Amy Bauer-

I was rushed to the nearest hospital. News organizations must have gotten wind of what happened. I could hear them clamoring outside. It did not fully register that I was safe until I listened to the banter of the hospital staff. The doctors and nurses came in and out of my room, talked to each other without drawl, and treated each other with respect. I was around human beings again.

I don't remember how I was saved. I recall a man in a ski mask stood me up, untied me, and told me I was free. But I'm not sure if he said much else. All I know is I collapsed shortly thereafter, faintly hearing that motorbike zoom away. The police came along with an ambulance at some point. And when the paramedics walked me up the steps I had caught a glimpse of Sherman. My tormenter was tormented himself—mutilated.

I had prayed for rescue. But I slowly lost hope. How would anybody find me in the basement of an arbitrary farmer? I remember a program on television some time ago that talked about psychics and their consulting work with police departments. I was even starting to pray for one of them to find me. I even called out to them, hoping that somehow, magically, my thoughts would be heard. Nothing seemed to work. But now I'm here. So I guess God was listening.

I may never know who the masked man was.

I wished I would have had more energy when he saved me. I would've thanked him. And I wish I had gotten to see how he killed Sherman.

I wish… I wish he would have let me watch.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Todd Winchester-

The next day is the worst. Truly, there's an insatiable appetite when I first grab my miniature spear, and saddle my automated horse. It's a high like no other (well, there's one other comparable high which I shall tell you soon enough). But now, the very thought of carving open a bumpkin like Sherman brings me great pain. I cannot account for why this is. But I equate it to the eating of too much cake. Such a delicious bite it is upon that first chomp. The brain's reward centers light up in a tizzy. But how does one feel after gorging on too much cake? Never again!

Such is the plight of my "people". Or so I presume. I've never met another soul like myself. I'm sure they exist—those whom hear the cries of the helpless; then are aroused, murderously, at the thought of vanquishing the architect of said cries.

I will not lie and act like it wouldn't be a delight if I met a fellow cut from the same cloth. I am a loner only to a degree. I rather enjoy the company of people—interesting people. That is why I do not regard going to school as a chore. The social aspect—especially with women—brings me a kind of satisfaction that hunting does not. I have multiple hungers, you see. One, perhaps, is a tad more "urgent" than the other; such as air being a tad more urgent than water. But both are still necessary for the stability of the soul.

I put on my school uniform which lay crumpled at the edge of my bed and walked downstairs. The smell of scrambled eggs and bacon wafted pleasantly under my nose. The radio blared. And my grandmother was divvying up the fine breakfast.

"Mornin' grandma," I said with a yawn.

"Todd, baby, good morning."

I went to her, kissed her cheek, and hugged her tight. She was a graceful old woman—eighty-two but looked not a day over sixty; exotic even by the standards of her creole heritage. She and her sisters from a young age were endowed with flowing snowy hair, you see. Tourists oft had gotten confused when they would see her. Their speculations jumped to Latin islands or even Ethiopia. But she was simply a black woman. And as one whom, in the past, experienced only slightly dampened discrimination despite her exotic nature, she made no equivocations of her allegiance to the overly simplified label of "black".

"Another late night, huh?" she asked.

"It satisfied me, Grandma. It'll be a few more days before the next one."

She emptied the last bit of egg onto a porcelain plate and grabbed her coffee. "The pastor preached a good sermon yesterday. It made me think about you."

She paused. Another word would not be spoken until she took a sip from the hot cup. She only took but one. But it was all she needed.

"Romans, chapter seven. Paul says 'But if I am doing the very thing I do not want, I am no longer the one doing it, but sin which dwells in me. I find then the principle that evil is present in me, the one who wants to do good.'" She placed the mug on the table and took a seat. "'For I joyfully concur with the law of God in the inner man, but I see a different law in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin which is in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death?'"

I folded my arms and leaned against the countertop. "First, grandma, let me just say that that is mightily impressive that you know that by heart."

She laughed. "Don't try to flatter me, boy."

"I give him credit," I said. "Paul was quite the introspective man."

"He's just like you," she replied. "Paul may not have been wrestling with what you're wrestling with. But he wrestled."

"To be honest, grandma: I don't wrestle like in the past."

She took another sip. "I see."

We weren't facing each other. So I moved away from the countertop and pulled up a chair next to her. I thought I'd see tears upon her face, but I did not. I had trouble reading her. I always had. Did she resent me or not?

"A white woman named Amy Bauer was on the news. She had been tortured by a man. Sherman Humphrey was his name." She looked at me, waiting to see if I reacted. "They said Sherman Humphrey was cut open; his insides, everywhere. Was he one of yours?"

My instinct was to lie. But I did not.

"Yes."
She gave a weak smile. "I think back to that day, Todd: I wish I hadn't saw what I saw." She grabbed my hand; hers, so fragile. "I wish you weren't cursed like how I am."

I lifted our joined hands and kissed them. "I'm not cursed, Grandma. And neither are you."

She exhaled. She made another attempt at smiling but, again, it came off as halfhearted. "You drove all the way out to the country? You barely like to drive around the corner."

