than I'd ever given it credit for before. I bolted down the path, clearing the park and crossing the desolate street toward the cemetery. The animal's pounding paws on the pavement closed the distance. I kept running. My chest constricted, struggling to pull in enough breath. I didn't dare look back. My muscles burned and I wheezed.

A crack in the cobblestone caught the toe of my sneaker and I hit the ground. My pizza and pop scattered off the path and into the grass. The rough stones scraped my hands and knees.

Oh no, oh fuck. This can't be it.

The wolf snarled, pouncing. The rank musk of its fur choked me. The stench of old blood rotted in its mouth. It sunk its jaws into my left calf. I screamed in agony and terror. My fingernails gripped the dirt between the cobbles and I tried to drag myself away, but the animal was too strong. Its claws tore into my jeans. I shrieked as its teeth rendered my flesh. The pain was blinding. I kicked and struggled, but the wolf was only spurned on.

I managed to grab a loose stone near the edge of the path and twisted around to face the creature. I smashed the stone into the wolf's skull. It yelped and let go, shaking, splattering blood droplets from its jaws and the cut over its eyes.

I struggled to sit up, my gnawed-on leg still out stretched, and tossed the rock as hard as I could. It struck the wolf in the side, and it darted back, limping.

The wolf glanced at me, then scurried off into the darkness. 

.....

Word count: 1,386