What follows is lifted from my contributions to a collaborative story told with @Meejong, @chrissadhill, and @ledlevee. The story was inspired by the movie poster photograph above, "Dimentica Tutto."

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There’s a window open to the night sky. I’m surprised to see it naked, no drapes. The glass is crystal clear, and stars twinkle in the distance. The moon is bright enough to cast a shadow, and I see her moving in the room.

I think she’s smiling, at least it sounds like she is when she says my name. I don’t want to listen, but I turn towards her anyway, my ears perked and primed.

I know she doesn’t use this room in the daytime, but I'm still surprised at the lack of caution with bare window treatments.

There’s no hiding from the sunshine here.

She embraces me, and I’m lost on the winds of a Gulf beach. I retreat into memories of Mexico, of long black hair and sincere smiles. I know the stinging of sand across my bare skin is a stand-in for the pinch of pain from this monster’s meal.

Will today be the day she lets me drift into the dark forever? Am I going to be cursed to walk the world next to her, never to know the warmth of an ocean sunrise again?

Part of me hopes for oblivion while wishing for the curse of her gift. All of me longs for the days when I knew the embrace of true love. Of Truthful love. This place offers no love or truth.

Still, she whispers my name and I can't help but respond to her touch. My biology is outside my control, and she knows this.

How long have I been here, too afraid to leave and too terrified to stay?

My instincts to live any life I can rage against my despair, and I surrender completely.

My hopes don’t matter; I am a dinner guest at a table set for one, and I'm not eating.

I am completely hers.

Unbelievably, I am content.

I open my eyes and the moon stares at us in our dark embrace.

She ends our dance and I'm pulled from my reverie. Handing me a clean strip of linen, she steps back and smiles while I apply familiar pressure.

I pretend not to notice my redness on her lips just as I pretend to not notice the feral length of her teeth.

We both pretend that this doesn't end with me in a box, one way or another.

"What do you want?" She whispers with a voice heavy with satisfaction.

"To be free," I whisper with a croak of a dry sob.

"I can free you from shadows of her." My eyes snap from the night sky to the dark well of her eyes. I know she has spoken without moving her lips; my mind is her open book, and she makes notes in the margins as she reads.

"You offer only shadows of your own," I manage to put strength in my voice despite the weakness in my knees.

She offers choices. To be a dead thing, imitating life. To be a dead thing, moved on to the next world.

Why can’t my choice be to be left alone?

But I know I’ll never walk free. An absence of a fence isn’t freedom. To see the horizon and know that I can’t approach it without a chain of regret pulling me back is almost enough to make me break. My will to live wanes, but refuses to snap.

Is it weaker to wither, or to rot?

Which is which?

“My love for her was never a choice. It just was. You can make me love you, but I’ll not

choose it.”

“I simply offer you the option to choose life or death,” she whispers in my mind.

“You don’t offer life. You offer shadows of living.”

“Walk with me in the shadows, or stand alone in the fire. I’ll not force you.”

I know my will isn’t strong enough for oblivion, so I reluctantly embrace damnation.

"I'll walk with you," I weep.

Faster than I can think, she's on top of me, riding me to the floor. She feeds again, furiously. I don't even have time to drift on memory's bliss before tunnel vision turns the room stark black; I'm dying. I'm dying, and the decision isn't wholly mine, and I smile.

But she stops, and I hear my heartbeat's thready pulse slow. I'm both warm and cold, wet with hot blood cooling in the air. She slashes her wrist with a razored finger, and my lips know the spice of an ancient Egyptian's tomb.

She isn't the graverobber. She is the grave.

I'm the one plundered, and I feast.

The ritual complete, she leaves me, and my body is wracked with the pain of a million dying cells. I think it’s over, and the pain begins again with a million cells being reborn. My skin is on fire and the sound of silence is a white noise hiding a thousand creaks and groans of wood and nails.

I smell sweat of the men who used the iron of hammers that drove the nails and I smell my rusted, spilled blood covering every board.

I notice no heartbeats, because heartbeats belong to food.

I hear her watching me in the moonshadow.

I scream until I am raw, but I’m not breathless.

I do not breathe.

I can’t forget what it’s like to live, because this pain is a reminder.

I gasp out of habit, collapsed, curled, waiting for the agony to subside.

Still, she watches.

I sense the sunrise nearing the window, and I startle when she takes me by the hand.

I consider gripping her with every fiber of my newfound strength when she reaches for me, holding her like the lover she pretends to be, while we burn.

I decide to wait.

I’ve almost forgotten how to live, but I remember how we can die.

When the time is right, I’ll remind her of what it means to do both.

"God damn, I need a cigarette."

It was difficult to see anything around him. Darkness, tunnel vision, and gunsmoke lurked in a windless cloud that surrounded his senses. His heartbeat should have been a kettledrum in his ears, but he could hardly even hear himself speak.

Hands barely trembling, the detective replaced a partially spent magazine. Operating in the dark, leaning on training and instinct, he moved quickly through the parking lot. He leapfrogged from the cover of one car before approaching another. One jungle was just as good as another, even if leaves had been replaced by steel.

