Short Story: Pale

PALE

Blades of sunlight cut through the branches. My feet make only the slightest sound as I tread the leafy ground off the path.

She is alone.

The light makes her hair shine.

I see sweat caress her bare thighs.

I move around ahead of her. Her breasts tremble as she walks.

Her eyes grow wide when I step onto the path ahead of her. Her grip tightens on the basket. Her dress, which I think is made of cotton, has fringes at the waist and is loose around her stomach. Strands of thick red hair arch the sides of her face.

"Afternoon," I say.

"Afternoon..." She looks surprised, like she's done something wrong.

"Where are you off to on this fine day?"

"It isn't so fine," she says. Her voice is smooth and deep. "Too hot."

"It is hot, isn't it?"

She nods, and allows herself a small smile. I smile back, and try not to show the teeth that aren’t quite fangs.

"Would you like company? I hate to walk alone in the woods...there are frightening things in the forest."

She stares at me. I stare back. I could live in her eyes.

"I...I'm not supposed to talk to anyone."

"Says who?"

"My grandmother."

"So you're on your way to her house, then?"

"Yes," she says, reluctantly. "Who are you?"

"Elias. I’m a hunter."

"Of what?"

"It depends."

Not yet. I seize one of her hands, and though she tries to draw it back I hold, turn it downward, and kiss. Her sweat melts in my mouth. And then I am off.

The trees fly past me. Birds whistle, near and far. A startled deer bolts from my path. Little Pale is just out of sight. I smell you.

An hour passes, maybe less. I know the path she has taken. I have been here before. I’m faster than she is. I leave her as an image that dissolves in the stuffy heat.

Grandmother has made a church into her house. The well has been rebuilt with new bricks and a shiny metal bucket. There is a garden with yellow flowers and menstrual roses. There is a white dog on a chain; he growls, and then barks. I growl back, and a plump, silver-haired face appears at the window, smiling.

The old woman comes out of the house. She is round and short, like a turkey in a blue dress. I feel the sun sink, as if it were food in my stomach. Listen for her. The grandmother says something. My eyes widen into oval pools. Vision becomes a tunnel, with her at its end. She isn’t smiling any more. My hands stretch. Without realizing it, I have shed my clothes, and coarse grey fur sprouts from my pores. I reach a hand out, and there is blood in my eyes.

I hear the grandmother scream. She is paper, torn and shredded.

The dog is afraid. It smells me, and I smell it. We are brothers. He knows I wouldn’t harm him. The chain snaps, and he is gone. Returned to the woods.

I move inside and shut the door. There is a bright kitchen, yellow and white. Spotless. In the bedroom is a four-poster bed and white flowered drapes. There is a music box and a picture of a young, handsome man. There is a wedding dress on a mannequin. The bed is scarlet, lovingly made, with large and fluffy pillows.

I melt into the shadows, near the dress.

She knows something is wrong. The door opens. I can see in the dark, and she can't.

Come to me.

I can’t see when I hunt. Everything just happens. This is what I am. I hear her screams.

Little Pale is at the door, petrified with fear. I thought that she wouldn't be afraid. She is so lovely. I see nothing for a time, and when I see again she is in my arms. Dead? No...her chest heaves with unconscious breathing, her lips are parted, and I kiss her, smearing blood on her face.

Pale is on the bed. I have removed the blankets and placed her on white sheets smeared with blood. Her breathing is slow, and she is so cold. The window is open. A cool breeze rustles her silken hair, which is spread out like a cape around her beautiful head. I long to touch her, but as I reach out my hands I see my talons, and I know that she can never love me.

© 2007 Steven Montano