Chapter 26

Massacre of the Innocents

Owen

He sat there in quiet contemplation for a few moments trying to decide how best to help her. He couldn't think of any good choices. "I'll think about it," he said. "Maybe I can do something." He had no idea what, but he wanted to think through his options. "Not tonight – it's almost morning."

"You're sweet." Abby rubbed his cheek in affection. With a satisfied smile she added, "That's not what I meant. I know I need to kill … I just don't want to." Her dispirited expression faded into a resigned hopelessness. Once again her bowels rebelled in pain. "Let's get some sleep," she said.

She grabbed his hand and walked him out of the crucible and over to the mattress. Pulling the blankets over their heads sleep began to overtake her.

"I almost forgot to tell you," Owen said. "I saw something strange in the sky tonight."

"I know," she said, "I felt him." She drifted asleep with the sunrise.

Having grown accustomed to daylight hours, Owen lay there awake all day contemplating Abby's wishes. Companionship meant sacrifices, and Abby needed much greater sacrifices than most. Today he remained at her side in the mill. But he couldn't police his thoughts. At times they wandered to the short term contentment he discovered with the comparatively normal Selkie. After awhile his thoughts returned to the challenge of Abby's needs. He had to find a way to help her – relieve her of her suffering.

Tony Sacco

Tony pounded on the back entrance to The Blazing Crescent, "Come on Jane, let me in."

Jane traipsed down the stairs and opened the door, "We have a doorbell. You don't have to pound it so hard." She said with her eyes shut tight against the morning sun.

"I rang it three times," Tony protested.

"What can I do for you today … business or friendship?" She noticed his denim jeans and orange Broncos sweatshirt. "You're in your civvies. It must be a social call."

"It's a little bit of both. I'm off duty," he said ignoring the part where he was on suspension. "I thought it might be worthwhile to check up on you two."

"Is that detective with you?"

"No, he's back in Denver."

"Well then come on up." She left the door open as an invitation when she started up the stairs. Wrapped in her white terry cloth bathrobe, she collapsed in the family room sofa. "Do you want a coffee or anything?" she asked.

"Sure. I'd love some."

"No problem … you know how to make it, right?"

"Yea, I guess so," he answered a little mystified. I'm the guest here, right?

"Could you make me some, too?"

In the Kitchen, Tony gathered the materials and ingredients for the coffee. He tried the vanilla coffee, it seemed the most commonplace of the available choices. While the coffee percolated, Jane turned on the television. The contestant landed on "bankrupt" just as Tony delivered the hot coffee.

"What I'd really like to do is talk to Selkie," Tony said.

"She hasn't been spending much time here lately."

"I guess that means that she must be feeling better."

"Yes, she seems to be doing well." Jane seemed irritated at Selkie's improvement.

"Do you think maybe I could take a glance at her drawings? Something I saw the other day reminded me of them."

"What are you looking for?" Jane asked. She sat up in her seat, ignoring the television for a moment.

"I saw something in the sky the other night. It looked like a giant bat. The zoo calls them 'flying foxes'. I watched them for awhile – it's kind of weird how big they are … about half the size of a person. I thought I saw one the other night, but my memory may have distorted its proportions. It looked different. The zoo claimed none were missing."

"Yeah, go ahead and look at the pictures. Take your time," she waved him back to hallway and returned to life with letter guessing contestants.

Scattered drawings lay around the floor just as he remembered. Collecting the drawings one by one he scanned them for a moment before placing them in the stack. Finally he found the one he was searching for. With an extended snout, sharp teeth and wings, the howling, snarling gargoyle was perched on top of the cedar table.

He brought the drawing out to Jane and showed it to her. "Is this it? Is this what you saw?"

Blood drained from Jane's face and neck. She silenced the television. She whispered, "You saw it, too." It was a statement more than a question.

"What is it?" Tony asked.

"It is the creature of the sixth seal. I'm sure of it. "'And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood.'"

"That doesn't sound like something that I want to be a part of. Is there something else we should do?"

"The story continues, 'And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains … For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?'"

Now I remember why we stopped hanging out with her. Tony always hated when Jane talked like. Can't she just use English? "I don't even understand what you're saying. So we should hide in the mountain caves and if anything goes wrong, we pray for an avalanche. Is that right?"

