"On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man, in a dusty black coat with a red right hand."
-Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
"Red Right Hand"
A piece of mind. Sometimes you take it for granted. Sometimes...it's all you have. When you lose everything, that little piece of mind can be a little settling. When you keep the hours I do, you find yourself thinking alot. My name is Anna Maru, and I find myself wondering why it's all worth it.
I found very quickly that mine is not the only life riddled with shattered dreams. This city is disgusting in the day, but at night, it can harbor unspeakable evil. Over the past year and a half, I've come to understand it, but never accept it. When I first came to Detroit, I thought that it would be a new beginning for me. It was, in a sense. I used to wonder why any good christian can believe in the benevolent savior, but now I know that it's just something they've convinced themselves of so maybe, just maybe, they can sleep a little easier at night.
I thought the story of my life had ended when those punks decided to pull me into the alley between Goody's and the pawn shop and get their rocks off. The fetus in my womb, it's story ended there, why should mine be any different? Worse than the crime was the apathy that followed. So I dedicated myself, foolishly, to ridding other poor girls saving the same fate. A dedication that came up to bite me on the ass later, but it keeps me going.
I can't even begin to tell you how many rapes I've interrupted over the course of two and a half years-be they straight, gay, one-on-one or gang-bang. The same goes for muggings, back alley beatings, and body dumpings. I tend to ignore the dopeheads and syringe-sippers, they're beggers to their own demise. I let God, if you believe in him, her, or it, sort it out and go about my business.
I once interrupted a young girl, she couldn't have been more than nineteen, carelessly tossing a bundle of bloody rags into a dumpster on the upper west side. Watching from the overhead fire escape, I saw her just wander into the alley, clutching the soiled mess to her busom. She tried to hide it under her jacket, but I saw the tiny little fist among the cloth. When she dropped the baby into the trash bin, I jumped from the fire escape and landed silently, just behind her. As she turned in suprise and shock, I slit her throat with my hunting knife, and in one of life's little ironies, I left her to die in the same dumpster the child she carried and murdered was laid to "rest." Poor child. He took that first breath, cried that first cry, and never had any experience after that. I am reminded of my own child, stillborn and half unmade.
As I think again about the memory, I doubt if I should have killed the mother. Perhaps she was raped, as I was, and didn't have the nut to deal with it any other way. But then I remember the look on her face as she discarded the poor child, and decide while it may not have been the right thing, it was certainly vengeance, pure and simple. I've come to accept my role as dealer of grim justice.
It didn't start out this way, though. It was only to be a temporary, no - part time, job. I felt the need to only punish those responsible for my pain, and I really never thought twice about others. But as things go around here, you get yourself involved in things you really don't want to. I guess it was the fact that even if all responsible were punished, it just felt kind of empty. I don't know, honestly.
I feel no swell of pity for the...cattle...I kill, the scumbags, the lowlifes, the murderers and rapists. I stopped weeping after I lost the baby and have felt no sense of sadness or remorse since, only despair. I've cried enough to last a lifetime.
I'm sure you're beginning to think I'm rambling. I probably am. I do that alot. But there is a point to my putting pen to paper today. I've invaded so many lives over the years, but I try not to think I make an impact too heavy on anyone. Armed with the psychic ability that was...a gift to me, I could very easily check to see how a girl I left crying and naked in the gutter surrounded by her bloody attackers is doing, but why bother? There are a thousand more just like her and if I kept tabs on all of them, I'd get nothing done. I've never cared. Untill now.
Untill I met him.
I found him when I was tracking the man the newspapers were calling "the Mutilator." The Mutilator had been raping and murdering little girls under the age of ten, cutting off their fingers, toes and ears, and stuffing the severed appendages in places the media couldn't mention. Great guy. I was making my rounds, checking the dark alleys, the streets, the abandoned buildings and lonely places where the shady underbelly of the city like to hang their hat. The night had been exceedingly quiet, only three muggings and one attempted rape, so I was beginning to think about calling it a night.
When suddenly, a flash in my brain caught my attention. Now, I mentioned before that my telepathy had been a gift given to me. I never said I liked it. This flash was dark, like oil rolling over my cerebellum. Pain waves soon followed, as if the person experiencing it was just being born. My vision went white as one word popped into my head.
[Help.]
So my curiousity was piqued. What's a girl to do on a quiet wednesday night? I followed the vision untill it reached it's strongest vibration. I found myself jumping from rooftop to rooftop and sliding down a fire escape in the alley in which I interrupted the dysfunctional family reunion I mentioned earlier. The telepathic cries for help had stopped, but I knew this was the area the visions wanted me to go to.
[Over here,] popped into my brain.
I turned toward the dumpster. An arm dangled lifeless out of it, like some obsene decoration. I shook my head, knowing the meaning of this. Another meaningless murder and the words of a disembodied spirit who does not yet know he's dead in my mind.
"Another fucking turf hit," I say to myself, and start to turn away.
[No,] says the vision. [Help.]
I sighed and approached the dumpster again. I peered in, expecting to find a cadaver with forty or fifty bulletholes in it's chest, but what I found actually suprised me. That does not happen often anymore.
