1:2
1999 AD
It was the last sunny day they�d see for a while. The sky was bright, clear blue with a few sparse clouds hanging about. Sure, the breeze was quite cool, cold in fact, but if a person could find a nice spot were the wind was blocked they could appreciate the sun�s warmth on their skin.
If they didn�t know any better they might�ve said that it was a nice day in September, or maybe early October. They might assume that winter was still a good ways away. But the truth of it was this. The date was February fifth, and everyone in Colorado knows that in the winter, anything can happen.
You might have a beautiful day full of seventy degrees and children riding bicycles and playing on swing sets, or you may have a day where those same children sit inside drinking cocoa, while their parents dig the car out of a snowdrift. The oddest part was that those two days could very well be consecutive. Some might say that kind of weather could occur in any number of places. That is very true, but it seemed to happen more frequently in the lower elevations of Colorado (even more specifically, Fremont County) than just about any other. At least, that�s the way it often appeared to its residents.
The old timers could be heard saying, If you don�t like the weather, that�s okay. Just wait five minutes. It�s sure to change.
And it was.
The weatherman on channel twelve was talking about the storm front that was swirling its way in from the West at that very moment. He was enthusiastically busy showing satellite pictures and explaining pressure systems.
He was a funny little man, waving his hand over Fremont County on the map. His suit didn�t quite seem to fit and he appeared overly happy about the bad weather he was currently predicting.
No one in the dining area of the local Burger King noticed that his clothing was two sizes too large or that his tie was far too thick for his neck. They did not see his plastic, car salesman smile. They didn�t even care that the volume on the television set hanging from the ceiling was up way louder than necessary.
Most sat eating a sausage sandwich of some kind and drinking coffee from small Styrofoam cups. A few had the biscuits and gravy, which was on sale for $1.99, for a limited time.
The clock on the wall read ten twenty-seven. At ten-thirty the restaurant would no longer serve breakfast. The people in line at the front were about to become angry. The cashier was going to tell them that (like it or not) they were going to eat lunch.
The couple at the front of the line complained and asked to speak to a manager. The rest said nothing about their disappointment and ordered French-fries instead of hash browns. One such customer at the back of the line stood tapping his foot, wishing those people would quit bitching so he could get his food.
His name was Jack Sawyer. He was thirty years old and his face showed every bit of his age, and then some. His hair was short, neatly cut above the ears and prematurely graying on the sides. He wore blue jeans and a Denver Bronco football jersey, number seven.
He lived in Penrose, twelve miles east of the town he was in now, Canon City. He worked at the Royal Gorge, the highest suspension bridge in the world, eight miles west of town.
He spent most days at work, his days off staring into the television or surfing the Internet and his evenings wishing that his life had turned out differently. (Except Mondays. That was football night.) The others were occupied with daydreams of something, anything, happening to him that would give him a reason to get up in the morning. But, nothing out of the ordinary ever happened to, or around, Jack.
Since high school, his life had become very usual. There was bitterness that came with the realization that the greatness he�d once dreamed of as a younger man never came. He hadn�t had any particular mechanical or creative talents to speak of while growing up, but his aspirations and dedication more than made up for any of that.
As a senior in high school he was sure that he was going to do something great. He was going to shake the memory of that boring town off of him like dirt. He would change things, make a difference, help people.
Of course, at seventeen years old, he had no idea how he was going to do it, but he was sure it was going to happen. People would know his name and thank him for his accomplishments. He wanted to be famous and rich and above all, admired.
But as years passed the spark faded, the expectations disappeared and the dream got packed away like an old pair of shoes.
He got married at twenty years old, to his high school sweetheart. She was a beautiful girl; Stacey Burke was her name. They met in Mrs. Chinley�s sociology class. Before they had the class together he�d seen Stacey around school but had never spoken to her. He�d wanted to speak to her; he just hadn�t gotten around to it yet.
She sat two desks up from him and he couldn�t keep his eyes off of her. He tried to pay attention in class but found out it was impossible. Her soft brown hair with the faint highlights of blonde was like a magnet. He spent most of fifth hour every day wishing she�d look back so he could catch a glimpse of those bright blue eyes.
An assignment came up were they were supposed to choose a partner. Mrs. Chinley gave them all ten minutes to pair up. Stacey stood up, walked back to Jack and asked him if he�d be her partner. He was shocked. It took him a moment to respond. He wanted to sound pleased, but not too pleased.
All that ended up coming out of his mouth was, �Okay.�
He fell in love with her at Village Inn over a plate of chicken fried steak. They had gone there to talk about the assignment. He made a lame joke, she laughed, that was it. Her eyes were wide, her smile was warm and her face was kind. He knew then that he wanted to be with her always.
They�d been together ever since. In fact, she was the reason he was in Canon City. Her birthday was in a week and he was going to buy her a present. She�d be thirty years old on Saturday. He was determined to get her something really good this year, something she�d never expect.
Last year she had told him that they needed a new set of dishes. He spent a great deal of time picking out a design he hoped she would like, only to find out she hadn�t wanted them for her birthday, they just needed a new set. She told him it was like getting tires or groceries. He was not going make the same mistake this time.
The Paradox bookstore and coffeehouse would be his destination, after he got something to eat, that is.
Jack looked out the window at the clear blue sky. The pastel haze on the horizon made him think of his wife�s beautiful eyes. He only wished that the kindness he�d once seen inside of them would come back. It had been a long time since they�d seemed anything but cold and judgmental.
Most days it felt like they were just pretending that they had any relationship left at all. Jack still loved her but the connection they�d both felt was long gone. Their blue sky had faded to gray more than five years ago.
Jack knew that there was no present he could buy, no words he could say, that would bring back Stacey�s understanding and kindness. It would take hard work from both of them if they were going to make it. For now, they would just have to live under the gray.
