Part 2: Courante

I don’t know what brought me, but I was at the mall again, sitting on the bench, the same place we’d waited to meet each other. What, hoping for the crowd noise, the bustle of people, to anesthetize me, dull the pain? If I closed my eyes, I could remember sitting right where I was, her coming up and touching me, kissing me. She was gone. And Jen was gone, now running an Apple store in Southern California. Even Pamela was gone, off in Seattle.

“That’s what happens,” a man said.

I glanced to the side; a nondescript man, mid-forties, sitting a few feet away from me on the bench, looking away from me, out across the mall.

He spoke softly about how it didn’t matter, thralls were barely sentient, and how I had decisions to make, to decide what side I was on...

It didn’t ring true, and it made me mad as hell. Not just being used, but used as pawns...

I gathered energy, focusing, reached over, and touched him as he spoke.

As I touched him, I struck.

Oh, he tried to put up defenses, mental defenses, but I shattered them with ease, taking what I wanted. He was a Son of Churl, a Freeman, but he was owned by one of them, bearing their marks, her marks; I saw her in his mind, her eyes glowing. Who did it? Did he know who did it? Who hurt Wendy? I tore through his mind with rage, searching. He, they didn’t know, but they were happy to use the occasion to turn me against others, to probe me, probe how much I’d learned, what I could do.

I pressed more, taking, ripping information from him. Anything he tried to hide — I ripped that out of him — his secrets, his fears. I saw so much, so much of how she’d taken him, used him, twisted him, the tricks she’d used, they used. And how much he’d loved it.

Fueled by fury and rage, I pressed on, tearing through him.

He made a gurgling noise and fell to the floor.

“Help!” I called out. “Help!” I knelt down by him. He still had a pulse and was breathing; his eyes rolled up in his head. I turned his head a little, feeling something; there on the back of his head was the mark. He twitched, and I took all I could from him.

One of the mall security guys ran up. “What’s happening?” he asked. When I looked at him, he did a double-take, recognizing me.

“This guy made a weird noise and fell over! He’s still breathing and has a pulse.”

I stepped back and let security take over. As I stood, I closed my eyes. I did something, searching for more of them, searching for her, the one I’d seen in his mind.

Some others, close by? She was far away.

Medical showed up quickly. I retold my story — I was sitting there, a guy sat down next to me. I thought he might be talking on a phone, I didn’t know what he was saying. Then he made this weird noise and fell over! That’s when I called for help.

Fire and paramedics hauled him off; he didn’t look good. Mall security and management remembered me, all too well. We reviewed things yet again in the security office. One of the guys brought up a security camera recording. It showed me sitting there, elbows on knees, the other guy sitting down, looking off into the distance. You couldn’t see enough of his face to tell what he was saying. I touched him, my face empty, and he fell over. I smiled a bit. Here’s one for yoga, staying relaxed in the intensity of the moment...

One of the mall guys got called out to talk to the cops.

Damn, I felt tired. What a mess ... So tired. My head was heavy, hard to hold up, so hard to keep my eyes open. As I relaxed, I glanced over and saw the mall security guy, head down on the desk, eyes closed, face slack...

That set off something inside me. I dipped my head, focusing, taking a breath, gathering ... and striking out, at something, at someone — it felt like a man, not the woman I’d seen. I struck once, twice, viciously, tasting bile ... The feeling of tiredness was gone, replaced by cold stomach-churning fury.

I looked at the snoozing guard. What to do? I moved the chair noisily and farted. He sat up, startled, shaking his head, then rubbing his face. I looked off into the distance.

The cops and the other mall guys came back. They had to run to another one — report of a guy collapsing down the mall a ways. They knew how to reach me. Yeah, so did a lot of people.

A security guy escorted me to my car. I thanked him and headed home.

Fuck. They were watching me. Multiple groups, which in and of itself was interesting, were watching me. May you live in interesting times. May you come to the attention of powerful people. What was the third prong of that curse? I’d find out soon enough, the way things were going. The bastards ... Watching me and willing to let an innocent die. Willing to send an innocent to her death, to die screaming in mindless terror. Just a thrall, hardly sentient to them.