Jane nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Okay." Tony paused trying to come up with another approach, "… instead why don't we try to develop another plan. This thing must come from the mountains, so I'd rather not go there. There have been a few sightings in the city. You don't think he's moved into the city, do you?"

Jane leaned back on the arm of her sofa chair. "He's scouting out locations, so he must not settled in here yet. But I feel pretty confident I know where he'll wind up."

"Where's that?"

"Isn't it obvious? The abandoned steel mill. It's perfect for this sort of creature."

"You think so?" Jane nodded. "All right … all right that makes some sort of sense, and this is your area of expertise. What should we do to be ready for him?"

"I will establish a prayer altar and try glean some guidance from the goddess. In the mean time, you need to figure out if someone is drawing it to the city."

"Who would do that?"

"There is always some sort of nut who think they are being called to greatness with the evil spirits."

Tony shared an awkward, friendly hug with Jane. Yes, there is always some sort of nut out there. "Thanks a lot. I was at a loss here. This thing gave me the creepers. Do you think we could have a plan to stop this thing before it kills again?"

"I don't know. I'll pray for it."

"I was hoping for something more functional than prayer."

"I can check my books, too. I might find something there. That's all I got."

"Thanks again. Oh, one more thing," Tony said heading down the steps. "Your father's body was one of the few things to survive Christmas. We still have it in the morgue. I'll …. I'll see what I can do about getting it released. I don't think we'll need it anymore." A peace offering to keep her motivated. He hoped it would work.

Owen

All day, Owen lay awake trying to decide what to do. When Abby stirred with dusk, Owen left the mill to give him more time to collect his thoughts.

With his ember of hope nearly extinguished, he wandered the streets aimlessly. Low rolling clouds provided an adversary to the trembling stillness of his deliberation. The murderous cold of the Colorado winter had arrived. Is killing someone really any different than what he has been doing for years? I wouldn't even know how to do it. I've avoided the idea of death my entire life with Abby.

He roamed the streets for hours without any coalescence of his courage. Owen knew he would one day face this challenge, but his cowardice overwhelmed him with heedless optimism. Just like the old neighbor from his childhood, Abby needed him to kill. It was more than an aversion to death. It was a struggle Abby faced her entire life. Owen felt her contempt at that abomination every cycle, but he failed to find the backbone to carry the burden. His greatest failure – and that was saying a lot.

An idea began to develop. He checked his pockets for any money remaining from Charlie. He still had two twenties, two tens and eight one dollar bills remaining in his pocket. He smoothed out the large bills and placed them in his left pocket and he shoved the ones into his right along with his rice and bell. Sixty dollars that was the price … right? Yeah that was it, sixty dollars. D Street. That's where he needed to go to scout out a street walker … not for him, but for Abby. With luck, he the sixty dollars would convince one to follow him home. Just like Abby suggested with her morbid joke the first night in Pueblo – he could invite one to dinner.

He strolled the few additional blocks to D Street, satisfied that he was making an intelligent, thoughtful decision. To his surprise the block was completely empty. No streetwalkers, no preacher, no drug dealers, and no cars. Not even so much as a stray dog. What happened? He stood there at the corner of Victoria Ave. staring in disbelief. Just a few blocks removed from the bustling River Walk and the city government – the evening streets were abandoned. Where'd the hell did they go? So much for the best laid plans.

While he stood there deciding what to do next, a shiver from the cold grew into powerful, painful shakes. His hearing cut in and out. Owen couldn't control himself at all. His breathing became short and heavy. Afraid for his sanity, he fell to one knee and let out a loud yell. Finally, after a few moments, he started to recover from the spasms. He collected a handful of snow and ate it like he was a child. It helped calm him down. I can't just give up.

The night he met Charlie, he heard voices from a nearby parking garage. It wasn't very far away – perhaps five or six blocks. Someone could help him there. And the walk would be good for him.

Past the convention center, Owen found the voices. Down three flights of concrete stairs a group of kids not much older than him were gathered smoking in heated elevator vestibule. "Hey," Owen said in greeting. Their laughter stopped and one of the kids nodded to him in return. "Do you think you could help me out?"

"Maybe," the kid wore a thick gray sweatshirt and a solid black bandana covering his scalp. "It depends what you're looking for."