The man was probably in his late twenties, with long red hair draped messily about and a full beard. He was lying on his back in the dumpster, naked as the day he was born. And I do mean naked. I counted at least twenty-five scars on his body, with one running down the side of his face. Whoever this guy was, he's seen some action. He had a killer tattoo, as well. A beautiful siberian husky with a girl's name written underneath on his right shoulder. He was unconscious, and I wasn't sure what to make of him. I didn't figure him for some bum who got a little too drunk and decided to sleep it off in the nearest dumpster, so I was kind of at a loss.
I was just about to leave him to whatever business he had when his eyes flew open. I stepped back, keeping my hand on my holster as he strenuously sat up, just in case. The man pressed his hand to his forehead, warding off whatever brought me there. I felt awkward greeting this naked man into the world of conciousness, and I was just about to leave him to his hangover, when he turned his head quizzically and spoke directly to me.
"I am not dead," he said in a rough voice.
"I can see that," I say, not moving my hand from my Glock 9mm.
He stepped out of the dumpster and tried to walk shakily toward me, like a newborn calf stumbling to walk. I was ready to draw my pistol, but the vision in my head told me that it was okay. He was not dangerous...to me, anyway.
I sensed a kindred spirit. An avenging angel. I couldn't explain it, but I felt as if I knew this man, or at least what he was going through. He seemed like a man just coming out of a coma, pained and broken and incomplete. I felt compassion for the first time in a year. Or maybe it's just the fact that he was naked and hung like a horse.
"Where...where am I?" he murmured, holding his head like a migraine was burrowing it's way into his gray matter. He stumbled again, and to stop himself from falling flat on his face, he grabbed my shoulder for balance.
I almost shot him in the head.
"Easy, easy," I said as I helped him up and reholstered my weapon. "You're on the upper west side. It's 1:30am. Did someone hurt you?"
"The upper west side of what? I don't understand," he said, removing his hand from my shoulder. "I...don't remember anything."
"You're in Detroit."
The man looked puzzled, and then looked around the alley. This guy was confused. I soon ruled out drunken stupor and was beginning to lean toward a back alley beating so harsh, he couldn't remember what day of the week it was. When he returned his gaze on me, he noticed the gun for what seemed like the first time.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Well, the street punks call me the Knightshade," I said, smiling a little. "But you can call me Anna. And you are?"
The man puzzled over this question like it was friggin' Jeopardy. He squinted, as if he were trying to remember, and after about a minute or so, he gave it up and walked back toward the dumpster.
"I...I don't know. I don't remember anything," he whispered. He then began ruffling through the trash he had claimed as a bed earlier, throwing old coffee filters and dirty diapers left and right. "Is this how you found me?"
"Take it easy, buddy," I said, approaching him. I was really beginning to feel some sort of bond with him, and I was getting really weirded out by that. "I'll help you sort everything out. I think you have some kind of amnesia, and I can help you."
He looked up at me.
"How can you help with that?"
"You'd be suprised," I said. I reached my hand out to touch his face, and he jerked back. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you."
His shoulders sagged and he allowed himself to let go. I placed my hand upon his forehead, to get a better reading. I closed my eyes and concentrated as my mind began to enter his. Amnesia is easy to cure, because all you have to do is reach way in and grab the repressed memories. The memory is always there, if you know where to look.
This was different. I searched every recess of the man's brain and found nothing but a dream about a river of blood and, finally, one solitary memory lasting only 15 seconds. The memory included a small farmhouse and the man pushing a girl on a tire swing.
Other than that, nothing. This was utterly baffling. I had never seen a case like his before, and this was certainly not any form of amnesia. It was if this guy's entire life had been erased in his mind. I didn't understand it and I'm positive he didn't either. I pulled out of his mind as softly as I pushed in, and looked into his eyes.
Those icy...blue...eyes.
"I don't know. I'm not sure what I just saw," I said, almost apologetically.
"You said you could help me," he said.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Where can I go?" he asked softly.
"There's a homeless shelter about a block from here. I don't know how they'd respond to a butt naked guy walkin' in, but they've helped alot of people," I said as I walked with him to the end of the alley. I can walk you there, if you want."
"That won't be necessary," he said, and looked me in the eyes again. "Thank you for trying."
"I do what I can," I said, and he began to walk away. After a second of watching him, I called out. "Maybe our paths will cross again!"
He didn't respond, just dissappeared into the night.
"Damn," I muttered under my breath. "Now that's one hell of a piece of work."
As I stood there scratching my head, the flash returned and more words entered my brain, as if he left me a calling card.
[Our paths will cross again, Anna. Be sure of it.]
I didn't see the man again for about three weeks.
You have to understand, I wasn't exactly looking for him or anything. Since I'd determined he wasn't a threat to anyone, especially me, I pretty much left well enough alone. The question of who he was did remain in my mind, but the extent of that is like someone telling you a joke and you don't get the punchline. It went over my head and it was obviously not meant for me to know. But, even in this city, you tend to bump into people when you least expect it.
That's the way it happened the night I found him again. I was doing my rounds of the rougher clubs and nastier streets that night, and I had already bagged a couple gangstas trying to play war. I stopped the drive-by by shooting out the tires of the old Caddy and reveled in the explosion of glass and rubber when it slammed into a light pole. God, I love my work.
