She watched the funeral from a distance.
The coffin that was slowly lowered into the pit dug in the ground.
From there she could recognize some of the people present.
Her best friend's red hair, similar to hers, stood out against the black of her clothes.
She knew.
She was the only one who knew the truth.
But she was still there, playing her role, as she had specifically asked.
Her presence was decisive. She was the closest person to her, the one who knew everything about her, like a sister.
She thanked her mentally, apologizing for the weight that she had forced her to bear.
Then she shifted her gaze to a more distant figure.
She'd made sure the news somehow reached Utah, more specifically Caineville.
And there he was, just as she had foreseen.
Mac was watching the scene from afar, sunglasses and a cigarette between his lips.
She squeezed the bunch of flowers she had in her hands tighter as he turned in her direction.
She let the wind ruffle the perfect curls of her blonde wig, hiding her face more than the sunglasses did. She turned, bending over the grave closest to her and placing flowers on the ground, posing as any person visiting a loved one, and, by pure chance, found himself there during a funeral.
She pulled her brown coat tighter and stared at the name on the marble next to her flowers.
The name "Wright" was engraved, date of birth missing in day and month, it reported only the year 1910. Date of death November 4, 2009.
She thought for a moment about the nearly centennial person buried beneath her feet, wondering if, wherever he or she was, was cursing her for her purely opportunistic act.
She didn't know if there was anything after her life. She didn't know whether to call herself a believer or similar.
She just liked to think it wasn't all over.
She often stopped to think about it but in the end she found it pointless to puzzle over something she would never know for sure before time.
She turned back to the funeral in progress, mulling over what she had just thought.
Her time had already come but, for her, death had definitely not ended her existence.
She had been following his red truck for a while, at least until it didn't looked suspicious.
She stopped at a gas station, with a small bar, along that endless and deserted road that led to Caineville.
The man behind the counter stared at her strangely all the time she sat at the only table available. She probably looked completely out of place, with the clean new coat, the blonde wig, perfectly coiffed, but that bothered her deeply.
She bought a pack of cigarettes, to occupy the time, to find a relief valve.
She had never been a smoker.
Her only and last cigarette was from her high school years, about 10 years before. She didn't even remember why she had smoked.
The only thought of becoming addicted to something bothered her, so she never touched them again.
Now, for some strange reason, she felt the need.
She broke the plastic film and immediately the smell of tobacco hit her roots.
It remembered her father and she felt her lips curl. Who knows how he would have reacted if he could have seen her at that moment.
Then that face so loved by her was replaced by another.
Mac smoked perpetually.
The smell of smoke permeated all his clothes and his house.
She had breathed that air for so long until she got used to it. It was then strange to get back to breathing clean air.
The cardboard package curled under her hand that she hadn't realized she'd made into a fist.
She quickly took out a cigarette and then tossed the pack on the coffee table.
From her coat pocket she pulled a metal lighter.
She had never used it.
It was a memory more than anything else. A reminder.
Or maybe she had stolen it only for the small satisfaction of depriving him of something.
Who knows if he had ever realized it. If he had thought of her in that moment.
She observed the subtle scratches on the back.
Then she clicked it, lighting her cigarette.
Even without knowing it, Mac continually influenced her life, her thoughts, her gestures.
She couldn't keep him out of her mind now.
The clarity and mental versatility that she had always had were gone.
She hated being addicted to something but now she couldn't deny being dependent on him.
She lit another cigarette.
She waited 2 hours, ignoring the man's gaze, counting how many trucks passed on the street and above all, continually repeating every detail of what she had planned in her mind.
The blade of the knife suddenly grew heavier, hidden in the right boot. Likewise, the small pistol squeezed against the left calf.
She waited for the sun to be on the horizon line of the Canyon, then got back in the car, covering the last stretch that separated her from Caineville.
She arrived outside Mac's house in the deep night.
She turned off the headlights of the car before they could be visible from the windows, proceeded slowly and parked the car far enough not to attract the slightest attention of the one who lived in that house lost between the rocks or of anyone who had ears and eyes nearby.
She remembered perfectly how, at this time, the man used to sprawl on the sofa, made up of who knows what drug, watching some stupid program on TV, until sleep caught him, all after he had fucked her.
That was the only time he let his guard down. The only one in which he was most vulnerable.
And less lucid.
He had destroyed her physically, then psychologically, forcefully slipping into her thoughts, without hints of disappearing, fucking her existence.
Now, she would do the same.
She calmly walked the meters that separated her from the house.
She had finally taken off her wig and now her long red hair was waving with every step.