I smiled. "When I'm called I get tunnel vision. It's all I want."

She released my hand and rubbed her thighs nervously. "I've come to terms with what you do and who you are, Todd. And, to be honest, most people, including myself, would think you do a great service to those who are in danger." Her eyes moved away from me. "But I just can't get over how you do it. You aren't satisfied with killing them with a bullet to the head or cutting their neck. You enjoy their torture just as much as they enjoy theirs. There's something sick about that."

I said nothing in return. She was right. What was there to say?

She continued. "You know I don't worry about you, right?"

"I know."

"The last thing I'm worried about is your physical self. I only worry about your soul."

I grinned. "I know."

She sighed and glanced at the time on the microwave. "Oh my, goodness. Can you go wake up your cousin? Y'll going to be late. "

I gladly got up. Our exchange affected me more than I'd like to admit. I wish I could've kept my world away from her. But she also had a gift—"cursed" as she puts it. A couple of years ago she accidentally saw a vivid account of one of my hunts. She collapsed right in front me and cried for my lost soul. I had gone to church with her for some time after that. I had wrestled as Paul did. But after much self-examination and outward-examination, I had an epiphanous thought: I like who I am. And I realized I no longer feared her God or anyone else's.

I headed to Charlotte's room which was not far from the kitchen. Our house was small and to the point. (I was fortunate to have an attic to reside in.)

I heard Charlotte's TV from well outside her room. She could not survive without the infernal squawk box. She would wake up to it and fall asleep just the same.

A jiggling of the knob—I did not bother to knock—and I caught two lumps wrestling under the covers. Charlotte peeked her head from under the blanket like a whack-a-mole. "Todd, close the door," she whispered harshly. I closed the door but kept myself inside.

Charlotte revised her request. "Oh my God: Close the door with you on the other side of it."

Charlotte was only fourteen, you see. She was a troubled girl. She seemed to not be able to live unless living meant walking a tight rope. I could relate in some fashion. But her pursuits seemed trivial compared to my own.

A man rolled out from under the covers and gave me a nonchalant glance before grabbing his pants. He was tall and well built. And he looked at least twenty-five. He piqued my prejudice greatly as one who preyed on the weak—the weak in this case being a naïve fourteen year-old.

"How old are you?" I asked. He continued to clothe himself without reply. He had an aura about him—one that screamed: don't fuck with me. It's sometimes chiseled in the face despite one's best intentions—that "hard" look. I've always admired the genetics of it all. I have—so I've been told—an innocent face. As such, he probably thought me a chump compared to himself. The very thought got me going more than I wanted.

"Pardon me," I said in a raspy rumble, "Do you always come into people's houses, unwelcomed, fuck their underage sibling, and not reply to questions asked?"

He was fully clothed now. He scoffed and turned to Charlotte who still hid most of herself under the covers. "Who's this clown?" he asked her.

"Ryan, don't," she told him with an open hand. "This is my cousin, Todd." Charlotte gave me a fearful look. "Todd, chill. Please. Don't start nothing."

His audacity woke me up like espresso. I had not expected to be aroused this quickly, this early. My stomach bubbled as if it were standing before a buffet after famine.

"Ryan, was it?" He mean-mugged me and said nothing. "Do not come here again. I ain't callin' the cops. I ain't callin' her daddy. I'll handle you myself." I paused. "Matter of fact, I might put your dick in a blender, depending on how I'm feeling." (

It was almost in slow motion. Ryan tilted his head to the side and smiled a fake smile. He wiped his nose while snorting, acting as if he was, for a moment, glimpsing at the floor. And then, like a tiger out of the high grass, he pounced. It was a quick hook. I'll give him that. But it was predictable. And with a lunge, my right hand grabbed his throat and clamped. And his neck became my slave.

"Todd! No!" screamed Charlotte. I did not lose myself. I was completely aware of it all. I brought him to one knee and let go of his throat. He coughed considerably; somehow managing to mumble a threat.

"What in the hell is going on in here?" Grandma had swung the door open and saw Ryan clutching his neck on the floor. And Charlotte, petrified.

"Um, who are you, young man? Why are you in my house?" she said with great dismay. "Get the hell out."

"He was just leaving, Grandma. I'm showing him out." I hooked Ryan's armpit and lifted him up. We walked away to the background music of Charlotte and grandma bickering. He was more docile now; he continued to make guttural noises. Still, he was probably thinking about getting revenge right then and there. But we humans are animals—sophisticated animals, but animals nonetheless—and when an animal knows it's beat, unless there is something truly on the line, it will gather itself until next time.

An animal may have a cub on the line; or maybe its meal. These things are often worthy of such aggression. But foolish pride is something humans tend to put on the line. I'm sure if Ryan had merely one friend around to witness his embarrassment, he would've attacked me relentlessly despite being bested again and again. We cannot let our peers see us as weak, can we?

Ryan slunk down the porch then down the street. I said nothing more to him; nor him to me. He no longer aroused me to do so.