"Um," Owen said. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating, but he was a little embarrassed with the subject. "Do you know where the girls have gone?"

All five of the kids snickered like he said the funniest joke in the world. "Girls, what girls?" The leader of the quintet asked.

"You know … the hookers."

Another round of laughter started. "What do you think this is … 411?" he said. "We're businessmen. If you're buying, we're selling."

"What're you selling?"

The kid held out a small, sealed bag of white crystals.

"Oh, okay," Owen said. He had to buy it – to get the information he needed. "How much?"

"A hundred dollars," he answered.

Owen's startled eyes opened up like a pair of full moons, "A hundred dollars?" Another round of laughter – this time Owen was sure the laughter came at his expense. "I have it back at my place. Why don't you come with me and I'll get it for you?"

"No way, amigo," the kid said. "All business is conducted in the place of service." Why doesn't that ever work … just once? "Go get the money and maybe we'll still be here when you get back."

Owen left a little despondent, but he was driven by hunger … hunger for the white powder. His nerve endings pulsed with their own desperate cravings for some more pixie dust. He wasn't sure where he was going to find the money, but he knew he was going to try. That little white bag of powder provided a forceful motivation. The need to feed Abby's thirst escaped to the farthest reaches of his mind.

Not far down the street, Owen found a few cars waiting in the train station parking lot. Inside a small sedan, the owner made the mistake of leaving their purse. A little bit of green stuck out of the clasp. He tried the door but it was locked. Scouring the parking lot, he found a large rock, and with it he smashed out the passenger side window. Dammit – the car's alarm deafened the otherwise peaceful silence. Quickly, he opened the door, and grabbed the money sticking out of the edge. With little thought to how much he procured, he ran down Court Street.

In the distance of the fading car alarm, nobody followed him. He slowed to a walk and counted the money. Forty-four dollars … it was enough.

A few minutes later, shaking with the unstable, temporary conviction of addiction, Owen handed the hundred dollars to the gleeful, bandana wearing youths. That quickly, Owen let more money slip through his fingers than at any time of his short life. "Do you have a needle?" Owen asked shaking.

"Yeah, sure," they said pleased that they now made their payday. Owen took off his coat and placed it on the floor. He tied the elastic tourniquet around his bicep. In the mean time, the others boiled the glowing yellow liquid in a spoon and handed the fresh, full syringe to Owen. Shaking so much from the excitement of anticipation, Owen could barely find the vein. With the depression of a plunger he found a welcoming moment of incomprehensible contentment. Before he lost all lucidity, he found a short moment of peace. "Where do you keep the women?"

The laughter sounded as though he were far away and underwater. "Try B Street, near the train station," one of them said. Owen grabbed his coat and road the turbulent concrete escalator out of the parking garage. He barely felt the cold while he wandered the nighttime streets. Which way to B Street? The street names made no sense. Maelstrom Street, Anguish Avenue and Perdition Drive … I don't remember these streets.

When the sun rose, Owen was lost and tired. He stumbled past a steam grate for a flash of warmth. Without fully comprehending the reason, Owen found himself turning around and laying down. The hot metal chafed across his cheek – ecstacy. As he sauntered into dreamland, Owen considered that the night was a complete waste. He should have worked with Selkie to understand that poem.

When he woke hours later, he forgot all about the poem. His overcoat, with its bloody residue, was gone.

xXx

"Where the hell have you been?" Abby demanded in a deep, rumbling growl that sounded just like his mother and nothing like her at the same time.

Startled by the outburst, Owen steadied himself. "I was … um … looking for someone to bring back for you," he stammered. "I'm sorry. I didn't find anyone."

The metal of the bin rang through the mill when she pounded the side of it. "What am I fuckin' supposed to do?" Her glare demanded a response. "Huh?" Silence; she pounded the bin once again. "Well? Go out and do it myself?"

Owen winced from the boundless power of her agitation. The pain of her need radiated at the base of his skull. Owen had nobody to blame but himself. He had woken up over the steam grate to the pervasive gray of an overcast daytime sky. Stepping off the grate brought such a sudden burst of cold that he leaped back for the heat. Lacking a coat, it was a prison without bars. He paced for hours over his few square feet of warmth while a few irritated pedestrians passed him by. A "tsk" and a shake of their heads was the universal signal of disgust.

