There were three things Sylvia noticed about the strange guy sitting next to her on the plane. He wore all black, he was charming, and he had what looked like blood underneath his fingernails.

Being a pseudo goth herself, she couldn’t help but notice when someone else wore dark clothing from head to toe. This guy wasn’t excessively huge, but with his neat, freshly pressed button-down and slacks and his oiled shiny cowboy boots, he had one hell of a presence. Sylvia tried to concentrate on her ratty paperback book but her vision just kept shifting back over to him. He had tanned skin and little white and pink lines etched everywhere. Scars. But from what? Some of them looked fresh, especially the one above his eyebrow. He had jet-black hair with slicked back with shaved sides, like he sometimes styled it into a mohawk. He had dark eyes, the kind that had seen too much, like whirlpools that could pull souls in and leave them drowning and breathless.

He wasn’t exactly Sylvia’s type. Although his fingernails were bloody, he was quite interesting. As soon as he sat next to her on the plane, she found herself intrigued by his bizarre aura and the tinge of cologne: leathery, an infusion of sandalwood, and a hint of something organic and metallic, like iron shavings. Blood, perhaps?

His charm was noticeable the minute the flight attendant passed. Angel tapped the flight attendant on the shoulder and when she turned and locked eyes with him, he didn’t hesitate for a second to launch into his spiel.

“Excuse me, beautiful,” he said. He let his smile build. “I’d ask you to help me out, but I bet you’re a strict lady who won’t bend the rules, right?” His voice was sonorous but just audible enough, with a kind of pitch that would make someone want to lean in and listen. He tilted his head and even Sylvia noticed a brief glint of flirtation in his expression.

“Depends,” the flight attendant said with a grin, revealing an even, white smile. She stood up straight, and after giving him a thorough look over, stuck her tits out a bit more. “Why would I?”

The flight attendant was flirting back. Sylvia could see why. Angel could probably get any woman he wanted.

Angel propped up his elbows on the tray table and put his hands together in a steeple. “Well, you see, I fell off my motorcycle right before this trip and to be honest with you, my leg is still bothering me.”

“Ooh,” the flight attendant cooed as she batted her full (and probably fake, Sylvia thought) eyelashes. “Are you okay?”

 Angel’s smile broadened, and Sylvia couldn’t help but notice a mischievous look flash across his face. Liar, she thought to herself, but wasn’t sure why. He’s also playing the motorcycle cool guy card.

“I’m fine, thank you. But it would help me a lot if some arrangement could be made. You see, if I could get off this plane before everyone else, it would help me a lot. I could make my connection a lot faster.”

“I’m sure I can work something out for you,” the flight attendant said. She walked away, looked back over her shoulder, and blushed when Angel winked at her.

Sylvia barely caught the quick sweep of his hand—he brought it up to his lips as if to hide his smile, and there was the hint of gore: red and crusting into brown. It really looked like blood. His knuckles had cuts and bruises. His eyes shifted to her. He snapped his hand back to his side.

“You’re into motorcycles, huh? I ride myself sometimes. Cruisers, mostly,” Sylvia offered, hoping it would entice him into a conversation.

Sylvia couldn’t help herself and wanted an excuse to look at him. He was so…interesting. Maybe it was because of the sheer intensity of his presence. It was so intriguing. But there was something oddly familiar about him, too.

Have I seen him before?

The entire weekend had been a blur, and she had just wanted to get lost in her own little paracosms to escape it. Every detail of this guy was so appealing, down to the pores of his skin. Sylvia caught herself doing this every so often, and if the plane hadn’t been so cramped, she would have whipped out her sketchbook and started drawing him right there.

“I’m more of a sports bike guy,” Angel said, “but cool, whatever. I don’t meet many chicks who’re into bikes. I’m Angel,” he said, and pronounced it phonetically as Ah-n-hel. There was no detectable accent before, but he used it with his own name. It was oddly alluring. He didn’t offer his hand. Nodded instead.

Okay, cool guy, Sylvia thought.