Safety glass spiderwebbed just above his head and he flattened himself on the blacktop.

In the yellow glow of a lonely overhead light, he saw movement of stark white athletic shoes.

Quickly and quietly, the green glow of his front sight found the splash of red that Nike never intended as a target.

Daylight and thunder, a scream and a curse.

Two more thunderclaps and the cursing stopped.

Groaning, the old man climbed up from the pavement and hobbled to where another man would never learn how to be old.

Holstering, he had that cigarette before calling it in.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uX0beZHshOw

I think you were proudest of me when you saw me boxing.

I remember that day pretty clearly. You showed up to watch, not saying a word. I sparred with a guy about my size, but a little shorter. We were a good match up, honestly.

He slammed me with an uppercut that rocketed through my guard and sent me back a step. A smaller guy would likely have been knocked off his feet.

It was exhilarating; the crowd gasped.

I couldn't help but laugh, it was the most fun I'd had with my clothes on all week. I was genuinely elated.

I think it worried the kid that I laughed when he punched the shit out of me.

I think that's what made you proud.

When the round ended, we were both bleeding and gasping for air. In the end, it was declared a draw, if it had been an actual match and not a spar. It didn't really matter who won, what mattered was that we were learning an important skill.

Those formative afternoons with those other young men and that generous coach who invited us to his back yard, those were the building blocks of a career for me. No, I didn't become a professional fighter, but I became a professional unafraid to fight.

You and I both built careers around that philosophy.

When I was just a little kid, you used to instruct defensive tactics at the same academy I attended the year you died.

So many of my instructors asked how you were doing. You hadn't worn the uniform in over twenty years, but they knew my last name.

"He's well, I assume," I said with good humor, waiting for their inevitable follow up question. "He died back in February, so I hope everything turned out in his favor after that setback."

A couple of them thought it was the funniest shit they'd heard, but more than one looked at me like I had three heads.

I think you were proudest of me when you saw me boxing, but I like to think that maybe you'd have been proud to see me build a career teaching where you once taught.

Carter Hall pipe tobacco sits in a metal tin. It's like a paint can; the lid has to be pried off. The manufacturer included a little attached tab for that purpose.

I open it every now and then. Inside, a treasure of North Carolina soil and sunshine rests in a foil pouch.

The foil pouch was bought within the last two years. The can itself was new when "Just Say No" was the catchphrase of the day, and the moonwalk was all the craze. Better days?

Or just older days?

This metal can was found on a trip Back Home. When it found me, I was a time-traveller. Once opened, the faintest hint of tobacco was riding barely beneath the surface of consciousness and memory.

I brought it back with me. I purchased new tobacco to keep in it, but not to smoke. I sometimes simply open the can and inhale.

He was a stevedore, but that was just a job. He was more, and he was less. He was an alcoholic, but he was more, and he was less.

He was born before the Great Depression. When Uncle Sam demanded his help in the Philippines, he didn't shy away. He didn't volunteer, but he didn't run when he was called to do his job.

He spent his days in the jungle, hiding from the Japanese and laying railroad track. When I asked him what he did in the War, his rheumy blue eyes looked past me, through me, into me. He saw people forty-years dead, he heard whispers in the dark from half a globe away.

"I was an engineer," he said, half-coughing in his rusty voice. That gray tobacco smoke billowed as he sought distraction from the nosy boy surrounded by the ghosts of yesterday.

He explained that the railroad was important. He had to build it, he had to guard it, but then he had to destroy it. Thoughts of army movies played in my mind where recruits are made to dig a hole, then fill it in, then dig it again as some sort of punishment. I asked him if it was like that.

"It was like that, but with people dying."

I didn't ask him again.

After he passed away, I inherited his home. As I was cleaning up and packing things for donation, I stumbled across a shoebox.

He always wore ankle boots, brown leather, with a zipper. A creature of habit, every two years like clockwork he went to the same place near where he worked on the docks. There, he bought two pair of boots after riding the elevator to the third floor of the old-school department store.

That store is a bar now. Trendy loft apartments fill the third floor.

Inside that shoebox, I found a small cardboard box, the kind that would have held earrings or maybe a necklace. Underneath that box, a few black and white photographs of jungle canopy and destroyed buildings. Written in his award-winning hand writing (I found the Penmanship Award from his elementary school days) was a note that read, "This is what war does."

I took the small box in hand, and I pulled off the top. My heart skipped a beat.

Five silver teeth gleamed in the dim lamp light.

He was a fireman. He was a soldier. He was a smoker, a drinker, a hard man with a calloused softness. He was generous and unkind, he was gentle and he was not.

He was my grandfather, the best one I ever had.

He was less, and he was more.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNwgOkl5nRY

The couch is a worn, decades-old affair. Thousands of hours of television shows, movies, and games stretching all the way back to Atari had been cast upon that overstuffed beast.

Still, it held up.

It held us.

