Erasing Faith(4)

It was nothing more than a dream — the kind so perfect, so detailed, it feels more authentic than any reality. The kind you never want to wake up from.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Because while Wes Adams may’ve seemed like a dream come true…

He was actually my own worst nightmare.





Chapter Three: WESTON


THE LITTLE PRINCESS



Her smile was so white it could blind you, but that didn’t stop her from grinning at every stranger she passed on the street. She had a tiny crescent-shaped scar on her left temple, but you could only see it if the light hit her face just right. She walked with a near-giddy bounce in her step, like there was a fountain of energy and excitement welling within her, always threatening to spill over. She couldn’t wait to explore this faraway city she’d come to – greeting the world with enthusiasm, seeing promise in everything and everyone she met. Her existence was a series of blissful moments, with each day better than the one before.

If she were anyone else, that exuberance for life would’ve driven me up a wall.

As a general rule, I avoided happy people. They had a way of making everything in my world seem even bleaker. People were always spouting shit affirmations about the power of positivity and the influence of others. They’d smile and stitch throw-pillows with quotes by goddamn Oprah on them, and carry on with their carefree lives.

Surround yourself only with people who are going to lift you higher.

What a load of shit.

First of all, Oprah Winfrey has more money than King Fucking Solomon, so perhaps her life lessons would be more accurate if they said, Surround yourself with giant piles of money until you forget how shitty life can be. Secondly, as any truly miserable human being knew, surrounding yourself with people who walk around with their heads in their asses, holding onto bullshit beliefs that life is unconditionally beautiful and that people are inherently good to one another — no matter how many shitty things have repeatedly proven otherwise — didn’t make you any happier. In fact, it usually served the opposite purpose: highlighting and increasing your own misery by comparison. Because you’d never be as happy as those delusional dumbasses — it was a waste of time to even try.

But this girl…

There was something about her that was different. Though I was almost positive she had an embroidered inspirational wall-mural somewhere in her apartment at this very moment, even that wasn’t enough to make me hate her. Maybe it was because she was beautiful.

Not the makeup-heavy, airbrushed perfection most girls strived for. Her beauty was elemental. It radiated from beneath her skin, painted her in color against a grayscale world.

It made me uncomfortable. Set me on edge. Put an unfamiliar ache in my chest and triggered an all too familiar tightness in my jeans.

I dismissed both sensations as I rose from the small, outdoor table I’d been watching her from for the past hour, tossed down a few colorful forint bills to cover my fare, and slipped back onto the street. Not a single other patron looked up as I left.

People were predictably self-absorbed. They walked through life like horses trussed in blinders, only looking ahead to their next meal, next screw, next satisfaction.

It made my job so much easier.

They didn’t see me, but I saw them — every facial structure, every move they made.

Having a photographic memory was helpful, but I didn’t need it. Recall, attention to detail… they were learned skills. Like disappearing in plain sight — with enough practice, anyone could make themselves invisible.

I’d been doing it for so long, I wasn’t sure I could stop if I wanted to. It was second nature.

The girl had finally closed her sketchbook, finished with her drawing of the popular Kiskiralylany statue — better known to tourists as “The Little Princess” — and was moving down the promenade at an unhurried pace, taking in the sight of the Danube and the immense, imperial Buda Castle which dominated the opposite bank. The sun was setting fully now, and the bronze-sculpted statue, perched on a railing overlooking the river, gleamed dully in the weak evening light.

I left a healthy distance as I trailed the girl back toward her apartment. A twenty-minute walk would bring her back to Corvintas University, where she’d enrolled for summer classes three weeks ago. I knew from last night’s surveillance run that her apartment was only a handful of steps from campus.

Totally unaware of the eyes on her, the girl smiled to herself as the wind blew a lock of dark hair across her face. It was the color of rich mahogany — deep brown with the faintest touch of auburn. Thick, shiny — the kind of hair you wanted to run your fingers through, because you had to know what it would feel like.

I watched her push a strand behind one ear and that tight feeling was abruptly back in my chest. A jab to the ribs, a voice in my head — pushing into my thoughts, questioning my decisions for the first time in as long as I could remember.

Not her. Anyone but her.

The voice pissed me off.

Pick someone else.

What was this shit?

Was I finally developing a conscience?

Honestly, it was little late, at this point.

I shoved the voice away, determined to remain unaffected by this girl I hadn’t even met yet. Any attraction I felt now would fade. Beauty like that was never matched by what was on the inside — once she opened that perfect, pink-bowed mouth, she’d reveal herself as a vain, vapid little girl. Which was fine — better, actually — for my line of work.