“Sylvia,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand, but not before making sure her sleeve hid the large scar on her wrist. Angel nodded and stared at the back of the seat in front of him while keeping a straight face. Sylvia shrugged and dropped her arm. Maybe he wasn’t really into flirting with chicks he couldn’t get anything out of. She looked down at her tattered, paint-splattered blue jeans, dusty Converse and faded black hoodie.

Or maybe he just isn’t into slobs.

“Where you headed?” Sylvia pressed.

“Oh, uh, Europe. Just doing some business over there. I’m in sales. Nothing exciting, just a quick trip there and back to Los Angeles. How about you? New Orleans home for you?”

Innocent enough question, she thought before answering, but he did flip the conversation right back around on her. And flights to Europe rarely had layovers in New Orleans--not unless it was a planned layover.

Sylvia played along anyway. “It is. Most of the time. I’m an artist, so I travel back and forth to L.A. for exhibits a lot.”

She left out the part about going to Los Angeles for a funeral.

Angel shifted in his seat. She studied him from the corner of her eye and considered that perhaps he had cut his hand before he boarded the plane. Or maybe he was in a fight. Maybe it wasn’t a fall from a bike. Unless he was making a fist before he hit the ground. It was possible.

Stop thinking about it, she told herself. It was none of her business.

That metallic scent filled the cramped air. He probably needed to put something on it to stop the bleeding, but Sylvia kept her mouth shut.

Blood had always intrigued her. She fingered the cuff of her sleeve gingerly and studied the edge of the jagged scar on her wrist. Her mind flashed back to the last time she’d tried to kill herself. As the razor dragged down her skin, it had not hurt. The warm bath water helped. That, and her state of mind had numbed her. She had been thinking about Gabriel.

I should have been able to prevent his death. But it’s only a matter of time before someone takes away what you love.

The blood trickled had down her arms and bloomed like roses under the water. Hours later, when her neighbor Nico found her, parts of the slash opened even more, flooding the bathwater like a geyser. The bright, stop sign red color was a stark contrast to the rusty hue of the stuff underneath Angel’s fingernails, but it was obvious it was blood.

Maybe he’s indestructible, like me, she thought with a little too much petulance, but that was damn near impossible. Sylvia had tried to kill herself multiple times. It never worked. It was like something was stopping her, some evil demon that forced her to stay on this wretched earth for eternity. In fact, she could have sworn there was a presence with her, blocking her from Death’s gate.

Dying is letting go completely, said some sexless voice right as the light faded.

But what did that mean? Hadn’t she let go already?

Yes. I’m strong now. I have let everything go.

The captain interrupted the uncomfortable pause in conversation, welcoming everyone to “New Orleeeens!” God, it was irritating when people pronounced it wrong.

Angel smiled at the flight attendant as he deplaned. No noticeable limp. He didn’t take anything out from the seat in front of him, and he didn’t get any luggage out of the overhead compartment, either. Sylvia scrambled to gather her things and looked around to see if she wasn’t leaving anything behind.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

And there it was: the black-and-white funeral program with the picture of her mother on the front.

Did I leave it there?

What was it doing in Angel’s seat back pocket? Her heart rose in her throat. The humidity from outside was already seeping into the plane, but some strange chill prickled her skin.

As she waited at the baggage claim with all the other bleary-eyed passengers, she had to remind herself it was time to recharge. Forget about the program. Maybe you put it there. Down time was long overdue, a break from her hectic art schedule. She whipped out her phone to text her friend Jenna—but there was a reflection in the glare of her screen. And there it was again: that weird cologne. Sylvia turned around.

Angel! Connection, my ass! He headed out the door, his stride confident, his gaze forward and focused.

Let it go, Sylv. She could already hear Jenna bitching at her about this whole thing. Not everyone wanted to be an artist’s model.

It was irresistible. She turned and followed him outside and had to lengthen her steps to keep up with him. He whipped out a sleek cell phone, typed something, and looked around. A blacked-out Camaro screeched to a stop in front of him. He opened the door and the darkness of the car interior swallowed him up. As the car pulled away, she noted the plate number. The car had Louisiana tags. Maybe he was staying in New Orleans.