Driving out of the parking structure, Winchester to the 280 Freeway Northbound. I needed to move into the right lane, coming up on the Winchester Mystery House.

I glanced to my right. Jetta with a guy in it, his eyes glowing, he looked at me, stared at me.

Something clicked — I cast a thought, a feeling, at the woman driver in front of him, the sudden panic sensation of something darting in front of her car. She hit her brakes, hard. He rear-ended her, his head still turned. I passed them, moved to the right lane, and turned on to the freeway northbound.

Fuck ‘em all!

I lived.

The dreams returned.

Not Vanessa, visiting me in my dreams as she had early on, but the other woman, the one I’d seen in his mind.

At first, I was searching for her, seeking peace, seeking release in her eyes, seeking the pleasure she’d given him.

But it was the typical stuff of dreams, waking before that key moment.

I searched for her in my dreams.

One night, she found me. The look of wonder in her face, surprise and pleasure, and the pleasure filling me as she took me in her glowing eyes, and I came to her touch, waking, wanting to return to her.

She returned to my dreams, at first pleasurably, teasing, pleasing, taking me so nicely...

But that changed. Still pleasurable, falling into her eyes, feeling dream hands on me, but she was whispering, and while I couldn’t quite understand what she was saying, I was uncomfortable. I turned away; I tried to get away. She came for me in my dreams, and I tried to get away, with my legs and arms not working right, so hard to move, but I had to get away from her, and I’d wake up just as...

Awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding as I stared into the darkness. I’d escaped her.

Again.

Waking up, night after night, throwing off dream paralysis, getting up to pee whether I needed to or not, washing my face.

The other dreams ... I was little. Again? Four or five years old? In our old house, a man at the door, an uncle? His eyes were glowing! One of them! I screamed and ran as he chased me.

He came after me, smiling but his eyes glowing. Trying to get away, arms and legs not working, knowing he was reaching for me, waking up, heart pounding in terror.

With her, I knew those were dreams. But him ... They had the feeling of more, of recurring dreams that I’d had before, many times. So hard to remember — did I have nightmares as a little kid? Nobody to ask, nobody alive to ask anymore. And what is real? If I’d had those dreams as a little kid, if I could “see” them as a little kid, what did that mean? I didn’t know. So confusing.

In meditation at the end of yoga one night, a hard class, a good class, letting go on the floor in savasana. The thought hit; I almost laughed. Why don’t they team up? Why doesn’t he chase me to her? Oh, weeks ago, how I wanted her, how I wanted to give myself to her and the pleasure she brought. But I knew, somehow ... Her whispering, something she was trying to do, menacing, as menacing as him. I knew, even though he was chasing me as a little kid, and she was chasing me as ... an adolescent, an oversexed teen, both of them were after me. Both were intent on hurting me.

One night, standing alone in my dream, like standing alone in an arena, waiting for them to come after me, again. I stepped into Warrior, raising my hands above my head, drawing energy down, down through my hands, spine, down to my feet. I returned to standing, raising my right hand, palm up, then opening to the ground around me, turning three times, casting a barrier around me, and on the third time, raising my hands over my head, lifting, drawing the energy I’d woven into a sphere, enclosing me, feeling a pulse of searing heat as it sealed around me, then dissipating into coolness. I was safe.

I slept well, for the first time in many nights.

The next day at work, the phone rang.

Vanessa. “What did you do?” she asked enthusiastically.

“Come talk to me if you want to find out,” I spat, and hung up.

The phone rang again. “What?” I demanded of her.

“Why did you hang up?” Vanessa asked. “I only wanted to talk to you about...”

“You wanted to talk? You want information?” I interrupted. “Well so do I! It’s a two-way street! Come talk to me!” I hung up again, and stormed away from my desk.

I walked to the company cafeteria. It wasn’t open for lunch yet. I walked back to my lab.

Something shifted; I was more focused, more intense. What I’d thought of as a glow of energy in my palms I now thought of as a lance, a rapier. Not a club, a fist, to swing and strike, pummel and destroy, but an edge, sharpened, honed, to strike with precision. I practiced with intensity, sharpening, hardening, honing. Honing, preparing a weapon. I’m not going without a fight!

