ANONYMOUS

July 1986

It is raining season.

Baton Rouge itself is crawling with vermin. The people are no better. I am here to only do my work and leave. I don’t like cities at all.

My unlaced sneakers sit on top of a rock, collecting water. I should’ve just left them in my car.

I sweat profusely underneath my jeans and jacket. I must hurry. My blistered, gloved hands grip the slippery wooden edge of the shovel. I know I only have a couple more hours of darkness left before the sky becomes a soupy gray color. The hole is about five feet from the surface, which I’ve started around midnight. The soil becomes softer and malleable, like the clay I used to work on in my high school art class.

Strands of my hair are glued to my forehead under my muddy baseball cap, which is barely giving me enough clarity to see through the pouring rain. It had only been drizzling when I had started. Now, I was sure a landslide would come at any minute. The trees heavily bend and sway in the wind.

I adjust the flashlight I left sitting on a rock before returning back to my spot. My neck and shoulders are sore, but I don’t stop. I quicken up the pace, throwing mounds upon mounds of earth to the side. I’ve been underweight my whole life, so I may not look strong to most people I encounter. This tends to lead them to greatly underestimate me.

It is a fatal mistake on their part.

In the wrapped bundle of trash bags, a pale foot sticks out. Once the hole is finally deep enough, I drag the body across the ground, rain seeping under my bare feet. I long for a hot shower, but I know that it is far too early for me to find a gym or public pool. I would have to wait at least a couple of weeks, maybe months at the very least, for things to cool down so I can step back into the public realm. Besides, I could always wash off at the lake.

Once someone files a missing persons report and the police department begins their investigation is when I have to be extremely alert and take care that I leave nothing behind. In my situation, many just get up and flee the state only a few hours later. They don’t even make it past the county lines and bring all their belongings with them, just to encounter the authorities.

People are stupid.

With the toe of my left bare foot, I nudge the body over the edge. It flops headfirst into the dark abyss I had created with my own hands below, its arms and legs extended out like a rag doll. I hear a couple of bones snap from the impact, but it doesn’t make a sound, as I can credit to my skills. Death is a concept I’ve always struggled to understand myself. What does it feel like—to stop moving, to stop breathing? One minute you’re aware of your surroundings, and then you’re not.

I dump and refill the hole with plenty of dirt and grass. I don’t make it too neat, and years of experience allows me to make the surface look as natural as possible. Even the rocks and leaves look undisrupted. I admire my handiwork. Five hours is not a bad pace, although I hope I can make it to maybe three next time. I just have to be more aware of the weather, listen to the forecast on the radio more often, so I can dress appropriately. I carefully pick up my tools and make my way through the dark trees, making sure to grab my shoes.

I know the rain is deep enough to wash away any traces of footsteps, but only an idiot would wear their shoes so that a detective could take a picture of their foot prints. The monster whom I have put into eternal sleep came out here on his own accord, so there is no sign of a struggle. He did not even make a sound. It took me no more than fifteen minutes.

By morning, the earth will settle.

And his family will be free.

I tread carefully to my Volkswagen and toss my muddy tools in the back of the trunk. I’m covered head to toe in dirt. The hemline of my jeans are soaked, and water swirls around my ankles, bubbles rising to the surface. The knotted shoelaces of my sneakers dangle between my gloved fingers as I slide into the front seat and slam the door. I stare out the blurry window, turning on the engine, watching the windshield wipers go back and forth, back and forth. My wet clothes are glued to me like a second skin. Thunder rumbles outside, sending sensations through the earth.

I dump my sneakers on the passenger seat, yank off my gloves, and lean my head against the seat. I pull out a cigarette and finish that quickly, watching the smoke rise from my lips. I go through the entire pack, before turning on the engine and flooring it, the sole of my right muddy bare feet stuck to the accelerator.

* * * * * * * *

I drive home. I’m thinking of Mama.

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I want someone to talk to.

When I’m not rescuing families from their own wretched flesh and blood, I take long road trips to clear and give my mind a break. I live anywhere and nowhere at the same time. I used to rent vehicles, but I recently brought my first one so that I am able to easily reach those who may need my help, rather than worry about people getting in my business. I have multiple identification cards. I’ve driven to Georgia, Texas, Mississippi, Arkansas, Alabama. If I had the money to do so, I would definitely visit Japan, South Korea, Italy, or France. Maybe China.

To survive, I usually go to local food banks and stock up on as many canned goods as I can, so I’m set for weeks on end. For every piece of clothing I own, it comes from clothing drives. Besides computers, I absolutely love photography. I broke into an apartment and stole a camera, which has excellent quality and resolution. I take pictures of the lake, the beach, trees, insects, animals. I wish I can go to a nearby shop so I can print them out, but it’s too risky. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. People are nothing but obstacles to me.