I had just finished checking out the Percival Lounge(a late night joint made infamous for it's black and asian drag queens and the Bleeding Dragon gang) when I heard the familiar sound of fist connecting with flesh, hollers and shouts. I followed the sounds to the back of the bar, where I found the all-too familiar sight.
A couple of the Bleeding Dragons were laying the smack down on the poor guy, beating him over the head with glass bottles and bats. The man stumbled back against the wall, and held his arms up as if to ward off the severe beating. I jumped from the rooftop of the bar and onto the head of one of the gangstas. He went down immediately. The man glowered at me, then seemed to recognize me, and nodded hello.
"Fuck, man, it's the Knightshade!" the kid said to his friend, as he drew his gun and opened fire upon me.
"Isn't it past your bedtime, boys?" I laughed, rolling out of the way of the gunfire. I drew my whip, snapped it menacingly, and with one fluid movement, I wrapped the tail around the little thug's pistol and yanked it out of his hand. "You could poke an eye out with that."
With all their attention drawn on me, the guy had more than enough of a chance to run, which is what I expected him to do. So far he's suprised me twice. He jumped, scissor-kicked one of other thug like he was Bruce Lee, and sent him sprawling. I know martial arts, and I could tell right away he had had alot of training. My guess would be black belt. The thug struggled to his feet, reached for his gun, but the man spun-kicked and knocked it out of his hand. Four jump kicks, two eye gouges and one fist of fury later and that kid was unconcious face down in the trash can as the one I claimed simply ran for his life.
I looked around at the devastation and grinned.
"You're good," I said, mock-punching him on the shoulder.
"Thank you. I have no idea where that came from," he mused, bending down and grabbing the two now owner-less berettas.
This time he was dressed. He wore a long black trench coat, a black wife-beater(an A-shirt for those of you who do not like that term), a pair of ragged blue jeans and a pair of combat boots that went up to the upper calf.
"What'd the Bleeding Dragon want with you, mystery man?" I smiled as I replaced my whip upon my belt.
"The who? I-I don't know...I was in the bar, they saw my tattoo and they pulled me out back."
Then I figured it out.
"Shit. I get it now. Your tat, it's of a siberian husky, right?" he nodded. "Right. In the darkness of the bar, they must have mistaken it for the symbol of the Laughing Coyote gang. They're bitter rivals. Basically children with guns trying to play war."
"So you mean I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, right?"
"Basically."
He shook his head and began to walk away. I paced him, and put my arm on his shoulder.
"Wait," I said, feeling foolish for what I was about to say. "Okay. You impress me. That doesn't happen much. You're the weirdest case of an amnesiac I've ever seen. You're also one of the best white martial artist I've ever seen. Trust me, I've seen alot. You fight with a shao lin-slash-kung fu-slash-karate style that kind of boggles me and interests me. Do you have a place to crash tonight?"
"No," he said. "I got to the shelter too late tonight and it was closed."
"Alright. Would you like to stay at my place tonight and maybe I can help you with your problem?"
"I don't know, I barely know you," he said reluctantly.
"Listen, that Bleeding Dragon has probably already alerted his posse and are on their way to kill you and me too. I want to help you. I don't know why, but I do. Just come on."
"Okay," he said, after thinking about it for a second.
What was wrong with me? For all I knew, he could have been playing the nice-guy act. He could be just another rapist, or worse...and I was inviting him into my home? Did I just fall off the stupid truck?
No. I knew in my heart that it wasn't so. What I sensed in him was purity, and nothing more. And there was just something about him that I just could not resist. Something that would make me act completely off-kilter and out of character. I just didn't understand.
He followed me all the way back to the projects, which took me longer than it usually did. I take running from rooftop to rooftop for granted and forget that some people just can't do it, so I had to walk the streets. When we finally got there, I entered the apartment, clicked on the light, and fed the cat. The man looked around curiously, quietly admiring the katana blade I kept sheathed over the television.
"Sorry about the mess," I said, pulling off my leather jacket and hanging it on the back of a dining table chair. "I don't have company all the time and I'm rarely here. Also, the size. It's an efficiency. Kitchen, living room, dining room, all the same. The bedroom's past that door to the left of you, where the bathroom is. Sit down."
"It's a nice place," he said as he removed the overcoat, sat down and kept the coat tucked neatly in his lap. "Cozy."
"It's a rat trap," I smiled and joined him on the couch. "So where have you been keeping yourself the last couple weeks?"
"The shelter, mostly," he said. "Looking for anything that might jog my memory."
"Any luck?" I asked.
"No, none. A quick memory, but nothing more."
"Farmhouse? Tire swing?"
The man looked puzzled. "Yeah, why?"
"Thought so. I found it kicking around in your head. That was it, though," I decided not to mention the dream. That was something private.
"Yeah, well, I can't put a name to the face."
"It'll come in time," I said, and hoped I sounded genuine.
"Maybe," he said, and looked up at me with those beautiful blue eyes. "So what's your story?"
"You probably don't want to know. I'm...a dangerous person," I said, putting that famous wall of self protection. "You know, not the type of gal you take home to mother."
"Am I in danger?" He asked, smiling subtly. It was clear he didn't quite believe me.
"Not unless you've raped or killed anyone. Those are a couple of my pet peeves."
"What, do you hunt criminals or something?"
