DAVIES

For me, there was never a pivotal moment that made me like this. There was neither a falling from grace nor a casting away from family or humanity. I have been loved and shown kindness every step of the way. I didn’t stumble into this or lose my way. Every line I crossed, every life I cost and every soul I bought, I did with my eyes wide open. The life of evil didn’t choose me. I never met at the crossroads with the devil to agree to work for him. It just feels natural; it always has. You’ve probably concluded how bad I look or sound. But can there really be evil days if they are seen coming? I’m just a blind man of no conscience who has a hard on for bloody scenes. You’d think that only those who do good are blessed… Let me ruin that for you. My other four senses are sharpened to a painful clarity. And I happen to be a gifted mathematician. Every muscle I move is calculated. Angles, echoes, pressure points, distances, breathing patterns. My brain draws the world in images far more vivid than sight. I’d like to think they’re accurate. Whitney Houston is a white blondie, isn’t she? I wouldn’t know, would I? People exist in my head as equations and silhouettes; heights in speed of sound, weight in the depths of their footsteps and arrogance in the way their breath hits the roof of their mouth. The other details? I fill those in myself. Ah, manners. I’m Wycliffe. Wycliffe Davies. Born to Pastor John Davies and Rishelle Davies. My “angel” of a father died a day after my birth after a long battle with Hepatocellular Carcinoma leaving me with my crackhead of a mom. Yhup She couldn’t process his death. Tried to forget and got hooked. Now she speaks to him every day. Uncle Mike took over the church and took me in when Rishelle dissolved completely. He probably treats me better than he treats his three-month-old daughter. When baby Darla first stared into my eyes, I felt something… softness, maybe. Compassion even. Then she started crying: loud, sharp, repetitive, like the Vatican bells. Since then, I’ve wanted to flush her down a toilet. Unfortunately, she keeps growing, so at this point I’d probably need to drop her off the roof instead. Life in that house changed for me at fourteen. Uncle Mike was always at the church, so his new wife filled the silence. It started with her head on my shoulder, tears soaking my shirt because she was lonely. Then her hand lingering a second too long. Then her legs over my bony adolescent shoulders. The marriage was short: three seconds, really. She was caught being unfaithful. Not with me, though Anyway, my students don’t know I can’t see them. The blind leading the blind, huh? I’ve mapped every inch of that lecture hall: ascending seats, chalk boxes, the length and breadth of the blackboard, all four entrances. I know where every habitual latecomer likes to sit, the two girls who always whisper on my left and Tony. Tony… He could have been a prodigy. Or maybe he was before I intervened. He was ten steps ahead of his peers and only one step behind me. I liked that. His footsteps carried precision, the kind that clicks neatly into place like a good equation. His heartbeat rarely faltered. His breathing stayed controlled. He asked questions that made the others shift uncomfortably in their seats because they didn’t understand a word he said. For a while, I considered him my favorite silhouette. Then one evening, after class, he lingered. His steps were slow, deliberate. He walked up to my desk and exhaled in that tight, calculating way that people do when they think they’ve figured something out. “You’re not looking at your screen,” he said. “I’ve noticed. You never do.” His tone wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t suspicious. It was too observant. Too precise. Too close. You see, students who ask difficult questions are tolerable but students who start to understand me, they are not. So I corrected the equation. The next day, I asked Tony to stay behind after everyone rifled out of the hall. “I need help carrying some boxes down to the storeroom,” I told him. He agreed without hesitation. We took the left exit: the one that leads to the old metal stairway downstairs. I know that staircase well. One section of it has steps too weak to hold more than 100kg. Tony was 65. I picked my box, and he picked his. Mine was light as a feather. He didn’t know that, of course, and the sight of me carrying one erased any hint of suspicion from his mind. We reached the weak section. I stayed about two feet behind, using age as my excuse for walking slowly. And then, like music to my ears Tony stepped onto the compromised stair. Balance betrayed him and the rest happened on its own. They called it a tragic accident. I call it good mathematics. Now I simply open my laptop and pretend to read the theories and notes from the screen.