Itty

[September 2019]

Spencer resumed climbing the stairwell after taking a minute. He had been standing in the baby blue concrete corner pinching the bridge of his nose from stress. He couldn't find her today. Even after memorizing her routines and several frequented places over the past few weeks. This sudden disappearance had such a frantic panic effect on his heart that he almost believed she might have been some manifestation of his psyche. The most beautiful thing he's ever seen, just some hallucination brought on from his crumbling life and void left by divorce. Maybe her place had always been ransacked and she was never there...

Dismissing it, he shakily scratched his blonde beard before mirroring the hand with the other in his dirty navy hoodie pockets. His worn boots clopped up the rubber coated stairs, then quietly padded on the dark carpeted corridor. Sounds of televisions and thumps passed by him behind shabby doors, and distant shouting at the far end no doubt from the new family. No one on the floor could complain about them since the husband was the superintendent's nephew.

At his door Spencer felt sick. The moisture damage showing through the wallpaper. The intrusive scents of what could only be trash someone was cooking. The memory that she was gone... likely even in danger... His forehead was against the door and eyes unfocused as Spencer stared into his inner abyss. It didn't even have the courtesy of looking back. Now there's that fear again. The fear that drove him to the pharmacy. He gave a small bump of his forehead against the door and entered. He didn't bother locking it anymore. What little he had, no one would bother to steal. The light bulbs maybe.

His face twitched as the door creaked, and he imagined Marley bounding forward with tail wagging in excitement as it always did. Of course it wasn't though, as the wife took that too. One of the only things she didn't take was the ring he kept in his pocket. In the short entranceway he froze looking at the tiny adjacent closet's floor. His heart felt suspended and Spencer jammed his eyes shut. No. God no. Not this. After his spouse and job, he couldn't lose his mind as well. He turned away from the closet, not wanting to see those Vans checkered slip-ons under his coat. The other night he thought he heard her voice call to him, and now he was seeing her shoes.

It could have been the penitence, the drinking, the loneliness... it didn't matter. Seeing things was a huge step above mild auditory hallucinations and this terrified him. Spencer needed Marley... just something in this world that's happy to see him and won't shy away from his face. From his scar.

He stepped into his small living room. There were two doors on the opposite side, left for bedroom and right for cramped bathroom. The right side of the living room had a simple sink and a stove with burn marks up the walls from some blunder by the previous tenant. Spencer looked to his left at the couch and issued a sharp gasp. He stumbled back into the corner of the entranceway causing some dusty ceramic chicken to fall off a shelf at his elbow. He stared with his good right eye and left one grey from cataract at his couch as he panted, his spine against the sharp corner and arms back against the walls. This couldn't be real... Marley curled up on the couch, warming in a thick sliver of glowing sunlight would have been a typical feeble imagining, but the small form curled up with a sleepy smile must have been final proof of insanity.

She lie there on her side, her legs pulled up in front with calf-cut dark jeans and worn holed socks on her little feet, her bare arms with numerous black bangles on each sticking out of her grey t-shirt and resting on the cushion, and her head with that bountiful mane of long soft black hair puffed out in her usual scene style resting on the arms. The rectangle of light played across the contours of her soft pale face, contrasting the thick eyeliner and black lipstick. It was Katherine. It was her. Right there. Right there in his dank messy apartment. Not three meters away.

Spencer felt a plethora of emotion, the strongest unfortunately being fear. Did I... did I kidnap her? Oh please no... I wouldn't... I've never blacked out and acted as far as I know... but if I did... why would she have such a peaceful grin? But her house... He noticed a glass with looked like milk residue on it's sides sitting just under the small nightstand next to the couch. But he didn't even have milk in the house. Somehow through all of this - likely from shell shock - that fact seemed the most important. Like a trauma victim wondering if they left their lights on. He walked over to the fridge and with a clunk opened it to find a carton he never purchased and a flat pack of seasoned salmon he couldn't afford. Also a new pineapple he stared at like an ape to a Rubik's cube. This food... it was real... his heart skipped a beat at what this implied, and when he heard the calm light yawn from his left he very slowly stood and turned his face. The shadow of his head obstructing half of the orange light sliver on her countenance. Her eyes fluttered and she noticed him begin to approach swiftly, his trembling hand outstretched.