"Not all of them. I could give a shit about some idiot that knocks over a liquor store or nabs a stero from somebody's apartment - unless it's mind. I tend to go for bigger game."
"So why do you hunt them?"
"Vengeance."
"For what?" he pushed again. I wanted to tell him. I did. I just wasn't ready.
"A gang of thugs took something away from me, and I'll leave it at that for now," I mused as unholstered my glock, checked the magazine, and placed it on the coffee table. The knife in my boot came next, and the bullwhip on my belt was the last to go. "It's my own personal hell."
He nodded slightly. Those eyes still captivated me.
So we talked for a few hours, mostly about nothing. Current events, politics, the weather. Basically stuff that doesn't bear mentioning. All the while, I kept thinking about him and telling myself that I was stupid and childish for the things going through my head.
For Christ's sake, I'm a goddamned vigilante killer, not a schoolgirl with a crush.
"Okay, listen. I don't know what to call you. You have no name, and I need to call you something. Any ideas?" I asked, hoping to push his focus away from my past. He shrugged, still gazing into my eyes. "Okay, then. You have a tattoo of a wolf on your shoulder and a name underneath it. I'm not going to call you 'Anne,' but how does 'Wolf' sound?"
"I could deal with it," Wolf said, smiling. "It's better than nothing and certainly better than 'hey you!'"
"Okay, 'Wolf' it is," I said with a sly smile. "Now, I'm not sure what you think of me, and what I'm about to say might lower and/or reaffirm your opinion of me. I invited you up here because you interested me, and not many people can do that. Now, you can stay here as long as you want. My place isn't great but I'm sure it's better than the shelter. But you have two choices on where you can sleep. The couch...or in the bedroom. With me. I know how that sounds after only meeting you twice, but I am not a slut. Mostly."
Wolf ceared his throat and blushed. "You're a very direct woman, aren't you?"
"I try," I said, feeling kind of nervous now that I had laid the cards down on the table. I had one more card, but I wanted to keep his mind off of that for now.
"Well, I won't lie," he said, setting his coat aside and moving closer to me. I found myself questioning what cologne he had on. "I'm really intrigued by you, also. You're a very strong woman, and I like that. I think I'll take the second choice tonight."
I smiled. "Cool Water", I thought to myself. The cologne that was filling my nostrils was "Cool Water." And then, for the first time in two and a half years, I gave in to my feminine side and let myself be a woman again. I kissed him deeply, his rough lips taking on a tender side as our lips became one. As I was running my hands down his back, he was holding my sides gently. I hadn't felt like this since the last time Cal touched me. I was hooked on this magnificent, mysterious stranger.
And as we made our way to my bedroom, I found myself thinking a thought that almost made me burst into laughter. What is it with me and guys with scars?
The next morning I awoke next to Wolf, who, from the look of it, had been awake for awhile. My arm was around him, and they had been all night. I shifted in the bed, brushing my naked body against his, and smiled again.
"Good morning," I said quietly.
"Good morning," he said, looking into my eyes again. "Did you sleep well?"
"For the first time in a while, yeah. Of course, it helped that I was fucking exhausted."
We laughed for a minute, and then I rested my head on his chest. I glanced over at the clock and silently cursed myself.
"Last night was great, Wolf, I mean it," I said with a sigh. "But I have to be going to work. A girl can't live on vengeance alone."
"What do you do?"
"I badger the shit out of people over the phone and try to get their money. No big deal," I said, sitting up and pulling the blanket off of me. I noticed Wolf out of the corner of my eye, looking my body over. It's good to be wanted again. "You can stay here, if you want. I got twenty bucks in the coffee can over the sink if you want to order pizza or something for lunch...and I have cable and a few movies on the shelf. I don't have much but you're welcomed to all of it."
"Thank you," Wolf said. "Are you going to make your rounds tonight?"
"How did you...?"
"Please," he said, placing his hand on the small of my back gently. "You do it every night, don't you?"
I was shocked. Again. How does he do that?
"You know, for a guy who doesn't even know his own name, you certainly read people. I'm looking for someone. Those punks that I told you about last night? Three of them are dead. The last one is not. I'm not trying to cleanse the city myself, although that's probably how it looks. I just want to get him back for what he's taken from me, and along the way I've been helping people from getting into my situation."
He shook his head. "For some reason, I think I know how you feel. But tonight...I want to go with you."
"I don't know about that. We'll discuss it when I get home at four o'clock," I smiled as I kissed him lightly. "Speaking of 'cleansing,' I have to jump in the shower."
I rolled over Wolf gingerly and got up off the bed. He was still watching me with those beautiful blue eyes, probably watching the way my buttocks swayed when I walked. How cute, I thought. I'm smitten with a man. How corny. And how corny it is that I don't care.
I tried not to think about anything too much as I jumped in the shower, washed the sweat from my body, and got ready for work. When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was sitting up in the bed, reading a "Soldier of Fortune" magazine I had left on the nightstand.
As I placed my earrings in, I gave him a rather soft kiss, told him to have a good day, and left. Okay, so maybe I should have told him about my past. Maybe I should have told him about the baby. It will come out eventually, I'm sure. Things generally have a habit of outing themselves.
A piece of mind. Sometimes, you take it for granted. Sometimes, it's all you have. And sometimes, just sometimes, that piece of mind can suprise you. It did for me.
-Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
"Red Right Hand"
A piece of mind. Sometimes you take it for granted. Sometimes...it's all you have. When you lose everything, that little piece of mind can be a little settling. When you keep the hours I do, you find yourself thinking alot. My name is Anna Maru, and I find myself wondering why it's all worth it.
I found very quickly that mine is not the only life riddled with shattered dreams. This city is disgusting in the day, but at night, it can harbor unspeakable evil. Over the past year and a half, I've come to understand it, but never accept it. When I first came to Detroit, I thought that it would be a new beginning for me. It was, in a sense. I used to wonder why any good christian can believe in the benevolent savior, but now I know that it's just something they've convinced themselves of so maybe, just maybe, they can sleep a little easier at night.
I thought the story of my life had ended when those punks decided to pull me into the alley between Goody's and the pawn shop and get their rocks off. The fetus in my womb, it's story ended there, why should mine be any different? Worse than the crime was the apathy that followed. So I dedicated myself, foolishly, to ridding other poor girls saving the same fate. A dedication that came up to bite me on the ass later, but it keeps me going.
I can't even begin to tell you how many rapes I've interrupted over the course of two and a half years-be they straight, gay, one-on-one or gang-bang. The same goes for muggings, back alley beatings, and body dumpings. I tend to ignore the dopeheads and syringe-sippers, they're beggers to their own demise. I let God, if you believe in him, her, or it, sort it out and go about my business.
I once interrupted a young girl, she couldn't have been more than nineteen, carelessly tossing a bundle of bloody rags into a dumpster on the upper west side. Watching from the overhead fire escape, I saw her just wander into the alley, clutching the soiled mess to her busom. She tried to hide it under her jacket, but I saw the tiny little fist among the cloth. When she dropped the baby into the trash bin, I jumped from the fire escape and landed silently, just behind her. As she turned in suprise and shock, I slit her throat with my hunting knife, and in one of life's little ironies, I left her to die in the same dumpster the child she carried and murdered was laid to "rest." Poor child. He took that first breath, cried that first cry, and never had any experience after that. I am reminded of my own child, stillborn and half unmade.
As I think again about the memory, I doubt if I should have killed the mother. Perhaps she was raped, as I was, and didn't have the nut to deal with it any other way. But then I remember the look on her face as she discarded the poor child, and decide while it may not have been the right thing, it was certainly vengeance, pure and simple. I've come to accept my role as dealer of grim justice.
It didn't start out this way, though. It was only to be a temporary, no - part time, job. I felt the need to only punish those responsible for my pain, and I really never thought twice about others. But as things go around here, you get yourself involved in things you really don't want to. I guess it was the fact that even if all responsible were punished, it just felt kind of empty. I don't know, honestly.
I feel no swell of pity for the...cattle...I kill, the scumbags, the lowlifes, the murderers and rapists. I stopped weeping after I lost the baby and have felt no sense of sadness or remorse since, only despair. I've cried enough to last a lifetime.
I'm sure you're beginning to think I'm rambling. I probably am. I do that alot. But there is a point to my putting pen to paper today. I've invaded so many lives over the years, but I try not to think I make an impact too heavy on anyone. Armed with the psychic ability that was...a gift to me, I could very easily check to see how a girl I left crying and naked in the gutter surrounded by her bloody attackers is doing, but why bother? There are a thousand more just like her and if I kept tabs on all of them, I'd get nothing done. I've never cared. Untill now.
Untill I met him.
I found him when I was tracking the man the newspapers were calling "the Mutilator." The Mutilator had been raping and murdering little girls under the age of ten, cutting off their fingers, toes and ears, and stuffing the severed appendages in places the media couldn't mention. Great guy. I was making my rounds, checking the dark alleys, the streets, the abandoned buildings and lonely places where the shady underbelly of the city like to hang their hat. The night had been exceedingly quiet, only three muggings and one attempted rape, so I was beginning to think about calling it a night.
When suddenly, a flash in my brain caught my attention. Now, I mentioned before that my telepathy had been a gift given to me. I never said I liked it. This flash was dark, like oil rolling over my cerebellum. Pain waves soon followed, as if the person experiencing it was just being born. My vision went white as one word popped into my head.
[Help.]
So my curiousity was piqued. What's a girl to do on a quiet wednesday night? I followed the vision untill it reached it's strongest vibration. I found myself jumping from rooftop to rooftop and sliding down a fire escape in the alley in which I interrupted the dysfunctional family reunion I mentioned earlier. The telepathic cries for help had stopped, but I knew this was the area the visions wanted me to go to.
[Over here,] popped into my brain.
I turned toward the dumpster. An arm dangled lifeless out of it, like some obsene decoration. I shook my head, knowing the meaning of this. Another meaningless murder and the words of a disembodied spirit who does not yet know he's dead in my mind.
"Another fucking turf hit," I say to myself, and start to turn away.
[No,] says the vision. [Help.]
I sighed and approached the dumpster again. I peered in, expecting to find a cadaver with forty or fifty bulletholes in it's chest, but what I found actually suprised me. That does not happen often anymore.
