Coffee, double shot with cream, was how she started her early mornings when work called her to wake and join the rest of the world on its winding journey.
She would slap the snooze on the alarm clock just before shutting it off, slip groggily out of bed, totter to the bathroom and jump in the shower. In one of those tender, little habits, she took just slightly too long under the hot water, relishing the way it cleansed and soothed and tried its hardest to lull her back to sleep. Because of it, she would rush to dress; grab her breakfast and her coffee, always made exactly the same way.
She was a creature of habit and the pattern was not difficult to follow, nor an unwanted distraction to a mind that welcomed exposure to a calmer day-to-day rhythm. He had committed it all to memory. He knew just how long it took her to get to her car in the apartment parking lot down to the number of steps. He knew exactly when she would leave – forty minutes before she was due to start right on the dot – knew how long it would take her to drive, including a cushion for traffic. Her dinner would be leftovers from a large quantity of something she would have cooked on her day off and saved in a batch for the week, which she would consume to the sound of the television and perhaps a magazine idly perused from her lap. She would leave the dishes in the sink and take care of them when she returned from class.
Dance was the embodiment of her soul in the form of motion. There was nothing she loved more than putting on her fiberglass-hardened pointe shoes and hammering away at pirouettes with her friends. It was just a sliver of the many things he knew about her.
She adored the winter season. The snow was a spectacle for which she set aside long hours to enjoy, less common and less blaring than the customary sunlight. Her most beloved sensations were those of a warm mug held between her hands and the giddy soar of her heart when she performed a difficult dance step to the perfection her body had to offer. One of her secret pleasures lay in movies that made her cry. She liked music of a gentle and raucous variety, from Beethoven and Chopin to the work of more modern bands.
Her favorite ballet to perform was Tchaikovsky's "The Nutcracker" because it made the children smile. Her favorite to watch and listen to was "Swan Lake" simply because it was so tragically beautiful, which was why she kept a recording of the music in the player at almost all times. Her favorite meal was spaghetti with meatballs, her favorite dessert – almost anything with chocolate that didn't contain nuts. She didn't like nuts; she thought they felt like eating wood chips. Her shampoo was for dry hair and scented with lavender, which melded nicely with the perfumes that smelled of green tea, evergreen, and sweet pea. Her favorite shoes were simple flats, preferably with thicker soles to cushion her feet, and preferably with a pair of jeans paired by a soft blouse.
Her favorite color was green; the bright green of a northwestern wood, just like that of her eyes.
He rose from the crouch with the liquidity of a mirage, back smoothly straightening and feet shifting to adopt a narrower stance as the rest of his body righted itself. For all its apparent grace, the motion was sudden, reminiscent of a solitary mind snapping violently out of a dream. It was a comparison only strengthened when his fingers gripped the metal railing of the fire escape, soft leather gloves stretching across his knuckles, a second black skin shielding his hands with the luxury in anonymity.
This had to stop. It was dangerous to be thinking of such things as the color of her eyes, even the most innocent acknowledgement of fact led to places he could not afford to wander. Mental structure and discipline reined him in, harshly backtracking to safer ground, forcing the parts that wanted so desperately to continue forward into the safety of the background.
A sigh drifted past his lips as he turned away; away from the perch he had so often occupied as of late, away from the overlooking view of Marion Street in the central district of West Seattle. It was a tiring city, taking life at an unnatural speed and clogged with pieces of the human-created waste that dredged hyper-modern societies, strewing good land with sour attitudes and lifeless, incandescent superficiality. Though it was better than most; than Chicago or New York, it was no consolation that this one spot offering mild comfort was situated just above the window that opened into her bedroom.
The breath from his lungs crushed into a growl of frustration and his hands clutched at the railing as though it had caused him pain, as if it was merely his strength that prevented the metal scaffold from leaping up and attacking him.
Nomore! How much agony, how much snarled, tangled unrest would tear at each cord and fiber of his heart? How much more would he have to feel before his penance was complete? When would he find the redemption promised to him all those torturous ages ago? It had been bad enough before, with the empty years eating away at his sanity. But this was much worse…so much worse.
He extended a hand between the bars of the rickety fire escape and the burnt-brick wall, ignoring the creak of its metal joints, reaching, straining until the tips of gloved fingers touched the smooth, cool glass of the window pane. Somehow, knowing that beyond the glass lay the small sanctuary of her home did him good. Her things were tucked beyond that barrier, her dearest possessions, books, clothes, the intimacies of her life; all that made her Lilith. The stability and certainty inside that fact was an odd balm to a restless mind.
The calling of a crow pulled him by the shorthairs of awareness, raucous and shrieking. It was harsh to human ears and the passersby on the street below either scolded or ignored the bird that landed with a caw beside the man they could not see. Petite, blacker than soot, and ruffling its feathers, the crow looked at him with one round black eye. Eyeing the bird with a mixture of irritation, sadness, and faded longing. "I come, little brother," he murmured in answer to his messenger's silent, chastising appraisal, and trailed his fingertips gently down the delicate bones of the feathered creature's back.
He had a job to do. A job that would not wait while he indulged in the small, easing relief of gazing at the clear white of long-since abandoned sheets, pining and wistful. With that, he turned, moving with the steady ease of a morning wind to the platform which opened into a steep stairway and the open air.
Redemption.
Lawbreaker.
Sinner
...
A picture shimmered into crystal clarity to his mind's eye, fragmented with the rippled sheen of a reflection: a girl, just past the legal proclamation of adulthood, her hair dark and pulled up into a thick knot at the back of her head. She was a delicate thing, small, soft and quiet; her step shy and quick as she walked along the sidewalk, pausing only to pull open the heavy door to a building titled Studio of Dance. A frown appeared; a tiny line at the corner of his mouth. She was walking? She shouldn't have been walking, not on streets like these. "What happened to your car? No, never mind that now."
Dropping by to make sure she was safe would be easy enough. He simply had to be patient and wait until later. Visiting her was always a cherished pastime; her presence was soothing, helped him to gather his thoughts into some semblance of order. A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he let his mind wander freely, filling itself with the beauty of the morning to replace his concerns.
He inhaled deeply and let his body fall forward.
The ripping was almost automatic, ordered by pattern and balance, called upon by the muscle of his upper back and shoulders and synchronized by knowledge of the fall. The air was chilled, but refreshing while it whipped around him, toying with his hair and his clothes, searching for something to grip. It was the currant that caught him, supported him, and he opened his eyes to watch the crow dart off in the direction of his next obligation. Powerful tendons and bones snapped and shifted, and he wheeled off to follow, sleek white feathers smoothing through the earthly wind.
I am not a sinner.
