Tangled

Chapter 3 - Monsters

~Dylan~

Life as an agent has not been easy for me. It’s hard work, requires commitment and high gag-reflex. Seeing blood on an almost daily basis, being a witness to people doing the unthinkable and having to kill in self-defence. These are certainly not things that come automatically and until I had joined the academy, I didn’t think I had been ready for any of this.

Now, I am living my dream life, yet something always feels amiss. Uncertainty always follows when I take time to introspect on the missing part in my life and it’s unsettling. I often spend time, observing people in the hopes that what I see can shed some light on what my life is missing. Is it the mundanity of sitting in a coffee shop or holding hands with the girl I like or the absence of warmth and presence in my apartment?

Sometimes, I think, I know but I just don’t want to admit it. It’s painful and brings back memories that things that once were.

I sit, rolling in my chair when Aiden pops in with a cup of vending machine coffee and lands straight on my table, crushing a couple of papers set on them. I almost scold him for it but the realization that it is pointless stops me.

“Dull week, huh!” he says, sipping and slurping his coffee loudly. I shrug, keeping my hands occupied with the purple paperweight on my table. “Would’ve thought I’d be happier when there is a dull week. But it gives me too much time to ruminate on things, I don’t want to think about,” I say, not looking up at him at all.

“Aww… Dyl is being all reflective. You really need to get laid, mate! What happened to the hot medical examiner you liked?”

“She couldn’t take the pressure that came along with dating an agent, from Organized Crimes. Two dates missed and I never heard from her again. I think I should give up on dating at this point.”

“Hey man, don’t sulk! You’ll find someone who decides to stick. You see Cameron and I right? We’re happy!” he assures me and pats my back sympathetically. And I hate it.

“I am beginning to think Cami is a masochist! I don’t understand how she can live with you living a dangerous life, A! We are living a hazardous life. We could be hurt, anytime! Hell, I could be killed! I feel horrible asking any girl to commit to that! I did that once, I- You know, I can’t do that again!”

“Amy- you’ve really got to stop blaming yourself for what happened to her. She knew what she was getting into and- mate, it’s not your fault, yeah?”

Aiden knows how these conversations go and he still can’t seem to stop trying to convince me of my innocence. I appreciate his efforts, I really do, but I just can’t find myself feeling any better. In fact, I feel worse, it almost feels like rubbing salt against a fresh wound, just that the wound is over five years old.

I scoff before responding, “It feels terribly like it is, Aiden. You know it does and I hate that I feel that way, alright? Amy said the same thing, yet I have not heard from her since I last saw her five years ago. I get her postcards, but they don’t mean anything, anymore. She says she doesn’t blame me but I ruined her life and that’s- that’s what it is.”

He shakes his head and rests a comforting hand on my shoulder like he does not know what to say anymore. Maybe, he doesn’t. We have been having this conversation for the longest time and it probably is about time that he runs out of anything to say in attempts to persuade me. Before this conversation could more depressing than it already is, the phone rings, alerting both Aiden and I of an emergency. We jump up, grabbing our stuff, already ready to run when the captain walks out, calling the two of us.

“Foley, Bryant!”

“Elliot, what’s going on?”

“Domestic abuse and a murder attempt. Call from a distressed woman, mid-twenties. You want to check and give me the details. Keep me informed.”

“We are on it, Agent!”

~

A severely stabbed man who had been wheeled away minutes before and trembling woman. I direct the paramedics to help the woman before calling the captain.

“Sir, the woman stabbed her abuser. He’s critical. The ambulance has taken him to the closest hospital, they’ll keep us in the loop about his status,” I inform, examine the dried blood on my gloved hands after I helped Vicky, an attractive brunette, the victim up after I had found her hiding in the corner of her bedroom, after stabbing her boyfriend. It’s a clear case of self-defence, the victim had old and fresh wounds that included belt welts and cigarette burns. She had been more than willing to give a statement, but it looks like her mental health is a more pressing concern at the moment. I watch from the corner of my eye as the paramedics tend to her malnourished form, as I light a cigarette. Aiden has been talking to the neighbours of the couple and I let him do his thing, because, between the two of us, he is clearly the people person, while I blow the smoke in circles to keep myself occupied.