The man was probably in his late twenties, with long red hair draped messily about and a full beard. He was lying on his back in the dumpster, naked as the day he was born. And I do mean naked. I counted at least twenty-five scars on his body, with one running down the side of his face. Whoever this guy was, he's seen some action. He had a killer tattoo, as well. A beautiful siberian husky with a girl's name written underneath on his right shoulder. He was unconscious, and I wasn't sure what to make of him. I didn't figure him for some bum who got a little too drunk and decided to sleep it off in the nearest dumpster, so I was kind of at a loss.
I was just about to leave him to whatever business he had when his eyes flew open. I stepped back, keeping my hand on my holster as he strenuously sat up, just in case. The man pressed his hand to his forehead, warding off whatever brought me there. I felt awkward greeting this naked man into the world of conciousness, and I was just about to leave him to his hangover, when he turned his head quizzically and spoke directly to me.
"I am not dead," he said in a rough voice.
"I can see that," I say, not moving my hand from my Glock 9mm.
He stepped out of the dumpster and tried to walk shakily toward me, like a newborn calf stumbling to walk. I was ready to draw my pistol, but the vision in my head told me that it was okay. He was not dangerous...to me, anyway.
I sensed a kindred spirit. An avenging angel. I couldn't explain it, but I felt as if I knew this man, or at least what he was going through. He seemed like a man just coming out of a coma, pained and broken and incomplete. I felt compassion for the first time in a year. Or maybe it's just the fact that he was naked and hung like a horse.
"Where...where am I?" he murmured, holding his head like a migraine was burrowing it's way into his gray matter. He stumbled again, and to stop himself from falling flat on his face, he grabbed my shoulder for balance.
I almost shot him in the head.
"Easy, easy," I said as I helped him up and reholstered my weapon. "You're on the upper west side. It's 1:30am. Did someone hurt you?"
"The upper west side of what? I don't understand," he said, removing his hand from my shoulder. "I...don't remember anything."
"You're in Detroit."
The man looked puzzled, and then looked around the alley. This guy was confused. I soon ruled out drunken stupor and was beginning to lean toward a back alley beating so harsh, he couldn't remember what day of the week it was. When he returned his gaze on me, he noticed the gun for what seemed like the first time.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Well, the street punks call me the Knightshade," I said, smiling a little. "But you can call me Anna. And you are?"
The man puzzled over this question like it was friggin' Jeopardy. He squinted, as if he were trying to remember, and after about a minute or so, he gave it up and walked back toward the dumpster.
"I...I don't know. I don't remember anything," he whispered. He then began ruffling through the trash he had claimed as a bed earlier, throwing old coffee filters and dirty diapers left and right. "Is this how you found me?"
"Take it easy, buddy," I said, approaching him. I was really beginning to feel some sort of bond with him, and I was getting really weirded out by that. "I'll help you sort everything out. I think you have some kind of amnesia, and I can help you."
He looked up at me.
"How can you help with that?"
"You'd be suprised," I said. I reached my hand out to touch his face, and he jerked back. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you."
His shoulders sagged and he allowed himself to let go. I placed my hand upon his forehead, to get a better reading. I closed my eyes and concentrated as my mind began to enter his. Amnesia is easy to cure, because all you have to do is reach way in and grab the repressed memories. The memory is always there, if you know where to look.
This was different. I searched every recess of the man's brain and found nothing but a dream about a river of blood and, finally, one solitary memory lasting only 15 seconds. The memory included a small farmhouse and the man pushing a girl on a tire swing.
Other than that, nothing. This was utterly baffling. I had never seen a case like his before, and this was certainly not any form of amnesia. It was if this guy's entire life had been erased in his mind. I didn't understand it and I'm positive he didn't either. I pulled out of his mind as softly as I pushed in, and looked into his eyes.
Those icy...blue...eyes.
"I don't know. I'm not sure what I just saw," I said, almost apologetically.
"You said you could help me," he said.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Where can I go?" he asked softly.
"There's a homeless shelter about a block from here. I don't know how they'd respond to a butt naked guy walkin' in, but they've helped alot of people," I said as I walked with him to the end of the alley. I can walk you there, if you want."
"That won't be necessary," he said, and looked me in the eyes again. "Thank you for trying."
"I do what I can," I said, and he began to walk away. After a second of watching him, I called out. "Maybe our paths will cross again!"
He didn't respond, just dissappeared into the night.
"Damn," I muttered under my breath. "Now that's one hell of a piece of work."
As I stood there scratching my head, the flash returned and more words entered my brain, as if he left me a calling card.
[Our paths will cross again, Anna. Be sure of it.]
I didn't see the man again for about three weeks.
You have to understand, I wasn't exactly looking for him or anything. Since I'd determined he wasn't a threat to anyone, especially me, I pretty much left well enough alone. The question of who he was did remain in my mind, but the extent of that is like someone telling you a joke and you don't get the punchline. It went over my head and it was obviously not meant for me to know. But, even in this city, you tend to bump into people when you least expect it.
That's the way it happened the night I found him again. I was doing my rounds of the rougher clubs and nastier streets that night, and I had already bagged a couple gangstas trying to play war. I stopped the drive-by by shooting out the tires of the old Caddy and reveled in the explosion of glass and rubber when it slammed into a light pole. God, I love my work.
