Whoever Now Walks toward Me

On the day I graduated from college, Helen died. Though Helen and I weren't blood-related, I always considered her my mother. I don't know where my real mother is—Helen never told me. Or perhaps she just never got the chance. When I was a child and learned that every kid was supposed to have parents who looked like them, I asked Helen where mine were. That was the first time I saw her cry—so deeply, so painfully. She told me I was too young, that when I was older when the time was right, she would tell me everything. I guessed that my parents were a painful memory for her. I also assumed that they were dead. So when I looked at her, my first thought was that I would never know if I was right. It wasn't really about my parents—it was about Helen. Now, I'll never know. Helen is dead, and with her, many questions will never be answered. Never. I never had parents, and I had long since accepted that. But I had Helen—and now, I've lost her too. On my way back, I was consumed with fear. I prayed the entire journey. But my fears came true, and my prayers went unanswered. The week before, Helen had called to tell me she would attend my graduation ceremony. She said we'd take pictures together on campus, she was proud of me. She sounded so happy. She promised she would come. She didn't. I called, but no one answered. After the group photo, I wandered alone on the grass, watching my joyful classmates with their parents. I kept hoping to see her appear late, explaining what unexpected event had delayed her. But she never showed up, and she didn't answer my calls. I kept calling from the campus phone booths until I ran out of change. I didn't own a cellphone because I thought the school's phone booths were enough for my needs. But on the way home, I wished I had bought one. Maybe then, if Helen had resolved whatever was keeping her, she could have reached me. Or if she was in trouble, she could have called me. But Helen was dead—no breath, no heartbeat, her skin as pale as paper, blood soaking through the carpet. I held her, and I cried. Then, I awakened. They told me later that the psychic shockwave I unleashed knocked out everyone in the block, including an off-duty sentinel. I didn't know. All I remembered was what happened in that room—on the carpet, the blood, Helen—dead Helen. Those moments are a blur in my memory, like a nightmare. I felt myself becoming something other than human. I felt omniscient, like a god, able to see everything—her wounds, stab wounds, so many stab wounds, carefully avoiding vital organs. The blood that soaked the carpet had flowed from those wounds for a long time. She had struggled for so long, suffered for so long. The one who inflicted that suffering had watched her the entire time. Yes, him—the bastard who killed Helen, the murderer. I "saw" his sick pleasure as he watched her die. That disgusting pleasure was like a glaring thread, and I followed it. Then I "saw" him, a mass of darkness lurking behind the bedroom door. Helen had always taught me not to be reckless, to run and call the police if I was in danger. But I didn't. I forgot. I lost my mind. All I could think about was hatred. "I" rushed at him. It wasn't me—I was still sitting on the carpet, holding Helen's body—but I knew it was also me. "I" was a glowing orb without physical form, passing through the door. It was as if I had broken through a thin membrane, and I saw him—both of them. He was standing there in a pitch-black trench coat, a smile on his lips. "He" was a dark presence, filling the entire bedroom, radiating a pressure that terrified "me." Before "I" could retreat, "he" reached out a tendril, wrapping around "me," swallowing "me" whole. Terror. Suffocation. "He" was everywhere. I was helpless. The fury and hatred I unleashed were effortlessly deflected by "him." There was no escape from "his" crushing and invasive force. I felt myself screaming, though no sound came out, but I knew I was screaming. I "saw" him push the door open and walk out. He was the one who killed Helen, drenched in her blood and pain. I laid Helen down and grabbed my keys. The self-defense instructor had always said, Go for the eyes. I wanted to gouge out his eyes—they were light green. But I didn't stand a chance. Just like "he" easily overpowered "me," I was easily pinned against the dresser. I heard myself screaming, though no sound came out. Then I felt something invading me like an iron spoon shoved into my brain and stirred. The pain was unlike anything I had ever experienced. "I" and I were both screaming. Relax, he said inside my mind. "You killed her!" I shouted. I felt an overwhelming grief, an overwhelming hatred. These emotions were too intense for any human to bear; they were tearing me apart, shredding me. I was vomiting, or maybe I wasn't. Perhaps I was releasing something else. I didn't know. I was in agony. I felt him reaching out with something, something that started putting my shattered pieces back together like nails. He wanted me to relax, to submit. He was like a steel brace, forcing me into his mold. I didn't know what he was doing, but I understood this: he was saving me. He had murdered Helen. And he was saving me. Relax, he kept telling me. If you don't want to kill your neighbors, you need to relax… accept me. Who would kill? Tears welled up in my eyes. How could it be me? "Let go of me—I don't want—" My consciousness merged with another's, and my feelings fused with another's. I was happy, but it wasn't my happiness; I was ecstatic—but it wasn't me! I want to. Let. Let me. GO! But a more overpowering, stronger, and more intense emotion washed over mine. He held me, kissed me, caressed me. Desire—the desire to become one. The hatred of separation. Love. Confusion. My confusion was drowned by his tidal wave of emotion. I couldn't feel myself anymore. I could only feel him. And his feelings were: Indescribably wonderful. When he finally released me, I was still trembling. He withdrew from me, and I felt myself once more as if I had been born into this world again. I knelt on the ground, tears dripping onto my hands. The air was still thick with the scent of Helen's blood. But the grief and anger in my heart were no longer as sharp as before as if he had washed them clean, stripping away their edges. I wished he hadn't. I wished I could still be torn apart by my pain. A new wave of hatred and sorrow began to rise within me. And he was on the phone. I heard him calling the Tower, calmly, and openly, asking them to send an ambulance quickly because there was a newly awakened guide here. So calm, so at ease, as if the dead body on the carpet didn't exist. "Who are you?" I asked. "Ray," he answered crisply, "your sentinel." *