Dragonfly

by Alyssa Thiessen

  “Be safe,” she said, as she always did when I left. I paused at the window and tried to memorize every contour of her face. I traced her jaw line with my thumb. Her skin was smooth and the even tone was natural; she wore no makeup tonight. She put her hand on my shoulder and I slid my hand around her waist. And then, I was kissing her, tasting the sweetness of her mouth and the soft caress of her breath. Hungry in a way I didn’t quite understand, I deepened the kiss and then, after a moment, pulled away abruptly. She looked bereft, and I felt it. “See you around,” I said, dropping my arm quickly from her body and pulling myself quickly through the window. “And Merry Christmas.” I’d forgotten to hold the artificial remote but, from the crushed look on her face, she hadn’t noticed.

  Chapter 8

  I left her standing there, watching me disappear into the dark, and I imagined her hand pressed against the glass beside the open screen. Her parents would be home soon, so she wouldn’t be alone for long. I returned to my other haunt: the familiar perch on the roof across from my marks’ apartment. Their Christmas tree was, like most, large and brashly decorated. I’d watched while the wife set it up, the weekend after Thanksgiving. She’d strung the lights alone. Hung the decorations alone. Wrapped the presents alone. When he’d come home, later than usual, he’d said something brief to her and gone immediately to his room. She’d sat on the floor in front of the tree and stared at it for a long time.

  Now, watching their place two days before Christmas, I could see they had company. A couple and a pair of children: a matching set. Both kids had clean-cut, modish hairstyles, expensive looking jeans, and stylish, pop-culture t-shirts. I wondered if my childless pair were envious of their apparent familial bliss, especially when I saw the visiting woman turn and reveal an expectant curve.

  They all settled in at the large dining room table. It seemed late, to me, for a supper, but I supposed that they were used to accommodating the late-evening demands of people in high positions. They sat close together, clasping hands and bowing heads. I could see my mark praying. I imagined the hypocritical words coming from his lips. In the years I could remember, I’d seen many genuine people of faith—people who were kind to one another, people who lived as if they actually believed in a higher power. But I’d seen too much of this. Inwardly ugly, violent, calloused people who used God as a justification for their own ambition or weak wills, or as a footnote in their cold and self-absorbed lives. As I watched them unlink their hands and pick up their shiny, silver-plated utensils, I thought primarily of two things. First, that his wife must loathe holding the hand that causes her so much pain and, secondly, that the silverware would look excellent on my table.

  I settled in to watch them again, laying down and resting my cheek against the concrete ledge. They ate slowly. It was one of the few times men like these were obligated to slow down. I wondered again what they were talking about. Their faces were animated, eyes alight. The husband laughed, slapping the table with his too-large hand, and I saw his wife start. My eyes narrowed to slits.

  I tried not to think about Lexi, but it was an impossible endeavor. The moisture in her eyes. The confusion in her tone. The taste of her mouth. The meaningless goodbye. Marcus had been right about women who trust too much; she had, indeed, told my secret. But he’d been wrong, too. It was she who ended up hurt.

  I awoke with a start and realized I’d been sleeping. The orange glow in the sky told me dawn had come and gone. The bedroom light in the darkened apartment flickered on. I was trapped. There was no way I was going to risk a flight in the busy city during the day.

  What now? I stood, slowly and cautiously, and walked around the inner sections of the roof. Nobody would be up here, especially in winter, in December. I could safely wait out the day. The stairwell structure provided shade and something solid to rest against. I settled in. I would wait until nightfall.

  I watched my mark get ready for his day: tie his tie, comb his thinning hair. Had they opened some presents the night before, with the visiting family? Had they stayed up late into the night, talking or singing carols or doing whatever families do in the Christmas season? I was interested in seeing his wife during the day. I’d never really watched my marks during daylight hours. How would she fill her time?

  I wondered how Lexi filled her daytime hours. She had graduated from high school already—early, she’d said. What had school been like for her? Had she been popular? Who were her friends? What classes were her favorites? Was she sad this morning when she woke up? Did she think about me?