- - 26 Days Ago - -

The pharmacist avoided his face before answering. Her pause made her awareness clear. The silence between them palpable despite the surrounding ambience of shoppers and registers. Spencer could tell that the older brunette employee knew full well why he was asking about the potency of their over-the-counter sleeping pills. Even if she hadn't smelled the whiskey her first glance into his gaze was enough. The eyes of a dead man walking. Her eyes looked moist as she looked up as far as his beard and said they were a mild enough dose as to not be dangerous.

Her compassion - although previously desired - made him feel ill. The pills could have easily been researched online from a library, but Spencer had felt compelled to speak to someone. Small desperate rationalizations. He knew he just wanted to talk and have someone tell him to stop, that things are going to be okay. He must be a coward at heart. But this woman couldn't even look at his face, afflicted forever from the bolt that struck him two years prior. The red sprawling swirling Lichtenberg scars running up his neck and left side of face. One of the lines ran over his nose, and some others up to reach his greyed left eye. His ex-wife used to proudly brag he looked like Jeremiah Johnson from the film... Now this pharmacist probably wouldn't give him the time of day if not working.

Spencer's eyes looked distant and cold as he asked for a lot then. The woman hesitated. He added to not refuse him service. His tone got her looking for her supervisor who was on lunch break. After looking at her name tag he told Bridgette he was in a hurry. His throat clicked. She slowly walked back and took a bottle. He asked for four. Spencer overpaid in cash and walked off, whipping up his hood and keeping his head down. The plastic bottles rattled in the paper bag like some snake's warning. At the end of the aisle he was lost in the darkest spiral, remembering what led him here. Then two skinny legs in black with checkered slip-ons walked silently past on the shiny floor. From under his bangs and hood he felt his mind emerge from the back seat to consider them go by.

When they disappeared behind the left aisle his curiosity caused him to step forward in tow. Then for the first time he saw her. The small thing was walking swiftly into the liquor store through the grocery access doors. His good eye took in this girl in black. Her long puffed out fluffy hair, her black off-shoulder shirt with thin lime green stripes on the sleeves ending at her pale fingertips, the tight black pants with the same bright green colour in a checker pattern on the right leg. Around her waist was a black sash, with the end hanging from the middle of the small of her back and swaying low behind her calves. Inside him he felt the click, the snag, and then the need. He followed her from a distance into the store, self-pity and hatred filling his corners. Not another one... not another obsession... part of the reason for the paper bag in his clenching fist was this dark tracking.

He kept his distance and watched her little hand grab Kahlúa and the other Smirnoff. Her head was pleasantly bopping along to some song she must have had in her head. Spencer wondered what it sounded like... if he could hear it by placing his ear against hers like some heavenly sea shell. He twitched and realized how retarded that was. He seized the closest bottle of something he barely looked at and followed to the register. In line three places behind her he still didn't hear her voice or see her face through all that hair as she tapped her foot to her earworm. His desire to see her face frightened him. All signs were pointing to this being just like the last four... maybe six women he's obsessed over. Women that would surely fear, hate or find him repulsive if he had ever made any real interaction with them. Spencer's hands trembled slightly as he remembered a few.

Brittany, the first. Redhead. His age. Stay at home mom. Equestrian. Reminded him of his wife in her mannerisms. Followed her for a few days before he thought her husband suspected something.

Mindy. Brunette. Twenty one. Taking second college course. Loved swimming. He had stolen her socks and flip-flops during one such outing of hers and masturbated with them while looking at pictures he had taken in concealment. He had felt terrible for this after a few days of using them and had ignited them. She walked out of her house one day to find money equalling the worth of her stolen possessions in an envelope.