After a few hours, the clouds had cleared, but the sunlight was just a tease – the warmth didn't reach the ground. He finally worked up the courage to step off the steam grate and stay off. By then, he understood the staggering abyss of failure. Blocks away from the mill, yet he felt the concussive force of her outrage. He could do nothing other than shuffle back to the mill and confess his failure.

Confined by the daylight, Abby paced back and forth around the mill. A powerful spasm washed over her. Owen felt the tears of frustration. "It'll be okay. I'll try again tonight," Owen begged.

The meager declaration provoked another outburst of profane anger. "I don't want you to try again. I want you to leave." Conflicted with pity and hunger, she fell to her knees in tears.

Owen approached her with an attempt at words of comfort, but she whipped out her arm and knocked him off his feet. "I'll go," he said and headed for the door.

"Good," she said.

Churning winds caused him to regret the choice immediately. He wished he had that coat. "Just let me warm up for a few minutes," he pleaded.

Curled up on the floor, thrashing in the throes of pain, Owen accepted her silence as consent. He broke off a few planks of wood and added them to the fire. Paradoxically, he shivered as the warmth reached his skin. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the purifying, acrid smoke.

Whether it was the remnant of the drugs or the warmth, Owen found himself standing in the same spot hours later with dusk approaching. With barely a purr, Abby snaked back and forth along the western wall. Her passionate anger flared from her eyes.

"Abby, just take me," Owen said. "I want you to."

The flash of anger hit him with a thundering fury. Abby struck him shortly thereafter, forcing him to the ground. With tears in her crackling blue eyes, she began breathing deeper and louder … sniffing the air. She leaned her crooked teeth closer to his neck. "No," she whispered. "I can't." Owen didn't understand Abby's emotions, but he felt the conflict with her instincts.

She caught a whiff of something … something sweet. With one last wail, wings began to form at the base of her neck. She scampered up the wall next to the hand rails and erupted through the hatch in the roof.

Shit, Owen thought. He raced over to the door. Dashing outside after, he fought the burning winter cold. I'm supposed to prevent this.

Abby had a head start, and he had to maneuver around the fence. Worse yet ... she was undeniably fast. He closed his eyes and concentrated on her path. With the first sensation, he raced after her. At each corner, he had to stop and sense her direction. She darted back and forth. Owen had trouble locating her, but he refused to give in to another failure. He had no idea what to do when he arrived.

Lorena Prindle

Lorena sat up in her new queen size bed and removed the finicky infant from her breast. She reached her hand under the babies smock and caressed the bare skin, "Shh, quiet little one. You'll wake your father."

"Too late," Roberto moaned from the billowing shelter of his fluffy pillow. He rolled over and stared at his wife with sleepy red eyes. "What's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you can provide some milk."

"I can't help you there."

"He's just a little colicky. I think I'll take him for a ride in his stroller."

"A ride in the stroller? At this hour?"

"Just around the block. He seems to enjoy the motion. And this will give you some peace and quiet so you can sleep." She handed the baby to the clumsy care of Roberto. "Hold on to him, while I get a warm set of clothes."

"Getting him dressed will take you longer than the walk."

"Yeah," Lorena shrugged, "I need to get a little fresh air, too. I spend too much time cooped up inside, taking care of your child. Winters are never like this in Atlanta."

The baby laughed and cooed next to her sleepy husband while she dressed. Roberto smiled when the baby grabbed tight onto his forefinger. She paused to enjoy the slow bond forming between father and child. A gentle miracle ... here in her home. He laid his head down next to the child before his breathing settled into an intoxicating rhythm. Each time the baby cried out, Roberto twitched for a moment before settling back into rest.

A few minutes later, the bundled pair escaped through the front door leaving the loudest member of the family snoring, embraced by warmth of a thick goose down comforter.

Within minutes, Lorena regretted the arctic expedition. At least the baby seemed to be enjoying it. Wind whipped through the narrow streets slicing into her exposed face. She tightened the blanket around her child and burrowed her cheeks in her wool scarf. She decided to cut the walk short – through the narrow alley. The swirling wind produced a loud, high pitched whistle like an organ pipe.