When I came back all I could hear was Grandma tearing Charlotte a new one. I stood in the doorway with my arms folded. Charlotte deserved the tirade. After some minutes, though, I gently placed my hand on Grandma's shoulder, encouraging her to calm down.

Grandma came to a halt and shook her head. "Todd, please talk to her. Because I just…" I saw it in Grandma's eyes. She would start to cry in a few moments; Charlotte already was. Her behavior caused a constant cycle of disappointment. It interested me how after so many events such as this one, my Grandmother was affected by it as if it was the first time. She reacted to my misdeeds significantly differently than Charlotte's.

"I'll talk to her," I assured her.

Grandma left us alone.

Charlotte's little knees pressed against her chest. Through the lone window her predator probably entered, the sun began to shine through. Her delicate, caramel skin began to shimmer and her teary-eyed daze locked itself onto the air. I sat on the edge of the bed, turned away from her. Her unabashed nudity was not an invitation. But it was itself a cry.

"That's the second time you beat up a guy I was messing with. Where did you learn how to fight like that?" she whispered.

"Books," I grunted. "And practice."

Charlotte chuckled. "You're so smart, Todd. It's ridiculous. I don't know how you get bad grades."

"Enough about me," I said. "You're quite smart yourself. And yet you have these morons, years older than you, as boyfriends or sex buddies."

She said nothing. She never responded when I would call her out directly.

"I guess I'm just a bad person. Okay?"

"No," I said. "Don't do that. Don't do the self-dismissal thing. It's such an easy way out."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop bringing strangers into your grandmother's house. And why do you always get with douchebags like Ryan?"

"I don't know. I've always had a thing for bad boys, I guess. I just can't stand guys who are green."

"Green?"

"Yeah, you know: like, they don't know how to handle themselves on the streets and stuff."

I shrugged.

It was idiotic. But I spared her admonishment. She spoke what I had already known. Most girls her caliber tend to gravitate to either the most athletic football or basketball player; or some kind of pretty boy with tattoos who dispenses drugs—or acts like he could.

But I thought it to be the most pitiful of enchantments. Not that I didn't understand it. Strength equates to attractiveness—in this case, strength of athletic prowess or the strength of being the hotshot on the corner packing a pistol, ready to kill. But I've always detested such flagrant shows of power. There is also the silent but deadly; the calm but stormy; the respectful yet savage. These kinds of strength call for a more discerning eye.

"I don't want to hurt her," she said.

"Who?"

"Grandma. I don't want to hurt her."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I didn't choose this," she said solemnly. "I can't control it. It's like all of a sudden, boom: the need for sex or pills or something crazy takes over."

"Hmph."
"What?"

"It would seem our family is cursed with this affliction."

"What affliction?"

"Addiction."

Charlotte scooted off the bed. I felt her weight, as light as it may have been, relieve the mattress of its duty.

"What's yours, Todd?"
"My addiction?"

"Yeah."

There was no ambivalence in me. Of course I would not tell her. (Grandma was not even supposed to know.) There was another vice I had worth telling, though.

"Women," I said. "For whatever reason, they spark something in me that overrides all rationale. Much like yourself with assholes like Ryan."

"Say what?" laughed Charlotte. "I thought you would've said cookies or sweets. I've seen you eat an entire pan more than once. Women, huh?"

She walked in front me. She was fully dressed now. Her face had a rosy hue from the fevered argument between her and my grandmother. She wore a short-sleeve white blouse and plaid skirt. Her curly hair fell wherever it wanted and took not one scintilla from her allure. She was a magnet for the eyes of men. And, often times, a willing participant in their salacious plans. But she deserved better.

"Have you had sex yet?" she asked.

I looked up at her and this time I did feel ambivalence. "No, I'm a virgin."

"Aww," she moaned with condescension.

"You know my friends ask about you all the time. They tell me how cute my cousin Todd is. I tell them to talk to you themselves. I know you ain't going to do nothing if I hand you their number."

"I appreciate it."

"Thanks for talking to me," she said, kissing my cheek. "I'm going to go and apologize to grandma. We need to head out right after."

Abruptly, she left me in her room to stew in her and Ryan's musk. She was not of my blood. So I never felt shame in my instinctual attraction to her. I do not deny myself of my instincts, you see. I did not choose to find Charlotte beautiful. I did not choose to wake up this morning. I did not choose to want to slit men's throats.

Not much was said on our way to school. We had walked through the French Quarters on our way. I loved it. I loved to watch the people. I loved to lose myself in reflection while doing it. There are times when I find the need to pull back, however. There are times when deep introspection brings on a bout of loneliness.

There are times when I feel myself to be neither male nor female; neither black nor creole. I feel like an alien walking amongst humans. Or a human that walks amongst people claiming to be human but are really liars unto themselves. They deny their unhappiness. They deny their lusts and their fears. They think themselves better than the very natural world they were etched out of. It's enough to make a man misanthropic. But then I regain myself and I remember that I am indeed human, despite the subjectivity of it all. Perhaps I am simply only one of the few who were not born blind. If 1% of babies in the United States are born blind, then, reversed on emotional terms, I'd say about 99% of people are born psychologically so.