It was hot. The sun beat down on the world as if it were threatening to purge the earth with fire, and Timothy D. ran as if he were trying to escape its judgments. His shirt soaked, his short and extremely expensive hair cut now little more than a saturated mat upon his brow. Thick beads of sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes and yet he didn't bother wiping it away, because that was part of it. Part of his regimen; his punishment. He paid the price for who he was inside; he was successful, popular and highly respected, he couldn't very well cut himself or flog himself, that would be noticed by someone eventually, and too many in his position punished themselves or hid from themselves with drugs. He saw the idiocy of that as well, it was so temporary, so quickly it became unfulfilling and only added to the pain, no Timothy D. may deserve punishment...discipline, but he was no fool. In fact that's why he went by Timothy D., because who would trust an investment broker with the last name Stoner? Especially if anyone ever saw him using drugs? No, poetic justice was a beautiful thing but that name on a drug abuser wasn't even ironic, just more a pathetic joke, and he may not like himself, but he would not be a joke. So he ran, the sweat, the burning calves and thighs, the hot air pumping in and out of him and his lungs threatening to burst, that was his punishment, and those who knew him could watch the torture and they were impressed instead of worried. He was a smart man, this Timothy, he could nearly kill himself in front of thousands of on lookers each day and they simply envied him. Then afterward, once he felt he'd paid his daily penance, there was the endorphin rush, and sometimes that was enough to carry him through the rest of the day, at other times he'd simply sneak in an hour or two at the gym later on.
The park was full, families with kids running around carefree while parents sat in the shade with panting dogs. Lovers picnicking on blankets, staring longingly at one another, every once in a while flapping their hand in front of them to chase off some unseen insect. Every so often he could see some woman looking at him, maybe they were interested, maybe they weren't, he didn't really know. He didn't really care. He was raised in a strict household, by parents who spoke only of what they deemed vulgar in hushed tones and spoke of sex never, the very topic was taboo and even a passing reference was grounds for punishment, and the punishment fit the crime. If you said a "dirty" word, you had your mouth washed out with soap. The "dirty" word list was quite extensive as Timothy learned, in fact he often thought that it was fortunate there were no carpenters in his family as he thought half of their tools and references would quickly earn a mouth full of suds. He learned the hard way, he always had, and by the time he was ten he had actually learned to enjoy the taste of the hand soap his mother would usually buy. Once he had craved it so bad he had snuck a bar off to his room and nibbled on it for a day or so until there was nothing left. When his mother had discovered the soap was missing she had asked, but he denied knowing. He wasn't sure what the punishment would have been for stealing the soap but he was pretty sure that at very least she would change brands and the next time he was vulgar, it may not be as enjoyable.
Another time, his mother thought that he had been in the bathroom for a bit too long and questioned what he was doing in there. The truth was he had been doing nothing, he tried to do something, but due to his mother's penitent for disguising her terrible cooking beneath mountains of cheese, he had been incapable of anything. He struggled to find the right words, being afraid of appearing vulgar (His liking of the soap was not yet developed at this time), and his mother mistaking his inability to phrase the statement for a sign of perverse guilt, broke two of the fingers on his right hand. "You won't do that again I'm sure, but if you do I swear to you, I'll cut it off! It's better to lose a member than to lose your soul to the fires of hell boy!"
All of that was formative, he understood that but deep down, he felt there was more...maybe his mother had seen it in him and was trying to curb it. Something seemed broken. His room had been in the attic, it was unfinished and dark, hot as hell in the summer and cold as ice in the winter, but it allowed him a bird's eye view of half of his neighborhood. The ladder that lead to the attic was loud and squeaky as well, so no one ever came up without his knowing, and that was somehow reassuring...safe. Little Timmy, maybe 7 or even 8 had liked to look out his window at the stars. One particularly hot night he had glanced across the street at his neighbor's house. He could see into their teenage daughter’s room. Normally her curtain was closed but he supposed that she had been too hot to tolerate it that night and so she was hoping for a breeze. From his vantage point he could see her in bed, her hair splayed out on the pillow around her, her body framed in the light of the full moon. She was motionless. Timmy had always liked her, she was nice to him, every once in a while she'd bring them some cookies she made or invite him to go swimming. His mother would not allow it as she felt the girl dressed inappropriately in the pool and referred to her as a Lolita for some reason, but he always appreciated that she asked. He had seen her swimming many times, and yes, she was attractive and maybe his mother was right, maybe her one piece bathing suit was cut a bit high at the hip or low enough up top that it almost showed cleavage, but he never really noticed it not any more than any other young child would. Maybe he was too young to sexualize anything despite his mother's beliefs, or maybe he just didn't tend to think like that, he didn't know, but as he stared out the window that night and saw her laying in bed framed with moonlight, her nightgown going from neck to elbow and all the way down to her ankles...it was different. Nothing was revealed except one leg that peeked out from underneath ever so slightly, maybe a third of her calf exposed, and Timothy took notice in a whole new way. Something twisted in his mind, something dark and vile and as much as he wanted it to stop, as much as he wanted it to go away, he also liked it. He liked how the demon squirmed along his brain stem and placed pictures and fantasies in his mind. His breathing had changed, he remembered almost being worried about that, but he stared, he stared for hours.
Every night after that he looked until she had left for college, hoping to see her laying there again, but it was a rare treat indeed. After she had left the curtain was never closed. He could look in to that empty room as much as he wanted but it was torture, each time he did, his heart felt as empty as that room...desolate.
That was the first and last time that Timothy D. remembered being attracted to a woman. At least on that level. He had convinced himself for a while that he had been in love with her, but when they met on the street after or when she brought around holiday treats or invited him to go swimming, there was really nothing there, not like that night or any of the other handful of nights that he had watched her sleeping. He tried not to think of it, for when he did, his mind lead him to dark corners, very dark. So dark he could make out no real forms but he could feel the demon's breath, hear the way it rasped. So he ran, he beat the demon inside himself daily, he threatened to steal it's breath with his speed and endurance, he controlled it with the pain and the sweat. This was the best thing that Timothy D. Stoner had figured out, the only means of controlling his darkness that he had discovered and so each day he ran through this park, running from his demon, each day he left feeling a touch better, free for a short time again, because here the demon had no power, here there were no motionless women to torment his mind and soul. At least, not usually, in fact, until today, never, but as Timothy D. would find out as he rounded another corner or so and headed into a more isolated and wooded section of the path, nothing lasts forever, and every man thinks he has his demons in check until an opportunity presents itself, and then their true discipline is revealed. Today, Timothy's Demon would find its opportunity, his mother’s words would ring loudly through his mind as his raspy breath would pump from his chest and over his lips. He would find his opportunity, his temptation, his angel....and Glory be her name!