The car sped away. Did he live nearby? Did he make up the story about going to Europe? She still had the funeral program clutched in her hand. Surely, if he attended the service, he would have stuck out like a sore thumb. But she was in the front row the entire time. What if Angel knew her mother somehow?

She almost turned away. Almost. Something else caught her eye. A single black feather was on the sidewalk, looking monochromatic under the harsh fluorescent lights. The light caught it and it sparkled turquoise, violet, jade green, then back to black.

Other people could be so damn interesting. But Angel was fascinating, and the blood threw her off. Sylvia picked up the feather and studied it, rolled it around in her fingers, mesmerized by its strange incandescence. Exhausted as she was, she was certain the funeral program was not in the seatback pocket next to her.

She retrieved her bike from the garage and headed into the city to meet her best friend Jenna at her place, and then they planned on taking Jenna’s car to get something to eat, some fancy place in the Garden District Jenna had insisted upon. Sylvia’s stomach rolled with the thought of food. It felt like eons since she’d eaten—after thinking about the last time she ate, she realized it had been a while. Traveling to L.A. for her mother’s funeral had burned through her remaining funds, and she had foregone meals in order to make rent.

The sun was dipping down into the horizon, but still cast a faint glow over the city. Sylvia exited the interstate, but something made her slow her bike. Maybe it was the tension hanging in the air, thick as the humidity. The blacked-out Camaro, the same one Angel stepped into at the airport, was stopped just underneath the overpass ahead. A red truck full of men holding tire irons stopped beside it. Then, a beat-up green Ford truck screeched to a halt in front of the men. Sylvia heard yelling. The men in the red truck jumped out, then the guy in the green got out, his stance defensive. There was a flurry of fists and tire irons. There was screaming, then sickening thwacking noises. The Camaro darted off in the opposite direction.

Sylvia wasn’t sure if she screamed or not, and she could have sworn the green truck guy’s head explode like a watermelon. She made a fast U-turn right in the middle of the road and yanked the bike into a hardware store parking lot and sat there for a moment to try and shake off what had happened. She removed her helmet, which had suddenly felt like a vice around her head.

Crowds seethed in the parking lot. At first, it looked like people had been watching the fight underneath the overpass. Then a sick realization hit her: bright red gore spattered the asphalt. There were great pools of it, some smaller trickles like little red jewels. Someone had brought the guy with the green truck into the parking lot for safety. A woman, obviously a security guard from her uniform, screamed into a cell phone, her free arm flailing about, her head shaking her loose, gray curls. The man from the green truck sat and leaned up against a light pole. He had a towel pressed to the back of his head, but it was doing little to stop the bleeding. Blood was dripping onto the man’s heavily tattooed forearms, and the towel had soaked all the way through.

Sylvia idled past, her arms shaking. Frantic voices swirled all around. As she rolled past the man leaning against the lamppost, it was like the silence of pain overtook the chattering and chaos in the background. Everything went away, and all she could see was this man. It seemed like riding through a time lapse, the extreme heat and steam enveloping her like syrup, the excitable vibes on the outside of some weird bubble of ethereal existence…and just then, the guy slipped away from it all, right before her eyes. It was strangely intimate, and she realized she was the first to notice he had lost consciousness. The surrounding commotion felt almost tangible, like it could be sliced with a knife, but he maintained a state of total peace.

Why had the men in the other truck beaten him? Sylvia had no idea. The tenuous thread that hung this part of New Orleans onto the quaint, touristy part had snapped long ago. Sylvia tasted acid in her mouth, but it dissipated soon after she noticed it.

She parked the bike in front of him and knelt beside him. Checking on him would delay the possibility of food, but she had to stop.

“Sir?”

She put a hand on his forearm. Shook him. His skin felt cold, clammy. His eyelids fluttered.

“Sir? Are you—”

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” It was the security guard, and she was pacing towards Sylvia and the injured man, her curls bouncing. Her face was a mask of scorn. “Don’t touch him. I’ve got it under control.”

Sylvia looked back at the man. He opened his eyes, and she looked at him, really looked into his eyes this time. All the surrounding chaos faded, and oddly, she found herself drawn to him again. His eyes were greyish green. He looked—

“Ma’am? I need you to step away.”