The man on channel twelve wasn�t telling him anything he didn�t already know. He knew the storm was coming, he�d watched the news earlier. It would not be the worst weather they�d ever seen. God knows, there had been some nasty storms come through. It would be a blizzard, nonetheless. There would be heavy snow, poor visibility and power outages.
And something else.
That would be the storm that he�d remember forever. Something was about to happen to Jack, something he could�ve never imagined. In the next few days he would learn things that he�d always wanted to know.
He�d also experience some things that he would do anything (and I do mean anything) to forget.
1:3
July, 1968 AD
She would be his first.
He watched closely through the window as she unloaded her wet clothes from the washing machine. She was wearing a white tube top and black shorts. Her breasts moved freely underneath the stretchy material. He stared at them as she bent down to pick up the basket. Her hair was shoulder length, blonde and feathered back on the sides.
She reminded him of the other, the one that had just stood there, laughing. The one that had done nothing to stop it. The one he hated.
She carried the heavy load over to the wall with the dryers. Opening one of the round glass doors, she dumped it in.
She was thin. Almost too thin to be a match for the other, but she would have to do. Her shorts were cut off sweat pants and they were high and tight. His eyes ran down the curve of her hip to her pale white legs. She wasn�t wearing any shoes. That was good. Yes, very good. She was taunting him with her uncaring busyness; acting like everything was alright, acting like she didn�t see him. She was begging for it.
The pressure in his pants was tremendous. He was throbbing. In his coat pocket he ran a finger down the cold blade. It was talking to him, telling him to calm down and not be such a damn sissy. The sweat poured down his face and neck.
A real man could do it.
He pressed his eyes shut. They were stinging and red.
Are you a real man, or just a little girl?
She sat down on a plastic chair and picked up a magazine. She flipped through looking at the pictures. He hated her.
Do it. Do it you little bitch, or I�ll do it to you.
She was perfect. Sexy, barefoot, distracted, uncaring. She was the other, the one that watched it happen, standing at the doorway with glazed over pupils, laughing like a fucking hyena.
Do it.
He couldn�t wait until she was finished. It could�ve very well taken another hour. He could not risk that. She was alone now.
You�ve got to seize the moment, his good old dad used to say.
His thumb in the coat pocket was bleeding onto the sharp metal. He ran it down the blade once more, before opening the van door and sliding out. Stepping into the dark shadow of the tall vehicle, he peered into the night, looking to see if anyone had noticed him. There was not a person in sight, save the girl in the laundromat, and she was unaware of his presence until he stepped inside.
The little bell above the door announced his arrival. On a small radio in the corner Steppenwolf�s Magic Carpet Ride could be heard above the churning of the nearby washing machine. The girl was singing along with the music happily when she realised that she wasn't alone.
She turned, sending a smile across the noisey room. He did not reciprocate. He paused a moment, scanned the area until satisfied, and then walked around the long row of washing machines. His hands were no longer in the deep coat pockets. They hung limply at his sides; the right one leaving a trail of little red drips on the tile floor. He slowly made his way down the long isle.
She sensed an oddness about his manner as he got closer. He held his head down facing the floor, but his eyes were on her. His back was rigidly stiff, even as he turned the corner around the washer. Her smile faded into concern when she saw the blood on his hand.
�Jesus. Are you hurt?�
He looked down, �Yes, I�ve cut myself.�
She was not as beautiful as he had imagined from the van. Up close, he noticed that she wasn�t very attractive at all. Her lips were too small, her eyes too big. She�d have to do anyway. There he was, he couldn�t stop it now. He just kept telling himself, it�s her.
She took a step back, reaching for her purse.
�Do you need a Band-Aid? I think I have one.�
Flexing his hands into fists he said, �You don�t care. You never did.�
His thick arms were around her before she could run. Her scream echoed off of the stainless steel and glass. She fought him hard, kicking and scratching. She was stronger than he had expected. He held tight with his arms bleeding from her long fingernails. He dragged her into the women�s bathroom and dropped her onto the slick tile floor. She scrambled backward as he pulled the knife from his pocket.
Do it you little bitch. Do it.
It was her all right. He could see the other clearly. She was laughing at him like she�d always done. He was all grown up now. She couldn�t hurt him anymore, but he could hurt her.
When the knife found its mark, he expirienced it for the first time. The slick shine on his hands was amazing. It was more blood than he'd ever seen; ever felt. He stabbed her until she couldn�t laugh at him anymore. He stared into her blank, dead eyes while he raped her.
They had been blue when she was still breathing, but now they looked so black, like a tunnel; a void trying to suck him in.
Oh God.
He pinched his eyes shut, as tight as he could, finding a picture in his mind of the one he remembered. She was there. She was always there, looking at him with careless amusement. She was usually laughing, but not now. He, for the first time in his life, had shut her mouth.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. He was still thrusting into her, almost involuntarily. It was suprising how quickly her body cooled after death. He was disgusted and he kept going.
It is her. It�s always been her.
When he was finished he realized that her lips were still too small, her eyes too big. She was way too thin.
It was okay though. Perfection was in the eye of the beholder, and at the time, she had been perfect. Still, he wished he�d found a closer match. Oh well, he�d just have to keep looking.
He grinned down at her. She did not reciprocate.
�I�ll find you,� he whispered, gently caressing the blood-spatter on her cheek into a smear.
The silence was bliss to him. The laughter was gone, for the moment anyway.
His arms were bleeding as he looked down at her blueing fingers. Blood and chunks of his skin were under the long, painted nails. That was evidence that he could not leave behind, he�d been too careless already.
He got up and went out to his van for the hatchet. If her hands were going to give him away, well then, he�d just have to take them home with him.
copyright �2002 Brian Holtz
All rights reserved