I had just finished checking out the Percival Lounge(a late night joint made infamous for it's black and asian drag queens and the Bleeding Dragon gang) when I heard the familiar sound of fist connecting with flesh, hollers and shouts. I followed the sounds to the back of the bar, where I found the all-too familiar sight.
A couple of the Bleeding Dragons were laying the smack down on the poor guy, beating him over the head with glass bottles and bats. The man stumbled back against the wall, and held his arms up as if to ward off the severe beating. I jumped from the rooftop of the bar and onto the head of one of the gangstas. He went down immediately. The man glowered at me, then seemed to recognize me, and nodded hello.
"Fuck, man, it's the Knightshade!" the kid said to his friend, as he drew his gun and opened fire upon me.
"Isn't it past your bedtime, boys?" I laughed, rolling out of the way of the gunfire. I drew my whip, snapped it menacingly, and with one fluid movement, I wrapped the tail around the little thug's pistol and yanked it out of his hand. "You could poke an eye out with that."
With all their attention drawn on me, the guy had more than enough of a chance to run, which is what I expected him to do. So far he's suprised me twice. He jumped, scissor-kicked one of other thug like he was Bruce Lee, and sent him sprawling. I know martial arts, and I could tell right away he had had alot of training. My guess would be black belt. The thug struggled to his feet, reached for his gun, but the man spun-kicked and knocked it out of his hand. Four jump kicks, two eye gouges and one fist of fury later and that kid was unconcious face down in the trash can as the one I claimed simply ran for his life.
I looked around at the devastation and grinned.
"You're good," I said, mock-punching him on the shoulder.
"Thank you. I have no idea where that came from," he mused, bending down and grabbing the two now owner-less berettas.
This time he was dressed. He wore a long black trench coat, a black wife-beater(an A-shirt for those of you who do not like that term), a pair of ragged blue jeans and a pair of combat boots that went up to the upper calf.
"What'd the Bleeding Dragon want with you, mystery man?" I smiled as I replaced my whip upon my belt.
"The who? I-I don't know...I was in the bar, they saw my tattoo and they pulled me out back."
Then I figured it out.
"Shit. I get it now. Your tat, it's of a siberian husky, right?" he nodded. "Right. In the darkness of the bar, they must have mistaken it for the symbol of the Laughing Coyote gang. They're bitter rivals. Basically children with guns trying to play war."
"So you mean I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, right?"
"Basically."
He shook his head and began to walk away. I paced him, and put my arm on his shoulder.
"Wait," I said, feeling foolish for what I was about to say. "Okay. You impress me. That doesn't happen much. You're the weirdest case of an amnesiac I've ever seen. You're also one of the best white martial artist I've ever seen. Trust me, I've seen alot. You fight with a shao lin-slash-kung fu-slash-karate style that kind of boggles me and interests me. Do you have a place to crash tonight?"
"No," he said. "I got to the shelter too late tonight and it was closed."
"Alright. Would you like to stay at my place tonight and maybe I can help you with your problem?"
"I don't know, I barely know you," he said reluctantly.
"Listen, that Bleeding Dragon has probably already alerted his posse and are on their way to kill you and me too. I want to help you. I don't know why, but I do. Just come on."
"Okay," he said, after thinking about it for a second.
What was wrong with me? For all I knew, he could have been playing the nice-guy act. He could be just another rapist, or worse...and I was inviting him into my home? Did I just fall off the stupid truck?
No. I knew in my heart that it wasn't so. What I sensed in him was purity, and nothing more. And there was just something about him that I just could not resist. Something that would make me act completely off-kilter and out of character. I just didn't understand.
He followed me all the way back to the projects, which took me longer than it usually did. I take running from rooftop to rooftop for granted and forget that some people just can't do it, so I had to walk the streets. When we finally got there, I entered the apartment, clicked on the light, and fed the cat. The man looked around curiously, quietly admiring the katana blade I kept sheathed over the television.
"Sorry about the mess," I said, pulling off my leather jacket and hanging it on the back of a dining table chair. "I don't have company all the time and I'm rarely here. Also, the size. It's an efficiency. Kitchen, living room, dining room, all the same. The bedroom's past that door to the left of you, where the bathroom is. Sit down."
"It's a nice place," he said as he removed the overcoat, sat down and kept the coat tucked neatly in his lap. "Cozy."
"It's a rat trap," I smiled and joined him on the couch. "So where have you been keeping yourself the last couple weeks?"
"The shelter, mostly," he said. "Looking for anything that might jog my memory."
"Any luck?" I asked.
"No, none. A quick memory, but nothing more."
"Farmhouse? Tire swing?"
The man looked puzzled. "Yeah, why?"
"Thought so. I found it kicking around in your head. That was it, though," I decided not to mention the dream. That was something private.
"Yeah, well, I can't put a name to the face."
"It'll come in time," I said, and hoped I sounded genuine.
"Maybe," he said, and looked up at me with those beautiful blue eyes. "So what's your story?"
"You probably don't want to know. I'm...a dangerous person," I said, putting that famous wall of self protection. "You know, not the type of gal you take home to mother."
"Am I in danger?" He asked, smiling subtly. It was clear he didn't quite believe me.
"Not unless you've raped or killed anyone. Those are a couple of my pet peeves."
"What, do you hunt criminals or something?"