  I turned to focus again on the apartment in front of me. The husband was gone, and the wife was coming out of the shower in a long white towel. I watched her make her way into her bedroom. I wasn’t voyeuristic, despite the nature of my work. My watching was professional: clean, calculated research. But I found myself watching this woman for no other reason than interest. She was, I guessed, in her mid-forties, although, aside from carefully disguised gray in her poker-straight hair, I could hardly tell. Shapely strong calves, smooth pale shoulders, and, if one ignored the bruises along her upper arms, flawless skin. Such a beautiful woman, and such a raw deal.

  As the woman unwrapped the towel and stared at her body in her bedroom mirror, I quickly looked away. She should close her blinds. I stared down at my hands. I’d never used my hands to help anyone. But what could I do anyway? Flying was no super power. And, of course, I was supremely selfish. I deliberately looked at the suite below her apartment. There must be something there to distract me. No such luck. Aside from a white-lighted Christmas tree, the apartment was dark; its occupants were still sleeping, no doubt. I glanced back up and was mostly relieved to see her wearing gray yoga pants and sliding a fitted t-shirt over her head. She carefully tied an elastic around her hair in a high, young-style ponytail. She laced her runners, checked her reflection once, made a face, and left. I wished I were invisible, and I could venture to the edge of the roof and peer over. Instead, I leaned against the wall again and closed my eyes, wondering if I could sleep in the intense light. Again, the day was overrated.

  Time passed, and sleep continued to elude me. I watched as the citizens of the daylight hours woke up and got ready for their waking lives. The routines were all different and yet painfully the same. The people were like cliché characters, written by a hack playwright: eager offspring, doting wives, loving husbands. Sham lives.

  Movement in my mark’s apartment caught my attention. She was back. She was on her cell phone, laughing. I realized that this was what a real smiled looked like on her face. She lay down on her bed, kicking off her shoes. Reaching over, she turned on her radio, still talking. She was a different person, without him. Didn’t she see how her life would be if she hadn’t tied herself to him? And why didn’t she just leave? I watched her finish her conversation, look at the time on her cell phone, and then get up and go into the kitchen. She was starting supper. I imagined many of the people in areas like these had maids; in fact, I knew they did. Many of the women in these homes had, like the men, successful careers during which they worked long hours and came home exhausted. But not everyone had a maid, even when they could afford it.

  I watched her remove defrosted meat from the fridge and then open her organized pantry and pull out cans and spices. She had no recipe, and she danced to something as she worked, relaxed and comfortable in her own home. Again, I was surprised by the contrast between this woman and the one I’d been watching for months. Supper in the oven, she began cleaning her bathroom: mopping the tiled floor, shining the mirror, wiping down the marbled counters. Her lips were moving; she was singing along to whatever it was she was listening to. When she went out again, I drifted in and out of sleep until she returned with several grocery bags and a new piece of artwork, a painting which she carefully hung up in the front hallway. She stood completely still and just stared at it for a moment, quiet. Then her shoulders sagged and she began to put away the groceries. The day was beginning to darken; soon I’d be able to leave m
y roofed prison and return to my home, such as it was. She was looking more agitated. She did and redid her hair, using the flat-iron on each section at least three time, then wetting it and trying again. She carefully applied her makeup; subtle eyeliner, muted red lipstick. She was readying herself for his return. He didn’t deserve it.

  Darkness descended. The table was set and candles lit when he walked through the door, glancing at her and greeting her briefly. He disappeared into his room and, like he did most evenings, removed his necktie, hanging it over the closet door, undid his top button, and rolled up his white sleeves. He returned to the dining room, where they sat together. It was Christmas Eve. Would they exchange presents this evening? Would they go to church? What did I care anyway? I needed to get off the roof, up into the air. Away from this family, this home, this repulsive display of domestic solitude. They were no less alone than I was. But she didn’t need to be a prisoner. She chose it.

  It was dark; people were beginning their Christmas traditions and celebrations. I would need to retire early this evening. Soon, little ones, all over the city, would be watching the sky, waiting for Santa Claus. I suspected I wouldn’t make a very convincing substitute.