When she turned the corner, she noticed the baby bag of spare wipes and diapers scattered well behind her on the sidewalk. Disgusted with her negligence, Lorena left the stroller, with the brake on (of course), in the protected alley while she ran to collect her belongings.

On her return she was surprised to see a wayward, shivering teenager across the street donned in only a torn, black T-shirt and denim jeans. Waves of mist trembled out of his lips. He was breathing heavy, like he had just completed a long run. The T-shirt hardly seemed out of place – it was his expression of fright which captured her attention. It didn't belong in the wintry realm. Worried for her child, she jogged back to the alley and discovered the source of his alarm. Her blood-curdling scream was a visceral response to the worst possible terror of a new parent. Neighbors flocked out of their homes to help. Turning around she noticed the boy had fled.

Abby

Her body screamed for satisfaction. As soon as she was free of the protective confines of the mill, she realized her mistake, but she couldn't fight two hundred years of weakness. An unnatural hunger drove her beyond reason. The tingling sensation of her pursuer focused on her like a powerful sonar. Her uncle was searching for her. Now that she was outside of the walls, he could find her.

Pain and hunger overwhelmed her thoughts with the sweet smell of blood. It was everywhere, all around her, overflowing her senses with desire. Most were trapped behind the impenetrable walls of private buildings. She dashed over roof tops; her feet barely touching before pushing off again. She finally found herself above an alley near the smell of life.

She dropped into the alley and settled in a crouch. "Help me," Abby pleaded as the woman pushed some sort of cart around the corner.

Forgetting the carriage in the alley, the woman turned away. She didn't heed Abby's plea … at all. Are you kidding me? The cravings were so powerful. A wicked, honeyed odor wafted from the carriage, drawing Abby toward her need. She lifted up the blanket.

In mere seconds she had consumed her fill. Blood dripping from her lips, she glanced up and saw him ... Owen was standing there, staring with a look of absolute hatred before he turned and fled. What have I done? She broke the infant's neck and race after him. For the first time in centuries, she was truly terrified … terrified of his rejection.

Owen

Barely aware of the cold, Owen ran, trying to escape. He didn't even know the direction he was heading. The towering smokestack of the steel mill was a beacon guiding him back.

When he finally reached it, the pillar stretched to the highest point in the sky – a thin, tapered needle pointing to the heavens with its eye at the very precipice. Outside the mill, a belt conveyor led to a silo above the roof. Once used to feed mountains of coke to the hungry furnace, the conveyor now lay dormant. Owen climbed up the belt to the peaceful garden atop the roof. But the rooftop was not high enough; it could not satisfy his emptiness. He ascended the metal rungs on the outside of the towering smokestack. There were hundreds of them.

His muscles ached from the struggle. Each metal handhold was a reminder of the burning cold, but he continued his climb. The tallest structure in the city, miles of land stretched before him. He saw headlights cast from a few miniscule cars driving on the streets; he heard a train whistle from a locomotive steaming across the bridge; and he stared across the violent frenzy of the lifeless river. But these visions were too earthly, almost profane.

He continued upward – higher than the pinnacle of the train station's clock tower and higher than the roof of the ten story bank building where Abby and he enjoyed Halloween night. His arms trembled from the cold, yet he continued to climb. The immense plains of Eastern Colorado stretched out before him and to the west the outline of the Greenhorn Mountain Range shadowed the horizon. He continued his ascension until he finally reached the top rung of the monolithic structure. It swayed in the wind. The crushing, isolating stillness was deafening.

Stretching with all his might, Owen raised his hand up to grasp the stars. He wanted to touch her … to become close to her ... the beautiful Andromeda was within his grasp, but he couldn't quite reach her. He placed his foot on the top rung and using the lip of the smokestack, he pulled himself a little higher. One more heave, he strained … through his frozen tears, he knew he was close. He could almost do it … he could almost touch the face of God.

"What are you doing, Owen?"

Startled by the voice, Owen nearly fell. He grabbed hold of the lip and shivered from the cold and confusion. His thin, tattered shirt thrashed loudly in the wind. Just beneath him, the delicate vision of Abby clung to the smokeshaft lip … blood-stained cheeks, just like he'll always remember. "I don't know," he cried. Frustrated tears flowed from his eyes, stinging his cheeks. "I just started running. I kept running until I couldn't go any further."

