Pristine

Chapter 11 - A Soldier

The wind blew shivers down her spine. Christine wore a pea coat which wasn't enough. She felt the need to dress formally, to look proper. If her father were still here, he'd have something to say if she didn't. Even the silence of the cemetery could not dull his howl. 

Christine feared for her weak ankles. Her heels had trouble grounding themselves in the winding gravel road. She made her up to the top of the grave stone hill. Her father was waiting. 

It smelled of smoke or something burning. Christine looked around for anyone near, but realized she was stalling. The big red tree at the center demanded her eyes. That was always her marker to find him. 

Here lies Peter Crews

Semper Malus

A soldier

"Always ugly." Christine mumbled to herself. Her father worshipped this Latin motto of the first marine aircraft unit to land in Vietnam.  It was the same motto that her father pushed on her as child. 

Find it Christine. Find the ugly. You are letting others win because you won't do the ugly part. You must fight. You must bite. Bring it out or else. 

Every figure skating competition, every spelling bee, and every report card was an individual war for her, and her father made sure she understood each mission before, during, and after. She was constantly reminded of who she wasn't and what he wanted her to be. 

Christine bowed her head and watched the grass. She did not want to stare directly at him. Her body tensed, worrying any sudden movements could stir him to life again. It was through intense training that Christine always was looking over her shoulder. If his spirit was there she would know. She was always watching her back to see if he was coming, especially if she sensed if he was in the mood to hurt her. And that's why Christine turned suddenly from the grave stone, she felt like she was being watched. 

Scanning for nearby hiding spots, Christine reached into her purse grabbing for a taser. Excessive response was always her Father's MO, his identity was carved from the skeletons of soldiers. He was defined by his killings, and he always tried to get her to see the strength in that. It was buried into her marrow now, fight over flee. 

There were no cars or people on  the roads around her. No sound at all. She stared at a row of trees where she thought she saw something sneaking by. That was when she noticed, wrapped around the trunk, was a purple glove. She squinted her eyes to  make sure, and the hand slithered back behind the tree playfully. Christine pulled the safety pin from the stun gun.

Each long and slow stride she took towards the tree, she'd look back at her father's grave.  She didn't know which side of hers was more vulnerable. Her throat seized on an imaginary horse pill. Whoever was stalking her was certainly dangerous. They broke into her house, they smeared blood on her walls, and they knew about her father. 

We know...

The police would probably have a laugh if she called them over. The chief already painted an image of her as a crazy woman all over town. She was the "devil lady" for wanting to ruin an American past time so important as football. If the church could forget why couldn't they?  A direct quote from the bumper stickers he handed out at the mall. It always led her to wonder how much actual police work a precinct was tasked with doing when she would see him there constantly. This is why she spent three hours prior to her visit to the graveyard cleaning it up. Christine tried to channel the anger she felt doing it to give her the courage to turn the final bout around the tree to face her stalker. 

She stepped behind the tree holding out the taser. It buzzed loudly like firecrackers, but no one was there to receive it. No purple glove. No serial killer. Just an ooze of uneasiness that filled her lungs with choking anxiety. A hand then pull her shoulder from behind. 

Christine screamed while the taser crackled furiously. She swung just barely missing her target. The sparks of the taser didn't catch the person, but rather just their long wavy hair. The slight smell of burning hair blended with the cigarette that feel from her mouth. 

In front of her stood a raven of a woman in a trench coat.