  Back in my apartment, I tried to imagine what it would have looked like if I’d put up my own little Christmas tree. If I’d strung tiny colored lights, hung a star. Would it have made me feel better this Christmas Eve, when all I could feel was the ache of loneliness and the absence of Lexi? The image of the woman, sitting alone on the floor in front of her Christmas tree, abruptly came to mind, and I wished I could have seen the expression on her face. Had it brought her comfort, to have the symbol of peace and tradition in her loveless home? Suddenly glad for the stark honesty in my dreary one-room dwelling, I listened to the sound of police sirens from the street below and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Who cared about Christmas Eve, anyway?

  I stayed in my apartment for the next six days; Christmas was a busy, unpredictable season, not to mention remarkably depressing these days. I had no desire to be out and about, so I hibernated. After a while, though, my own company annoyed me, and I realized I wasn’t coping well with the boredom. I was sleeping too much; convoluted dreams of Lexi blended confusingly with images of the woman and fantasies of violent retribution against my mark. It was unlike me; it was time to simply finish the job and then move on. To get this city out of my veins.

  Getting dressed, I remembered, this time, to pull on my black mask. I had gotten out of the practice of wearing it, but the fabric against my face felt comfortably familiar. I didn’t plan to enter their place tonight but, if the opportunity arose, I’d take it. I put on the harness and wrapped the straps around my body. Glancing in the mirror once more, I thought how terrifying I must have looked when Lexi and I first met. Leaving through the window, I climbed onto the fire escape and then to the roof. From there, I was in the air, high above the city lights, breathing in the cool December air.

  When I arrived across from their apartment and touched down, I wished I’d waited another night. I could hear, muted by the distance, the sound of his voice as he shouted at his wife. When I looked across, I almost winced as his red face contorted with the force of his words. She must have said something, because he grabbed her arms with both hands and shook her. Her head hit the wall and she reached out futilely to stop him. Finally, he pushed her, hard enough to send her across the room, out of his grasp, and into the end table. I could see the crystal vase shatter against the hardwood, scattering the flowers it held. She sat up quickly, holding her wrist, and scrambled backwards, through the glass to the wall.

  What kind of man was I, to be calmly watching the scene before me? Like I had in dozens of other homes, between countless other couples just like them. This wasn’t a new scene to me. Never get involved. Focus on the job. Just the job. I was no hero.

  Still, I felt my pulse pounding as she held up her good arm to shield herself from the blows. It couldn’t last forever; he would eventually wear himself out, as he always did. That or kill her.

  I was relieved to see him shoving his arms through the sleeves of his leather coat. He was leaving. Good. She would survive this time. But what about the next? He slammed the door so hard that the painting she’d carefully hung in the entrance before Christmas fell from the wall and splintered as it hit the floor. She sat, her long hair hiding her face, her shoulders shuddering. I knew what I had to do. Go home. Come back tomorrow. Or just forget about this whole thing. You don’t really even need the money. Instead, though, I stood on the ledge of the roof, clenching my fists.

  And then I was in the air, and then on the balcony, and then entering the apartment. Her head flew up. She clambered to her feet and backed away.

  I shook my head, putting my hand palm out towards her. “Listen. Just listen. Please, just listen, “ Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. “Listen, you need to leave him.” My voice rang loud in my ears. “Let me take you away from here.” She said nothing, taking a step back from me and shaking her head, hand over her mouth. “Listen! I’m not going to hurt you. I just—you need to get out.” I was talking quickly, frantically. Was she listening? “I can take you away from here. Or—you can just pack up and leave. He’ll kill you next time.” Her eyes shifted to my wings now. She was quiet, staring. I lowered my voice. “You shouldn’t be with someone like this. You just shouldn’t. You don’t need to stay. Let me help you.” Still staring at my wings, she moved her head slightly. Was that a nod?

  The front door swung open. He had come back, and I was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, masked and gloved, wings reflecting the points of light from the living room chandelier.

  “What...?” A moment—it took a moment of stunned silence—and then, shouting, he charged toward me. I tried to move back, out of the way, but suddenly, he was on me, his hands around my throat, pinning my head hard against the floor. I could hear his wife screaming in the background, and I clawed at his shirt, at his face. The edges of the scene in front of me darkened; I breathed in frantically. Air. I groped blindly beside me, feeling a small, hard object—a shoe, maybe. Bringing it up hard and fast, I felt it connect with his skull, and he fell off. I clambered to my feet and, as he tried to get up, my fist connected solidly with his heavy jaw. My foot jabbed at his rib cage, and he rolled to escape my wild kicks.