While I can never understand why a woman would stay with her abuser until her skin is black and blue from bruises. I realize, nobody is ever in a place to judge anybody for it. I am sure Vicky had her own reasons, although I don’t understand how anything can be prioritized over self-preservation. Is that what love does to you? Make you blind to very obvious flaws?

Is this love at all?

While being in Organized Crimes does not give me much of an option as far choosing a case is concerned, I sometimes wish it did. Cases like these bring memories that I’d rather not remember but it’s almost impossible not to. It’s downright awful, I can feel the bile rise up my throat. Hissing, when my finger comes in contact with the burning cigarette butt, I throw it down and stomp on it before reaching for another one to dissipate any thoughts that I had earlier. It’s a bad habit and it’s a habit. Hence, extremely difficult to quit. My other hand plays with a pair of cuffs that is hanging off the car.

That’s when I feel it. Sharp eyes burning a hole into my profile, making me look up only to come in contact with coffee coloured eyes. There is disgust, hatred and annoyance. She just stares at me and the ever-fast world loses pace.

It almost feels like déjà vu.

A gaze so familiar and eyes so narrow, I watch her move almost gracefully, almost like she is floating. And I am trying to place where I had last met her.

Her look engulfs me, swallows me and I am lost.

~Maeve~

There isn’t a single hint of inspiration.  My brain’s dull buzzing reverberates through my skull, making my head hurt. I down coffee after coffee, hoping for some redemption, a redemption, at this point, looks bleak.  I think about the different things I’ve wanted to paint, I look through yet another reference book after another looking for something to spark. I feel like my life is over, although there is no actual guarantee that my work will be put up even if I submit it to the college gallery. But not trying for me, is worse than being rejected.

“Nothing hit you, yet?”

Noah’s presence is often comforting; however, this is certainly not the time. Shaking my head, I sigh.

Is my life over?

“It is not,” I hear him say, making me realize that I had pondered my thoughts out loud.

“Sure, feels like it. I haven’t come up with one damn thing, Noah! It’s been a week,” I whisper-shout, looking up at my buddy from the stool I am currently perched on. He looks his usual, relaxed self, a camera hanging off his hands, his face haggard from a full day of classes. He simply looks back at me and, his face indicating that he is thinking of what to say next, although I know it’s nothing that’s going to comfort me.

“Mae-”

“Don’t bother,” I counter, picking up the brush from the stand and taking it close to the canvas only to drop it back. There is silence and I wait for my best friend to jest me, just that it does not come. I roll my eyes at his drama before saying, “Fine, what?”

He grins at me, large and wide when I turn around to face him properly. He’s sitting on the professor’s table, his long, lanky legs swinging back and forth like he’s aware that I will be listening to him anyway.  And I know I will. I will listen to anything this man-child has to say. That is always been the case and he knows that.

He grins.

“Just say it, Langford.”

When he realizes that I am in no mood to laugh along with him to the jokes he makes, he assumes the role of the serious best-friend or at least he tries to. “Stress is not the ideal situation for creativity, Mae. Give yourself some time. Distract yourself, invest time in something else. Stop dwelling over the lost painting, yeah?”

He makes it sound so easy. To relax. To wait. To create. He’s also probably speaking from experience but I certainly don’t work the way Noah Langford does. I don’t even know if he has a way of working.

“I do not have the luxury of time, Noah.” I guffaw, surprised that he would even suggest this after knowing me for over three forth of his life. I am the stressed, hard worker. He is the lackadaisical procrastinator who scores as well as I do, anyway. That skill, I will always be jealous of.