I practiced other things, too, things I’d seen in his mind, and hers, things she and others did.

I took her tricks, their tricks, and made them mine, honing, polishing, strengthening. I combined and extended, refining.

Lunchtime in the cafeteria at work, hearing a sow spreading rumors about coworkers. As she stepped towards a checkout line with a full tray, I cast the image of something darting at her left leg, something small with nasty teeth. She shrieked and her tray went flying. As she spun around, I cast another one at her, and another, until she ran out screaming.

Queue up at a grocery store, the express queue, ten items or less, no checks please, the turkey two in front of me had a damn full cart and pulled out a checkbook. I cast ... bladder pressure. A few more pushes and he pulled his cart out of line and bolted for the heads in the rear of the store. I pushed again, hard. He didn’t make it.

At Borders on the way home after a yoga class, not really looking at books and too late for coffee, I turned to see a young oriental woman looking at me, that blank smile, another moth drawn to my flame. I smiled and made eye contact and more, filling her with lust. Her eyes dilated and she blushed as she stepped closer. She tilted her head and reached for me, kissing, dropping everything she’d been carrying. I kissed and squeezed her, touching the side of a breast, breathing orgasm through her, searing, mind-blanking pleasure. I held her while she shook, muffling her moans with my mouth.

I released her and stepped back; she staggered against the end of an aisle of books. I bent down and picked up the things she’d dropped. “You dropped these,” I said quietly, returning them. I gave her another thrill as our hands touched, and another orgasm as I caressed her waist and kissed her forehead before I turned and walked away. What a dim, dull life she led. People around us — some stared, some pretended not to stare, some felt it and were drawn closer ... What had that twit in the mall called them? Sheeple ... Nice portmanteau term that, told me a lot about them and how they thought.

I even returned to a small yoga studio, asking a particular instructor if she did private lessons. We wore each other out for two and a half days. No pretensions, no illusions — we used each other.

But it was a facade — and beyond that facade was a gaping wound festering with rage.

Heading home after a good yoga class. Good, but ... The instructor, Diane, who does the evening classes, had been talking to Kimberly, who does the morning classes at work. They agreed; while I was making great progress, and demonstrated depth and dedication to the practice, both felt I was overdoing it, and needed to find more balance in my life.

Right.

We spent a while after class talking. I showed a depth and an awareness in the practice they didn’t understand; it was clear I was on a different level. Both of them knew Wendy, what had happened, and how I’d been shaken. Well, they knew part of it, how I looked on the outside. They saw how I’d withdrawn, yet when I helped in yoga, I showed such understanding and compassion. They saw the focus and intensity, yet how reserved I was. Both wanted me to help more. They especially worried that my focus and intensity were turning into anger. That was wrong — I’d passed anger a long time ago, deep into rage ... Diane even suggested that there were women in the classes that might be interested in helping ... That would have been humorous ... But what can I tell her, them? Yes, I’m holding back. Even when I help, I’m holding back. I can look in your eyes, touch you, and give you the most powerful orgasm you’ve ever had in your life. I can fill you with lust and sweep you off your feet into delirium. And if you’re lucky, you’ll live?

I thought about it driving home. Another two or three-week meditation retreat was looking good.

But is that escape? The bastard back in the mall had a point; I had decisions to make, and avoiding them was deciding, whether I liked it or not.

I had to do something. The rage was building. I was striking out, and what’s worse, I was putting myself in risky positions, risking exposure or injury. That’s got to stop! Maybe a month-long retreat...

Park the car in the garage, take a breath, start thinking about dinner.

But walking in from the garage, a different pattern of lights illuminated the house. I smelled cooking — good cooking.

And there sitting on the sofa in the family room was Vanessa, holding a glass of white wine.

She smiled and nodded.

I paused, rage and bile rising, preparing to defend myself, preparing to attack.

She set her wine glass down. “Truce,” she said, raising her hands. “I promise. Come, please sit down,” she offered, motioning to the love seat adjacent to the couch.

I dropped my bag and sat down, still on edge. Noise from the kitchen.