"A coward dies a thousand deaths, but a brave man dies but once," Abby said.

"That's me. I've died a thousand times."

"No, it's me. I'm the coward," Abby said. He could barely hear her in the devastating winds. "With each death, a little more of me dies. I've died a thousand times … maybe more. You're my light of courage." She stared off into the distance at the Greenhorns. A flicker of motion caught her attention. "Please come down. Come into the warmth. I'm not angry anymore."

"Why won't you take me? Why won't you accept me?'

"I can't, Owen … I just can't," she answered. "I don't know how to explain it. I need you to stay the way you are. I need you whole. Please climb down. You're frightening me."

Owen glanced up to the heavens one more time and then consented. His flimsy T-shirt was not going to withstand the battering winds much longer. He started down the ladder. His muscles twitched in rebellion – the fingers worst of all. A few rungs down, the fingers couldn't keep the grip and his hand slipped. He felt his stomach fly up to his throat as he began to fall. The roof of the mill rose up to meet him. He closed his eyes and he welcomed it.

His precipitous fall was arrested suddenly. He looked up and saw the vision of a winged demon, overshadowed by a starry canvas. She held onto his ankle and struggled against the weight of his descent. It wasn't enough. Her intervention slowed his fall, but couldn't stop it. His shoulder crashed into the roof, deflecting his rib cage awkwardly. With the wind knocked out of him, Owen writhed in silent pain.

Air finally flooded his lungs and a scream escaped. He pushed himself up on his knees. He laughed at the thought of his anxious, racing heartbeat. "Thanks, Abby. I thought that was the end."

Abby's wings folded into her side, but her eyes shuddered with hatred. "You fuckin' coward," she growled. "It's your fault. He found me. You need to leave … you need to leave now." She turned and disappeared down the rabbit hole.

Owen tried to quell his confusion and bring peace to his thoughts. He reached out to Abby. Anger and hatred bled through the bond. For a few moments he remained on the roof trying to register order in the chaos. The bitter cold defeated him. He had to choose between facing another set of railings or remain in the cold. He chose to climb down, but slowly.

Abby knelt at the center of the mill with her hands at her side. The passion of her demonic visage remained. "Would you like me to clean you off?" Abby didn't move or say anything.

She wasn't polluted badly. Frozen blood stained only her face and sleeves. Owen retrieved a bucket of water and a change of shirt.

A little while later, a clean, but still agitated Abby rested in Owen's aching ribs. Sore from the fall, pain radiated through his chest. He had to reposition her to get comfortable. Her soft hair smelled of cinnamon. He reached out to touch her hand. "Abby," he said. "What do you remember of the other caretakers in your life?"

"Their faces … their names. Sometimes I get the memories mixed up. It's a jumble, really."

"What will you do after I die?"

"What do you mean?" she asked. "I'll go on. Like I always do."

"I don't live forever," he said. "I may not live very long. I think I may be sick." He trembled from worry and self-doubt. He didn't understand the disruptive anger. He feared Abby's reaction. Owen hoped he was someone special for her. He wished for that affirmation.

Saturated with new found nourishment, her body relaxed in his arms. "You need to leave," she whispered. Owen didn't understand. "That blood," Abby continued, "that blood was soooo sweet."

"Abby, please. I'm trying to talk to you." He searched for the right words. "Do you remember the others? Will you forget me when I'm gone?"

"No," she said. Her languid eyelids fluttered with drowsiness. The unexpected comment hit with the full force of her indifference. "I forget you now."

The words hurt, but the way she said it with calm, casual certainty made them sting even more. What am I doing here? With her slumber, the repugnance of the evening's events slammed back into the forefront of Owen's awareness. I can't believe I let her… I made her … kill that baby. She's right. I am a fucking coward.

"Goodbye, Owen," she whispered.

To escape his self-immolation, Owen routed through his pockets and pulled out the white powder. The coward's solution … perfect. His nostrils were set ablaze from the inhalation. With the power of pixie dust, he escaped to a new reality. No more infants. In a few days or a week, he was going to have to find another victim. Or maybe I should just let Abby choose. Another failure intruded his thoughts – that prayer, that fucking prayer. I spent almost a month with Selkie and I never tried to understand that poem.