"Not all of them. I could give a shit about some idiot that knocks over a liquor store or nabs a stero from somebody's apartment - unless it's mind. I tend to go for bigger game."
"So why do you hunt them?"
"Vengeance."
"For what?" he pushed again. I wanted to tell him. I did. I just wasn't ready.
"A gang of thugs took something away from me, and I'll leave it at that for now," I mused as unholstered my glock, checked the magazine, and placed it on the coffee table. The knife in my boot came next, and the bullwhip on my belt was the last to go. "It's my own personal hell."
He nodded slightly. Those eyes still captivated me.
So we talked for a few hours, mostly about nothing. Current events, politics, the weather. Basically stuff that doesn't bear mentioning. All the while, I kept thinking about him and telling myself that I was stupid and childish for the things going through my head.
For Christ's sake, I'm a goddamned vigilante killer, not a schoolgirl with a crush.
"Okay, listen. I don't know what to call you. You have no name, and I need to call you something. Any ideas?" I asked, hoping to push his focus away from my past. He shrugged, still gazing into my eyes. "Okay, then. You have a tattoo of a wolf on your shoulder and a name underneath it. I'm not going to call you 'Anne,' but how does 'Wolf' sound?"
"I could deal with it," Wolf said, smiling. "It's better than nothing and certainly better than 'hey you!'"
"Okay, 'Wolf' it is," I said with a sly smile. "Now, I'm not sure what you think of me, and what I'm about to say might lower and/or reaffirm your opinion of me. I invited you up here because you interested me, and not many people can do that. Now, you can stay here as long as you want. My place isn't great but I'm sure it's better than the shelter. But you have two choices on where you can sleep. The couch...or in the bedroom. With me. I know how that sounds after only meeting you twice, but I am not a slut. Mostly."
Wolf ceared his throat and blushed. "You're a very direct woman, aren't you?"
"I try," I said, feeling kind of nervous now that I had laid the cards down on the table. I had one more card, but I wanted to keep his mind off of that for now.
"Well, I won't lie," he said, setting his coat aside and moving closer to me. I found myself questioning what cologne he had on. "I'm really intrigued by you, also. You're a very strong woman, and I like that. I think I'll take the second choice tonight."
I smiled. "Cool Water", I thought to myself. The cologne that was filling my nostrils was "Cool Water." And then, for the first time in two and a half years, I gave in to my feminine side and let myself be a woman again. I kissed him deeply, his rough lips taking on a tender side as our lips became one. As I was running my hands down his back, he was holding my sides gently. I hadn't felt like this since the last time Cal touched me. I was hooked on this magnificent, mysterious stranger.
And as we made our way to my bedroom, I found myself thinking a thought that almost made me burst into laughter. What is it with me and guys with scars?
The next morning I awoke next to Wolf, who, from the look of it, had been awake for awhile. My arm was around him, and they had been all night. I shifted in the bed, brushing my naked body against his, and smiled again.
"Good morning," I said quietly.
"Good morning," he said, looking into my eyes again. "Did you sleep well?"
"For the first time in a while, yeah. Of course, it helped that I was fucking exhausted."
We laughed for a minute, and then I rested my head on his chest. I glanced over at the clock and silently cursed myself.
"Last night was great, Wolf, I mean it," I said with a sigh. "But I have to be going to work. A girl can't live on vengeance alone."
"What do you do?"
"I badger the shit out of people over the phone and try to get their money. No big deal," I said, sitting up and pulling the blanket off of me. I noticed Wolf out of the corner of my eye, looking my body over. It's good to be wanted again. "You can stay here, if you want. I got twenty bucks in the coffee can over the sink if you want to order pizza or something for lunch...and I have cable and a few movies on the shelf. I don't have much but you're welcomed to all of it."
"Thank you," Wolf said. "Are you going to make your rounds tonight?"
"How did you...?"
"Please," he said, placing his hand on the small of my back gently. "You do it every night, don't you?"
I was shocked. Again. How does he do that?
"You know, for a guy who doesn't even know his own name, you certainly read people. I'm looking for someone. Those punks that I told you about last night? Three of them are dead. The last one is not. I'm not trying to cleanse the city myself, although that's probably how it looks. I just want to get him back for what he's taken from me, and along the way I've been helping people from getting into my situation."
He shook his head. "For some reason, I think I know how you feel. But tonight...I want to go with you."
"I don't know about that. We'll discuss it when I get home at four o'clock," I smiled as I kissed him lightly. "Speaking of 'cleansing,' I have to jump in the shower."
I rolled over Wolf gingerly and got up off the bed. He was still watching me with those beautiful blue eyes, probably watching the way my buttocks swayed when I walked. How cute, I thought. I'm smitten with a man. How corny. And how corny it is that I don't care.
I tried not to think about anything too much as I jumped in the shower, washed the sweat from my body, and got ready for work. When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was sitting up in the bed, reading a "Soldier of Fortune" magazine I had left on the nightstand.
As I placed my earrings in, I gave him a rather soft kiss, told him to have a good day, and left. Okay, so maybe I should have told him about my past. Maybe I should have told him about the baby. It will come out eventually, I'm sure. Things generally have a habit of outing themselves.
A piece of mind. Sometimes, you take it for granted. Sometimes, it's all you have. And sometimes, just sometimes, that piece of mind can suprise you. It did for me.