He looked familiar.

This time, there was a hand on her shoulder, urging her away from the victim. Her eyes locked with that man’s, and a faint recollection passed between them. It was brief, but she caught it. Something about him was familiar. The man reached out to her, but the security guard ushered her away, and soon the crowd swallowed up the scene.

Sylvia stopped shaking, got back on her bike and drove back towards downtown, thinking about how many times she’d seen things like that since she moved to the city.

This was different, though. Would that guy be okay? It was so hard to get the whole thing out of her head. The way he reached out to her…

If one caught these sorts of things on camera, the footage could be sold to a major broadcasting station for hundreds of dollars. The person who catches the action, called the stringer, must be quick, and they have to develop a professional relationship with the news corporations. What the stringer negotiates depends on how hot-button the issues behind the footage were. If the stringer captured something like the murder of an innocent child on the street, they often sold it for thousands to one of the mega corps. Stringers usually had radio systems that let them eavesdrop on the police radio, so they knew where to be, but the craziest sorts of events always happened before the police arrived.

All one had to do was drive around New Orleans for about ten minutes to catch something like that, and Sylvia always rode around with a camera attached to her helmet. The thing about New Orleans was that crime was so common that no one really cared much about it unless it was a brutal multiple homicide in an upper-class neighborhood.

This had just happened right off of St. Charles, right down the street from multi-million-dollar mansions. She was confident her GoPro cam caught it all, plus probably more detail than she could have possibly imagined. Her mind tracked back to the exploding head, but she shut it down.

Bullies, they were. They had to be. Finding the owner of that damned Camaro would be so satisfying. How could someone just sit there and watch that and just drive away? Why didn’t they check on the injured man? Sylvia grit her teeth together in irritation.

The only way to find out the story would be to turn in the footage to her source at the news station. That’s why they were called stringers. They helped the cops and the news string events together, so viewers knew what was going on and why things went down. But stringers got to stay behind the scenes. It was a weird position, Sylvia thought, to be in. It was like being a camera operator of life’s bizarre events.

Viewers got a watered-down version of what happened. Rarely did they ever show the video of this stuff, but sometimes it leaked out.

Sylvia opened the throttle a little too much on the last leg of the trip to her friend’s apartment.

That’s why I do the things I do: drink, do drugs, have risky sex.

It was a bridge to all life had to offer. Those things put her in danger, and she wanted to be as close to death as she could, even if it was unobtainable, to hang on that tenuous thread, to swing from it and confront death. But she’d never quite get there. It seemed impossible to leave this world, and that frustrated her to no end. That was also why art was so appealing. It was a hell of an outlet.

Seeing the fight was a stark reminder of being back in New Orleans. Her mind was still reeling with the exhausting events of the day: meeting Angel, the blood, the funeral program, the blacked-out Camaro at the scene, and the sheer violence of what she had just witnessed. Her contact at the station, Kevin, would just have to wait. Dread filled her at that thought. He’d ask questions about her mother’s service and he’d want to comfort her. If she could have dropped off the footage without seeing him, she would have gone straight to the station.

She pulled her bike into Jenna’s apartment building and took out her phone. Kevin would probably be expecting a text from her by now. He was probably staring at his phone in the darkness of his apartment, trying to figure out what to do next.

All those hours hunched over my laptop, looking at footage…and he was in love with me.

It felt like they had a professional relationship. Until Kevin admitted his feelings. Still, she felt trapped into contact with him. He kept her from being a starving artist, so she felt obliged to keep up their “relationship”, however artificial it was.

It felt so difficult to shake the events of the day out of her mind. It had to be kept a secret from Jenna. Jenna got hysterical and would go full-on mother hen if she found out Sylvia had witnessed something traumatizing. Jenna would ask Sylvia if she was okay. If she needed to see a doctor. A therapist. Jenna was very woo woo with all her spirituality stuff and her obsession with mental health.

I don’t need a therapist. I’m just sick of this world. I need to get out. To be free. And to be with Gabriel.