Soara, the last. A tall blonde. Twenty-four. Aspiring journalist. Collected wind chimes. Spencer remembered how this one had been the strongest lust of all, and had finally gone as far as to climb into her bedroom in the deep night. Her soft breathing as he sat in a chair by the gently moving curtains... He thought of her skin, the warmth under her blankets, the same colour hair as his ex-wife. And then he cried silently for a long time, rocking in the chair and darkness of the room. When she awoke untouched he had been long gone.

This new girl, paying for her bottles was almost a direct contrast and yet... intensely captivating all the same. The man asked for her identification, looking sceptical at her size. The girl nodded and presented both passport and provincial identification. The cashier's eyebrows went up and he grinned wishing happy belated nineteenth, and added not to get hooked. Spencer watched her black polished fingertips take back the pass and card and soon she walked out. No. He couldn't lose her. Leaving the bottle of unknown liquor on the metal counter, he left after her. Her checkered leg disappeared into a taxi and it rolled off onto main street in the sunset orange. His heart plummeted and he became conscious of the bag in his hand. He looked down to it and his face muscles tightened. After slamming it into a trash bin he began jogging. He had some contacts to meet up with.

Spencer had been a private investigator before the lightning incident took everything from him, and with the vague fabricated story to an old colleague of sorts about potential fake identification he had access to means of narrowing his search. Over a sleepless night he found her. Her name. Her residence. Her history. In his apartment, with printed copies of her identification photos and a few from social networking, he read about her while remembering doing this so many times before for a client while scratching Marley's head.

- - - - -

Katherine Elektra. Birthday August twenty-third. Age nineteen. Obtained G.E.D. No secondary education. No criminal record. Had been raised mostly by her hard working father. Her mother was a known cheat and drunk. She had been detained numerous times for domestic abuse and public intoxication. The father had to work one primary job handling investments and other small ones in manual labour to support them and her habits. He would later explain to officers that his greatest and only comfort were nights when his wife was out, and he was alone with his little daughter curled up next to him, head on his lap as they watched television or as he just sang to her. With tears in his eyes he recalled loving to sing her Vashti Bunyan. Their favourite song was "Glow Worms". He called her Kat, and joked about her being almost like one. He would pet her black hair and they would have some eye of the hurricane peace before the mother returned, stinking and belligerent.

Her father was a good classic man, and put up with aggressive attacks for years without ever returning a hit. Katherine would cry in the corner as he was struck by a high heel or a backhanded slap as he calmly pleaded her to stop for Kat's sake. One night she finally tried to protect her father and was knocked unconscious by him, or so her mother stated in the morning when interviewed. The police talked to Mrs. Elektra the next day with bruises and an eye swelled shut, and despite knowing the father for years, and full well that the child was certainly hit by her mother, they had no evidence. His enraged retaliation to protect his daughter and the release of years of torment he endured had positioned himself dead to rights.

He was sentenced to time in prison, and within two years had received a stab wound and perished before receiving treatment. Katherine had been left to her mother whom now had only one outlet for abuse. Kat must have been working and hiding money for a long time under that cursed roof and hateful eye, for she had enough to rent her own place at eighteen. A good friend of her father had almost given one half of a duplex to her for spare change rent instead of charging what it was worth. One of her friends at the time had a cousin who helped her get into a modeling job, which had a boost when she made the cover of a sports magazine. Since then she's had fairly steady shoots for various clients.

Katherine has since lost most contacts, and is rarely seen outside. Posts on social websites have mentioned her being weird, a freak, and uncomfortable. No details posted, and no further direct inquiries were made as she seemed harmless and no real threat to others. She has become a recluse except emerging for photo shoots and sustenance. A few reports and bank history show her to be a bit of a drinker like her mother, but luckily nowhere near that extreme. No further incidents or events have since been documented, as her social accounts have been removed and acquaintances gone.

- - - - -

Spencer kept his head low the next week as he stepped onto the bus, making sure to keep his face veiled by his hood. He had ear buds in but no music playing, just in case she spoke. Even the finest music would surely seem as noise pollution in comparison. Her hair was covering her face as she checked her phone. Walking past the seat she sat in he scratched his nose for concealment in case she looked up, and he felt his heart flutter at being so near. This was the closest Spencer had ever been to this angel, and he would surely remember this moment later in the shadows of his room.

