When a cold wind blows midday on a balmy August afternoon, I know where I am. I'm not in the meadow that surrounds me. Despite Haley's jade eyes sparkling at me beneath a clear azure sky as her red hair twists in the breeze, she's not with me. But I don't care; I let her presence sink in, filling a hole deep inside me. This is where I can breathe. This is when my mind is free to wander to hopes. This is when my heart beats for love. But when her lips part to release a peel of laughter, a scream comes instead. It snaps me back to the cold darkness of the night, pulling me from the pristine meadow to the dingy city where I now reside.
The scream comes again as my body moves from instinct while my mind shakes the cobwebs of my dream. My fingers stumble over the buttons of my duster coat before tugging my bowler hat over my dark hair. I pull the hat low, nearly to my eyes, while the collar of my jacket shields the lower half of my face. From the angle of the scream, the victim is right below my apartment. My mind is sharp now, assessing the situation before I reach the window. The bloated sill of the window feels fleshy beneath my hand. The evening is humid, causing the air to be dense. The need for slicing precision will be higher, but sounds will mute in the thick air.
I propel myself out to the fire escape to find the light and dark points in a war among themselves. Many believe that crime clings to darkness, but it's the greyness of shadows that draw nefarious acts, the same grey that attracts me. The light cast from the street light at the head of the alley defeats the prominent areas; the pitch-black darkness of the voids fosters too much unknown to be of consequence. It's the greyness of the shadows that I focus on; that's where the screams are born.
I see them, a man in a crisp pinstripe suit with the collar of a goldenrod button-down peeking out around his neck. He's struggling with his prey as she lets out another mind-curdling scream from her quivering lips. Her lips float in the grey, set off by her cream skin as a few loose tendrils of her auburn hair curtain the image. He has her by her wrists as they struggle before the strain overcomes her and she passes out. In his hasty defeat, he lets her fall to the ground with a thud.
The moment of victory is when the man drops his guard. His muscles tense at his success. I'm sure that if I were at a different vantage point, I'd see his eyes dilate with greed and conquest. Confidence is a vulnerability, and he's at his most vulnerable. I have the upper hand. Careless bluster won me this edge, but sureness will quickly strip me of this advantage. I won't be able to descend the fire escape unnoticed without assistance. My eyes twitch around the scene, looking for a diversion, before spotting it in two fat alley cats lounging atop precariously stacked tin garbage cans.
I work quickly through the formula. A proper diversion comes in threes. A curt flick of my wrist sends a simple playing card searing through the muggy night, striking a trash can just below the cats. As they jump, the metal trash cans tumble to the ground in a deafening chorus. My foe stumbles back from his prey, unsettled but the sudden clatter. In his disorientation, I move down the fire escape to a better vantage point but never take my eyes from him. One slip, one deviation from my plan, and he'll be back in power.