  He lunged towards me; I saw it too late, a glint of light from the sharp piece of crystal in his fist. Searing pain. I staggered backwards, and the man, breathing heavily, looked down at the blood-covered shard in his hand. I clutched at my side, feeling the sticky warmth soak through the fabric of my gloves. With an animal groan, I turned and limped to the balcony, pitching myself over the edge. I fell for a moment and then my wings instinctively lifted me, up past the apartment and into the sky. The world was a dizzying blur. I tried to push past the raw burning, focus on orienting myself. I needed to get back to my apartment and I needed to think in order to do it. My torso felt wet; I was losing too much blood, too quickly.

  I pushed through the haze. I was closing in on my apartment. I could see the lighted window above my dark one. So close. I reached out to grab the fire-escape stairwell, to pull myself up. My fingers fumbled around the wrought-iron railing but, instead of finding my feet secure on the platform, I was grasping at the bars, falling, trying to catch the next one. My wings refused to respond and, seconds later, I was writhing on the snow, below the fire-escape, just next to the concrete street.

  Shoes. White and brown shoes. I looked up, trying to breathe. The face wasn’t really familiar but I felt like I should recognize him. Young, maybe my age or a little younger. The boy who’d been watching me from across the street.

  Chapter 9

  “What’s wrong with you?” So many potential replies occurred to me but, even if I’d wanted to answer him, I couldn’t. My tongue refused to respond; a low moan is all I could manage. I reached out weakly to the stranger in front of me but pulled my hand back quickly to clutch my side again. His br
ow furrowed. “You’re hurt.” Again, a moan. I tried to nod. “Bad?” He leaned in close to try to see. I could tell he noticed the reddening of the snow beneath me now, and I could see him quickly make a decision. “I’ll get you up to your place. You live on the third floor, right?” I attempted a movement I hoped resembled a nod. “Okay. You have to try to hold on to me. There’s no way I can lift your dead weight.” He was right. His collar bone protruded sharply from his neckline and his baggy jeans and oversized sweater didn’t do much to hide his gaunt frame. He reached down and moved his arm under my shoulder. I tried my best to stand but my legs were weak. “Just hold on to me.” The progress was slow and, somewhere in the back of my mind, it occurred to me I was out in the open; my wings were completely exposed. Any passerby would see. I tried to look behind me. “Nobody’s around,” he said, interpreting my anxious look correctly. “But we need to get inside.”

  We moved through the lobby and up the stairs. By this point, he was half dragging me, as if I had no muscles at all. Outside my suite he tried to lower me onto the floor, but he lost his grip and I fell, landing hard. I barely felt it. His fingers explored my pockets, searching for my keys. As soon as he found them, he flung open the door and, holding it open with one foot, dragged me unceremoniously through. Letting the door fall closed behind us, he grabbed my sweater off the couch. “Where’re you hurt?” I moved my hands and saw his eyes widen. He handed me my sweater. “Hold this here.” I did, and I could see his wheels working again. “Who can we call?” He looked at my wings. “Someone, Man. Anyone.”

  Lexi. I gestured for his phone. It felt like it took forever to dial ten simple digits; I knew her number, but I could barely think. It was ringing. I placed it in his outstretched palm.

  “Hello?” He hesitated and then tried his best. “There’s this guy—he’s hurt—cut—says you know him.” He glanced at me, listening. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, as if that would make the information more believable. “He has wings.” She must have responded immediately because he gave her my address and simple directions, telling her to hurry and bring any medical supplies that could help close a deep cut. And then he was there, offering me a drink, putting the couch cushion under my head, pushing the soaked sweater tight against my open wound. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Man.” I was feeling calmer now, starting to get cold. Would I die here, with this stranger? Would Lexi care? I’d left her the day before Christmas Eve and hadn’t called her since. I heard a car stop outside, and the boy ran to the window to look outside. “It’s a cab—a redhead.” He ran to the door, and soon they came back together.