I don’t exist in this world.

I haven’t really been home in a while. It gets lonely during the holidays, so I try to move around the state. I avoid hotels and shops and other businesses at all costs. If I go to food drives or shelters, I wear baggy clothes and a ski mask. I never get too comfortable in one place. I’ve driven to Minden at least twice each year, both during rainy and hot season. I don’t know why I keep doing it. It’s something I can’t explain.

I keep hoping that Mama would show up on the front steps, inviting me in for supper like she did every Sunday when I was in college. Then we’d play cards, watch Leave It to Beaver, Hogan’s Heroes, The Brady Bunch, Knight Rider— huddle up on the couch together, and drink chai tea with almond milk and honey.

Ever since her funeral, I go in and head to her empty room to talk to her, because the loneliness gets to be too much for me sometimes. I know she listens. I tell her how much I miss her, and how I wish I had spent more time with her when I was studying for my degree in computer science. I watch my house gradually fall into disrepair like the other abandoned ones around it, and I make my routinely trip in hopes that it is not yet demolished.

It never is.

I am lonelier than usual most nights, so I go home. It’s only a three-day trip, putting plenty of distance between me and the police. I sleep in wooded areas, sometimes parks or the back of my car, making sure my gun is fully loaded.

By the time I reach Minden, it is nightfall.

It has finally stopped raining. I park my car in the woods, reach the bottom of the hill and walk barefoot up through the familiar twisted path I had spent so many times as a child riding my bike down. Instead of a large empty space covered in trash, I see a busted, worn down Camaro parked in the middle of the overgrown yard. I study it for a moment, before glaring at the porch, which is littered with supplies and tool boxes. The fresh scent of paint meets my nostrils, and when I touch the porch with my fingertip, a small amount is visible on my nail. My skin prickles.

I enter the house.

Someone is snoring. I move quietly across the threshold. The door has not been installed yet, but there is a brand new one present leaning against the railing of the porch. Something inside of me wants to smash it into bits. But I step away and go down the freshly painted hallway, before turning towards a small yellow glow that I hadn’t noticed. I abruptly lean my back against the wall, before placing my hand against my gun beneath my jacket.

As I blend in with the shadows, I can make out a lamp on the ground that is plugged into a wall outlet, the only light source. The rest of the house is dark. The floors and walls are bare, stripped down to their foundation. My muddy bare feet are silent against the rough wooden boards as I carefully step around each of the unpacked boxes, my shadow spreading out against the walls. It smells strongly of paint and wood and chemicals, nothing that is familiar to me.

I stay still.

A figure is laying on the ground in front of me. I crouch on my knees and inch forward, moving my hand away from my gun.

On the floor is a lumpy mattress, covered with blankets and pillows. They are tangled around a young woman’s arms and legs. She is wearing a large yellow T-shirt and shorts. Her skin is as dark as chocolate, and her curly hair is squashed up against the large pillow supporting her head. She continues to snore heavily, and I can tell that she has not slept like this in a long time, due to the peaceful expression on her face. Dried paint streaks her cheek. There is a small but visible bump on her stomach—just about the size of a ripening melon.

My eyes fall on a nearby wooden crib placed against the wall, still in the process of being assembled. I see a few small boxes filled to the brim with stuffed animals, diapers, baby clothes, and formula.

I kneel down next to her. She doesn’t move—she lies so still on her back that I can’t help but wonder what she is dreaming about. I carefully place both of my muddy palms on her protruding abdomen, my veined hands lightly resting on the soft fabric of her shirt. She jerks a little in her slumber, but then her muscles relax under my gentle touch.

Very slowly, I run my palms around the outline of her swollen stomach, which forms a perfect circle. My fingers rest just above her navel. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the lulling rhythm of her breathing. There is life—such sweet, precious life growing between my very own hands. It sleeps, unaware of my presence, like its mother.

Life.

I lean forward until the tip of her nose is nearly touching mine, strands of my soaked hair brushing against her forehead, her eyelashes. I weakly exhale and remain still, only watching her, my hands carefully cradling the warmth of her growing womb. My black fingernails sharply contrast against her bright yellow pajama shirt. I sit and stay with her for hours, until the sun begins to rise and the sky has turned pink and purple and orange. I study each feature on her face. I cannot move. I am rooted to the ground like a tree.

She slightly stirs in her sleep.

My heart is thumping, strands of my unkempt hair falling over my eyes and nose. I see how her belly rises and falls underneath my fingers every time she breathes.