She held out her hand near the iron net that made Mac's German Shepherd fence.
The dog had recognized her and now he was sitting there, silent, breathing with his tongue sticking out, looking towards her.
-Hi little boy.- she whispered.
Dogs are said to be men's best friends. But, maybe, they prefer women.
She resumed walking around the house.
She stopped a few steps from a window, barely peeking inside, being careful not to make herself visible, nor to create any shadows game that could reveal her presence.
Mac was right where she remembered.
Lying on the sofa half broken, eyes closed. She could catch the muffled sound of voices coming from the TV.
He liked old horror movies.
Too many times she had suddenly awakened from an already light and tormented sleep, purely due to her tiredness, because of screams or disturbing noises coming from those damned films. And punctually, he often added his laugh and light eyes, wide open in a maniacal and excited way, like he almost wanted to eat her.
She remembered that, during their very first meeting, she couldn't help but think about how beautiful his eyes were. They were blue, a clear blue, like the sky after rain.
Then she found herself hating them, when, with her face tightened by the man's hands, the only alternative to not see them was close her own eyes.
But how can someone really hate something that finds so beautiful?
She shook her head, cursing her own thoughts.
She retraced her steps, reaching the front door.
She just turned the handle, he never locked the door.
Who would have thought of going to his house and turning against him?
Just a stupid man.
Just a stupid girl.
She walked over to the sofa, watching Mac closely again after a long time.
She looked at the TV, a probably shitty horror movie was on. She watched for some seconds how two scared girls were hiding in what looked like an underground passage.
Then she went back to him.
-Mac…- she called him whispering.
-Ehy, wake up.- she tried to make her voice as soft and sweet as possible.
Mac opened his eyes. He stayed quiet, still half sleeping, looking at her. She smiled gently.
The man ran a hand over his face.
She was dead.
He looked at her again. She was still there.
He snorted while she looked at him, doubtful.
-What's wrong, sweetheart?- her soft voice hits him again.
Meth had even hallucinated him. Maybe he was dreaming.
Drug can cause strange dreams.
-You're dead.- he simply said, more to himself.
She smiled at him again.
-Yeah, I am.-
He was delirious. Maybe he had taken too much meth.
That fucking funeral.
He hadn't been able to think of anything else since he'd known about her death.
She had survived to him. No one has even made it.
But she did.
She had escaped from him. She had even taken his clipper while running away.
And he had let it go. Just because it was her.
Just because he had turned out to be intricate by her.
He had let it go. Because he had hoped to meet her again, and would never let her go again.
Then she had committed suicide.
Three months after she had ran away from him.
He couldn't resist and went to attend her funeral that morning.
He had recognized her best friend, the one she was on vacation with.
Yeah, vacation.
In Utah, between canyon and desert, in the fucking land of dead.
She had always been attracted by remote places.
That's what she had said to him, during their first meet at Luna Mesa, drinking some kind of cocktail, when she didn't even know him.
She wanted some peace, time for herself, silence and no worries. And her girlfriend had offered to go with her even if she thought she was crazy.
He had agreed with her.
Then she had spoken again, taking a simp of her third drink.
-Have you ever had a lucid dream? I had one last night. You know, these dreams where you can clearly think and move.-
He had remained silent.
-There is something that unites them. Each time I can't remember the end of the dream. I simply arrive at a moment beyond which there is only darkness.-
-Then what? - He had asked, strangely intrigued by her speech.
-You know, I've always believed in the multiverse theory.-
-The one about the different choices?-
-That too, but I think there are also universes where reality is not as we know it, don't you think? Do not look at me like this! I don't mean science fiction movies or anything, at least not necessarily. There can simply be different ways of looking at things, different priority indices, something that sets us apart. Do you follow me?-
He squinted at her, smiling.
How could that girl make such arguments half drunk?
He drank his shot of whiskey only to refill it seconds later.
-More or less. But what does this have to do with it? –
-I think that every time my conscious dream stops, a me from a parallel universe dies and that this is a way to ... let the others know that one of us is gone. So, I don't remember anything because in that moment I'm a dead me.-
-So what are you doing here, in this godforsaken place?-
-Maybe I'm searching for an interesting way to die, to show them, the "others me".-
Fuck if her words hadn't turned him on, along with her soft smile and the fact she didn't wore a bra under that shirt.
He had kidnapped her after two days, waiting for her to be alone.
He hadn't been able to wait to reach home and fucked her, midway, in the truck, between her screams and blood.
He had been her first and he made sure to make her feel like no one ever could.