The bus hissed and began rolling forward, merging into traffic. Within the safety of his hood he watched the back of her head sway slightly with the bus movements. Outside the window two teens caught his eye who were spray painting The Firefly's symbol over an advertisement. He shook his head and returned his mind to her. With two empty seats between them he remembered the face he seen for the first time in the dossier. The instant wave of adoration and wonder. And the eyes. For years she had been wearing green cat eye contact lenses and Spencer had never seen anything like it. After reading the documents and investigating her story he was again lost in the distant lock-in craving for a woman.

When his wife left him out of superficial reasons, calling his face repugnant after the bolt, he had felt crushed. He was always a very sensitive and loyal man, and had to watch the partner he shared vows with take what she wanted and leave. He quit his job shortly after her departure, the job he partly blamed for having him up on that hill in his car amidst the furious storm. Spencer wore the ring for some time after she left his life.

How he still had love to give, and needed. Considering himself hideous he avoided forcing his presence into any female's life... but he wanted to hold them... feel a tender hug again... Looking at her head move he remembered her past and felt that impulse to call her name, or sit next to her and tell her he cares for her, even if she screamed at him to go away. After ten minutes Katherine stood to leave the bus, and for once he didn't follow. He had something he needed to do. Something to take care of for her sake. Looking down at the address on the post-it in his hand, his jaw clenched and he memorized Morris' address. Before long he was knocking on the door.

That evening he sat with a content grin for he first time in a long while in front of a canvas. Marley sat next to him in his mind, panting with her tongue out watching in mild interest as Spencer was trying to paint Katherine. His aching knuckles didn't make it easy. Passing sirens outside and the arguing of the new couple down the hall as they came home fell on deaf ears as he ran the brush over her forming features. How it felt like touching her, like wiping a thin veil of snow off her face just underneath. He was using the magazine cover she modeled for as reference, and when finished would include this with another anonymous love note he'd leave at her home.

Every second day or so he slipped one under her door bearing words from his soul. Words of comfort, beauty and love. At nights he refrained from masturbation to her pictures and images in his head... it got more difficult with each passing day. The wet dreams couldn't be prevented. He would be in his old house with Katherine, experiencing brief flashes of her and him making love. Few second long film reels like some erotic montage of her cat eyes, black lips, fluffy hair, bouncing breasts, warm pussy, spread asscheeks... then would wake up on his mattress in the midst of an orgasm. After shooting into his boxers he would lie in the cold shadows and contemplate in guilt what his mind has conjured. He loved and hated these dreams. It was perversion on a different level. One's mind creating likenesses of another and using them like some kind of puppet. One of the most masturbatory acts one can do is dream. Director, producer, actors, and audience. He wanted the real her... thoughts of her sleeping soundly comforted him and he got up in the dark to leave for her house and watch over her as the sun rose.

Spencer spent days observing her through his old set of binoculars as she lazed around in her duplex. She just seemed to watch videos or listen to music all day when not out doing a shoot. No pets, no visitors. He sympathized for her solitude and felt he was keeping her company in an unsatisfying way. It was like drinking a delicious diuretic soda that left you thirstier in the end. Even with her curtains closed some days he stayed where he could see them.

One day she went to the park where she lay in the grass, idly plucking some out as she basked. He watched from a distant picnic bench, pretending to sleep. Them laying, heads together and holding hands. Rubbing his thumb over that pale silk skin. Laughing in the sun at life and the world before turning and sharing a gentle quiet kiss... gazing into her stunning green cat eyes... A bump on his shoulder snapped him around angrily from his hazy daydreaming. An officer stood there and gave a simple gesture to move along after looking away from the scar. Spencer didn't even mention to Killian that they had known each other from back when he was a P.I. The man he once joined in an endeavour to track a suspect didn't even recognize him in these stained clothes, unkempt hair and half-ruined visage. He couldn't even look back to his angel without arousing possible suspicion.