The wind whispers through the trees and springs a few
small dust storms to life along the ground. I, remaining perfectly stationary, barely flicker my recognition, though
nature has always spoken to me. Especially in the years of my release, I find a certain amount of
serenity, basking in the warmth of what many would shamelessly call God's
glory.
Discarding this, I instead turn my attention to the
sound of an approaching being. Judging
by scent, I summarize safely that she is perhaps twenty yards away, jogging at
a steady pace that many would envy. I
have always admired Clarice's high metabolism, even in darker times.
I hear her breaths now, heavy though far from
tired. She enjoys applying
herself. I suspect it's the only peace
she knows anymore.
I feel myself smiling as she passes, enjoying the
sight she provides. Her chest heaves
deep, healthy breaths to display her natural fatigue. Drawing in the air before me, I catch a whiff of her scent, and
it nearly drives me over the edge. I
know she cannot see me, and that only escalates the sensation. The perverse fun of watching but not being
observed myself is terribly entertaining.
I told her once that I traveled halfway around the
world to watch her run. This remains
true. Seeing Clarice in this position
of resolved freedom, even if it is brief, pleases me greatly.
However, my pleasure is disturbed when I see her
face. This is not the face of the woman
I left at the lake house of her late nemesis. While I didn't expect her to be all sunshine in the middle of physical
exertion, other emotions line her features besides exhaustion.
Never have I known Clarice to look so…sad. The sight truly plagues me, making it almost
difficult to breathe for a minute. And
then it's not just the sadness. The air
I take in smells of dried tears, and the horrid stench of defeat.
Realization
strikes me, and it isn't pleasant. I
have caused this grief in her life, whatever it is. I brought her here, simply by my persistent coming and
going. It was never my purpose to place
her in such a position. I wanted to
bring her enlightenment, reason, happiness. Though I cannot faithfully say all my motives were so noble, never did I
suspect the drastic reverse would occur. I am not accustomed to failure. The taste runs bitter in my mouth.
I watch as she passes, uncertain if I should
follow. My better senses tell me to
turn and pace in the opposite direction, to leave her life once and for all and
correct the massive wrong I have already caused. If not for me, she might have prospered in this life she chose,
despite its corruption.
But against my keener senses, what I know is in her
best interest; I follow, condemning my actions with every step. Am I really that set to craft her
destruction? I don't want to consider
it in those terms, but it seems most logical, given my actions.
Perhaps I want to prove to myself it is not entirely
my fault that she is here. I caution in
advance that I might not like what I see.
I stop when I have a considerable view of her
Mustang. The temptation is with me to
taste her steering wheel once more, yet I manage to control the urge. If she takes a minute to look, discovering
my presence will be easy. However, this
is not an area of concern. Though I
know Clarice has an uncanny sixth sense about such things, I do not suspect she
is alert to it today.
When she comes into view, I feel the pain again. Oh, how I do detest seeing her like
this.
Where I thought she would simply get into the vehicle
and drive away, she manages to surprise me, giving me an air of self-awareness. Subconsciously, I take a step back, though
noting it does little good. Though I am
a safe distance away, a more thorough search would undoubtedly result in my
discovery.
Clarice turns her back to her car, reclining against
the driver's side window. She props her
elbows to the hood, her head hanging as though ashamed of herself. After a minute, her body breaks into subtle
shakes. I feel my knees buckle though I
maintain control.
I cannot tolerate this. Seeing her weep breaks me wholly. I yearn to come forward, to take her into my arms and offer her
my shoulder. She is uncannily difficult
to read today, and perhaps if I knew more, I would step forward.
An alien cowardly air runs through me. I do not want her to know I'm here, for I
fear the weight of a heavy blame. The
taste is sour, one I have not sampled in some time. I decide its wear is odd and slightly loose on my frame.
Truly I am my own worst enemy.
Still, I perfect my immobility and swiftly command
myself to remain stationary.
I am glad when she moves inside her car. Should she have stood another moment, I fear
my will would have broken. Selfishly, I
also concede I cannot stand to watch her grieve, and the sight became one of
repulse. Not because I looking at her
is unbearable. I have made several days
pass with such a pleasant activity. No,
it is the burden of my guilt.
It feels bizarre, this eerie responsibility. I have killed people as though they were troublesome insects, and still neglect to feel a drop of culpability for any of my actions. They were pawns to me, have never accumulated to more. But Clarice…though she remains physically unscathed from any encounter…the burden I carry makes it difficult to stand still.
I decide, perhaps irrationally, to follow Clarice home. I am determined to reassure myself of her well being, though I have seen enough to suggest the contrary. In spite of myself, I look forward to visiting her quaint living space again. It has been too long.
She concerns me…upon arriving home; she trails immediately to the upper levels of the household, presumably to nap. In watching her over the past few years, I recognize this as entirely out of character. She is accustomed to late nights and early risings. Without needing to refer to my wristwatch, I register it is no later than four o'clock in the afternoon.
I pause. Should I enter? This might only endanger her rationality, should any remain.
I chuckle to myself. It seems perverse that I would care to preserve her sound mind. I spent ten years trying to break her, and I did. I broke her so well that the pieces may well never mend together. Never had I considered the weight of success.
Entering the household, I revel in the silence. As a psychiatrist, I note excessive sleep is a sign of depression, and again I flutter with concern. Not a sound is made as I travel upstairs.
I peer through the crack in her bedroom door. Clarice sleeps.
Though the scene distresses me, it also gives me a feeling of peace. The dried tears crust on her face. I yearn to cross the threshold and take her into my arms, to hold her and grasp this tranquility, to make it both of ours. Greed consumes me, and I am overwhelmed with need of her.
In her sleep, Clarice makes a blessed sound of content. I wonder if perhaps my presence can chase away nightmares. The thought is ludicrous, of course, but I'd like to think so.
Then she surprises me. Smiling, still the image of incorruptible serenity, my name spills from her lips. My given name.
The sound makes me smile. That pales in comparison to the massive relief. I know that instant my worries were in vain. I know that instant she holds me accountable for nothing of her grief, and feel honored I should be given this.
Still, my guilt weighs. While she does not blame me, that hardly protects me from myself.
I recognize the calling for what it is. I'm not sure how yet to react, but I do not hide my glee.
She remains in the sanctified silence of the lambs, and I, watching always, wait for my time to act.
There will be another time. I will see to that.
Sleep my angel. Things will be well soon.
* * *