“Sure, you can.” He insists. “I don’t understand this self-imposed need to achieve, immediately. You can delay and still be excellent. Your exhibition is three months away, Maeve,” he says, getting off the table. He holds my shoulders and looks me square in the eye, “It’s okay, Mae. You’ll be fine.”

“You can delay and still be excellent. That’s never worked for me,” I rashly respond because his inability to just be a quiet supportive presence irritates me. Noah thinks he has the solution for everything but he forgets that his methods are not always the best for everyone else around him.

Somehow, he seems to be understanding of my mood for once. Maybe he always does but refuses to acknowledge it, covering it up with jokes and sarcasm. Making light of everything.

“And this anxiety is totally helping you, right now!” he points out.

“I-” I hate that I don’t have a response to him and that inadvertently means he is right.

“Don’t say anything. Let’s get you a coffee and then get you home!”

Noah’s getting really good at this consoling thing.

~

The subway ride had been uneventful like every other subway ride is. It’s crowded with different kinds of people from different societal strata. I see a mother and her kids, a worn-out nurse who probably had done a double shift, a couple of students, some nine to fivers and a girl who is likely to be going on a date given her striking red dress and complimentary lipstick. Noah and I share my earphones, listening to ABBA belt out their tunes, making us bop our heads in rhythm and in sync. We get off at my stop, with him offering to drop me off at my apartment. Making our way to my apartment, we stop to get some coffee, despite me being at risk for a caffeine overdose.

“I will never understand how you drink a triple shot- you’re devil incarnate! Mae? Mae-”

That’s when I see him. It’s a distant image, but the resemblance is striking.  And, I know it is him.

Muscularly lean, towering figure. Striking dark hair.

It’s definitely not a coincidence that I am seeing him close to where I had seen him last time. My feet move mechanistically like I am programmed to, with Noah saying something that is going right over my head. My eyes are trained on him and the closer I get to him, the surer I become. Striking hazel eyes and pale skin… the details I had missed out on a dark night, visible in the slightly brighter evening and he’s playing with police cuffs. I just don’t know what to do. Confront him about that night? Ask, rather demand him for an apology? What do I even want to do?

I choose to simply walk past him.

~

You know that feeling when you want to stop thinking about something but that, annoyingly is the only thing that is on your mind? Like the pink elephant?

I had just met the man who potentially might have ruined my career single-handedly, more like single leggedly, if that is even a word.

Is he finally convicted of something? Is he being arrested? Is he being let off? Who is he? Is he really a gang member? Does he kill people? What happened to the man he had been chasing the other night? Did apologizing to me, ever cross his mind that night?

The questions bother me, and honestly, it really should not. I should not even be thinking about him so much. My painting had been the unfortunate casualty of some gang problem and that is that. The fact that I am putting so much thought into and about this person, is concerning me. Raising my thoughts and suspicions to Noah would be the dumbest thing I can do for myself because he’ll probably make a joke or scene out of it, which I don’t want and I just… I don’t know what to do with these random ideas.

I stare out of the window, into the blackness of the moonless sky, the only light coming from the multitudes of building that stack against each other like a puzzle meant to fit. On another day, I would have enjoyed the lame view of buildings against the backdrop of a clear, dark sky. Somehow today, every familiar aspect of the view appears to be almost metaphorical, reminds me of things I would rather forget. It is crazy how frequently, I have been thinking about the man I have met, twice, neither occasion holding any essence of positivity or interaction between the two of us.

My hands seem to have found their way to my sketchbook, moving effortlessly across the plain white paper. My fingers move swiftly across the page, sketching out features that seem to have etched themselves in my brain for whatever damned reason. Damn these observation skills.

It’s pretty basic in the beginning before it turns into a sketch of a hauntingly, familiar face. Strong features, cigarette dangling between the fingers, leaning against the police car.

Not like I did not know subconsciously where my fingers had been taking me, but I gasp at the final picture.

It is him.