First World(3)

What was this mystery man doing on the streets? Out here there were Gangers, the occasional lost human (dead men walking) and the crazy homeless beggars. But this man didn’t fit any of the profiles. A lone wolf. He emanated a unique strength and power, but more than that, he was strangely familiar. In an almost involuntary movement, I took a step closer. The cooling air sent chills down my spine. It was either that or the energy pulsing in the space between us.

I was now close enough to distinguish the dark blue of his eyes, shrewd and perceptive. On top of that his commanding and charismatic presence dominated the space. What a plethora of contradictions. This familiarity was crazy; I had never known anyone but the rebels from my compound. So what was my connection to him?

And then it hit me. Figuratively speaking.

I’d been probably nine years old, I guess. It was only the second time I’d escaped the compound. The situation in New York was not as bad then, but being a child I’d had more restrictions. The first ten minutes had been fun and uneventful. But then I’d noticed a group of men standing near Central Park. Unsure of the situation and worried for my safety, I decided to make my way home. It had been near this very street that I locked eyes with a man. This man. I was sure of it now.

The same warmth ... the same strength ... the same sense of safety had reached across the space to me.

As a child, I hadn’t even hesitated, stepping onto the road toward him. I’d taken three steps before he’d smiled sadly, lifted his hand in a wave, and taken off into the park.

The memory had stayed with me for years, gradually fading until now. I guess any psychiatrist would assure me he was the reason I ran the streets: I had been searching for him.

Standing here, eight years later, he still evoked feelings of warmth and safety. And my curiosity would not be denied. My sensible side was demanding over and over that I move my butt out of there, but, if I hadn’t listened for seventeen years, I wasn’t about to start now.

He didn’t seem dangerous. Just standing there – silently.

So, I conveniently ignored that he’d grabbed me only five minutes before. What did I have to lose?

Don’t answer that question.

Since my escape from his clutches, he had made no attempt to approach me again. Usually this would be to lull me into a false sense of security. But the vibe I was getting was the opposite. I tapped my foot reflexively. For the world’s most impatient person, it had reached the point where I couldn’t stand the silent staring any longer.

Time to speak up.

What’s the worst that could happen? Yeah, I threw that out into the universe ... I liked living on the edge.

“Strange man with horrible haircut,” I acknowledged his presence, “who are you and what do you want?” My words cut through the semi-darkness.

There was a subtle change as my words broke our stare-off. His muscles tensed, as if expecting a confrontation. I tilted my head to the side. It seemed important to hear him speak; I felt like I had been waiting my entire life for this moment. His lips turned up at the corners.

“Fiery redhead, with an attitude.”

I smiled at his words. He had a sense of humor. How refreshing.

“I am your watcher, miqueriona. Tell me, what is the name you are called here?”

The words were thick, his voice rusty and unused. With the combination of unfamiliar accent and gravelly voice, I barely registered the question. Instead, I stood there, mouth hanging open. A sudden and unexpected burst of emotion was wreaking havoc with my central nervous system. I had never heard anything as beautiful as that accent. It was lilting, somewhere between speaking and singing, and was old fashioned, like his clothing. It soothed as it flowed down the alley like a river of warm honey.

Any normal day I would think I’d just experienced some type of mild psychotic episode. And, yes, I did say normal day. I considered his strangely phrased question.

“My name is Abby, so that’s what I’m called here, and everywhere else.” I paused for a moment. “What’s a micwa rena?” The wording, so beautiful in his accent, sounded odd and disjointed from me.

I waited patiently. Well, pretty patiently. My hands were not on my hips yet, and my foot had only tapped twice.

Then he dived at me.

It was so fast I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been looking directly at him. My obsession with his voice had relaxed my innate self-preservation. I’d let my guard down and now it was too late. Standing next to me, he was huge, towering over my five-foot ten-inch frame. He had my right arm again, gently this time. Don’t ask me how that happened. My movements were in slow motion compared to his. He flipped over my wrist, and we stared at the diamond-shaped mark, just visible in the dim lighting. Curved around the small of my wrist, the smooth purple mark looked larger than usual.