Howling Bonds

6

EMILIA

I

t was a rainy morning when the end of the world didn’t come, but for me, going to work with a severe lack of rest was worse. All Thursday morning, my mind was a mess.

I dreamed about a man for two nights in a row, but yesterday it wasn’t even a dream. I fell asleep at work late and found myself in some ancient dense forest with a lot of silver vines growing out of my skin, like a character from some teen movie. And I felt sure this movie didn’t get high ticket sales and excellent reviews.

That led to my insomnia last night. Now I had to go to work with pathetic-looking black eyes, showing the company’s long working hours and low pay. I’d punch any man who asked about my soul or fate after working until I was dizzy.

The weather in Tacoma was as turbulent as ever, raining day and night. The rain was unfeeling and vicious, holding its breath to spend time with you, waiting to see which one of us would kill the other first.

But I would win because I needed to get to the office early today. Our late work yesterday was because of the designer’s last-minute requirement changes.

People carrying umbrellas with blank expressions were rushing to work near the apartments. The clouds were confused and dirty, and the sky looked gloomy, like the face of a terminally ill patient who hates society. A few women seemed as anxious as me, their five-inch heels stomped in the puddles, splashing like grenades one after another. And no one wanted to get close within a ten-foot radius. Their perfect hair was dripping with water, and their faces were full of black smoky makeup that was now drenched by the downpour.

But I was even more unfortunate, since they were all rushing to the parking lot, and I had to trudge through the alley to the subway station.

A narrow alley lined with trees was on the road leading from the apartments to the subway station, and it hid a few small cottages behind it. The largest and most dilapidated of these was a small white building that Lydia said was the original property of a Spaniard who had fled for crime. At one point, some students used the yard as a dumpster. They threw cigarette boxes, empty bottles of energy drinks, plastic bags, and waste paper into it.

Abandoned now, the house had overgrown grass and thick moss. Someone attached an old lock to the front door and wilted creepers and wildflowers grew through the chain-link fence. A small yellow dog had a manic episode and growled at bystanders.

Outside, the dark clouds spread across the sky, and the chilly wind swept in all directions. But inside the courtyard walls, the air was icy but still. The dust was thick on the screen windows and flies buzzed in the corner near a charcoal grill, exposed to the sun and rain, like a lonely mailbox receiving letters from the past and the future.

Whenever I passed by this house, I couldn’t help but slow down. Behind me, a few drunk teenagers on motorcycles sped along the road, smoking, and singing out of tune. Their eyes looked flat in front of them, unconnected to the world. In the white smoke from the engine and the sound of their laughter and cursing, I heard another small, imperceptible voice. It sounded calm but sinister, like wind chimes swaying and plates crashing.

I watched an empty, dark green wine bottle tumble down the stairs of the abandoned house and roll through the dirt. It stopped in front of me, blocking my way to the barbed wire fence, and seemed to stare at me with a stony gaze.

I shivered and lifted my eyes. After the intersection of barbed wire and artemisia, several bushes would never regrow their leaves. And behind the bushes a door was wide open, and a person who should not be there, a brown-skinned man, stood in the shadows behind the door. He had a thin body and deep-set eyes, standing motionless for a while before revealing a calculated smile. His teeth were straight and white, and his mouth grew wide. I watched in horror as his face disappeared, leaving only a grinning mouth. The smile froze on his face, and he bent down, staring at me, and placed another bottle on the floor with a gentle push.

He looked old, older than the history of this city, this country. The man held up a sign made of discarded cardboard with big, crooked letters.

The Moon Of These Nights

Is Not The Moon

The First Adam Saw

Borges, dammit. This took me back to my college classes. Who in the hell was crazy enough to write Borges’ poem on a cardboard shell of a dumpster?

My heart raced, and my eyes darted around the alley, feeling a chill out of nowhere. I knew I should turn back, but I was determined to pass by this strange character and get to the subway station. With my head down and my steps quickening, I rushed past him.

The homeless man seemed to expect me and stepped toward me, grabbing my arm. His grip felt like a vise as his fingernails dug into my skin. He searched my eyes with an intense stare.

“You think you can pass me by? You should know that I’m not some poet who writes verses on cardboard boxes.” His words were like ice, and it felt as if his gaze had penetrated my soul.

“I don’t care who you are. I’m going to work now.” Anger filled my head while he laughed out loud.

I grabbed onto his wrists and pulled with all my strength, but he held firm. With a swift movement, he yanked me up into the air and slammed me to the ground. We grappled for a few moments before he let go.

A car sped past, its engine roaring, the irresistible force that made you feel so small and alone. Then I heard that sound, that indistinguishable sound. It emanated a faint yet distinct rhythm. I turned back, wiped a handful of rain from my face, and saw an image that would remain unbelievable and unforgettable for the rest of my life.

His eyes glowed yellow, his paws stretched out. My heart pounded against my chest like thunder. He gave a shrill growl and lunged at me.

I made a mad dash to a nearby trash can and pulled all the electronics, wood, and metal out of it. As he approached, I pointed each device at him: an old-fashioned speaker phone that screeched with white noise, a vintage computer monitor that glowed with fluorescent green light, and a discarded radio that blasted static interference.

This sudden show of force scared the damned monster, and he didn’t dare come closer for a while. I shook my head, my throat now as dry as sandpaper. “Get out of my way,” I yelled at him, hoping the discarded radios and antique monitors would intimidate him. But he closed in on me, step by step. He was so close that I smelled his sweat and the sharp odor of alcohol on his breath.