She'd had it reupholstered after college, such was her attachment to the thing. She grew up with it; that sofa was as much a part of her family as her mother, father, or sisters. As the eldest, as the first to move out and move on, her parents had helped her relocate the thing across dorm halls, state lines, and thresholds.

Probably for the hundredth time, Skywalker discovers his parentage, and she stretches out in front of me. My arm wraps around her. Her back is against my chest; my back is cradled by cushions older than us both.

The volume is low, the hour is late. Her long hair is lightly scented from the morning's shampoo. It blends well with the hint of perfume on her warm, relaxed neck. The touch of my lips to her nape rewards me with a moan and stretch. I sense her smile as she turns slightly, exposing more of herself to explorations.

She pretends to watch a daring rescue as my hand attempts its own daring dash along exposed hip. Her shorts are made for exercise, not for stopping soft explorations. My fingers slide easily between elastic band and gentle, soft curve. There, I stop, savoring the smell of her nape and the feel of hipswell. Her sighs encourage me, and I begin a trek upward. I can only imagine that her eyes are as closed as my own; I'm focused on my sense of touch, excluding everything else I possibly can.

There is only the feel of her under my hand, the press of her body against mine. There is no world outside those night-blackened bay windows that reflect light from an ignored television. There's only my hand on her hip, moving up beneath thin shirt, along heaving ribcage, gently sliding under simple underwire. There is only the warmth of her in my palm, the swell of her body as it gasps, the wind of my breath against and below her ear; my moan echoing her own. There is only our need, expressed in simple terms of touch and togetherness, her form against mine, our forms pressing together and lost.

Her hand finds mine. Gripping me over her shirt as I grip her heated skin, she presses me against her, the message clear, "Firmer." I oblige, squeezing, as my teeth find a place they belong, just above the soft turn of shoulder. I open my eyes long enough to see gooseflesh sprout and encourage me along with wordless cries for more.

Ragged breathing is all I can hear, although I know there has to be a noise in the background. I become vaguely aware of credits rolling and blackness shining from the flat screen.

She begins to move beneath my hand, turning to face me. I have to release her, my disappointment expressed with a groan. She smiles, cupping my face.

We stop.

Breathless, we look at one another as silence truly fills the room.

Her caress becomes a pull, guiding my lips toward hers.

Years pass in those few heartbeats.

We never see the headlights shine through inky windows. We never hear knobby tires against gravel drive or the subdued closing of the door on an old Dodge four-by-four.

We have no way of knowing that the world outside from us on that old couch keeps on spinning, and the people in it kept right on living.

Even if I didn't.

I shouldn't have been there. The word "love" ought not to have been in our vocabulary, because it was a language she already spoke with another.

Along with vows, broken.

Our kiss was shattered.

I never felt the lead ripping me apart. I still believe it a miracle, and a curse, that she was spared injury. I've no emotion whatsoever about her husband, home early from a hunting trip, turning his anger on himself. He showered that blank television with a crimson test pattern.

I wish she'd been spared that.

I wish she'd been spared me.

But we made our choices, and other choices were made for us.

Things aren't what I expected.

I'm still here, and so is the couch. Wherever it goes, I go.

She's gone.

I don't know how long it's been since I held her.

I know I relive that moment, that togetherness, regularly. Like a lucid dream, every detail is perfect.

It's like I'm having a hard time determining when I'm dreaming, or awake. I'm stuck in a loop, and I can't break it. I still see her, I still feel her, I still mourn her, even though she's alive.

I can't remember exactly when we ended, I only know that we did. I don't know how I know the things that I do; my memories are isolated things, fleeting, fading.

Nothing connects as well as it used to. I don't know how long I'll hang on to what is still me.

What I do know is that if this is Hell, I haven't felt the burn.

Maybe this is my Heaven. Stuck here, in this night, with her. On this couch that became a flameless pyre, our warmth shared, the warmth of my life ebbing as she screams.

At least, I think that's how it happened.

She doesn't live here anymore.

I'm not even sure where "here" is.

I sometimes see other people in this different living room. None of them are her, some of them have seen me.

So new strangers come.

I sense fear. I don't mean to frighten.

My mind isn't what it used to be.

When sleep comes, I don't dream.

I'm not waking up as much as I used to.

I'm in a new living room.

I'm starting to forget her smell, but I still remember her feel.

I thought I heard her call out to me not long ago, and there was a flash of white brilliance. I was confused, so I decided to stay and wait for her to come back. She'd stretch out in front of me again, and I'd hold her.

Tightly, forever, like before.

I can't remember the last time I thought of how she felt.

I don't know how long I've waited.

...I'm having a hard time remembering who it is I'm waiting to join me.

This can't be Heaven at all.

Thank you to all who entered, I enjoyed reading some very good super-short stories!

My overall winner is Mariah, with "The Familiar." In the end, I went with the story that spoke to the shadowy corners of my ghost-story-lovin' heart.

Here's the link: https://theprose.com/post/732781/the-familiar

A few others came damn close, and I think they're worth a read.

A damned close second place for the noir by ChrisSadhill: https://theprose.com/post/732670/she-left-him-in-chicago

MeeJong with an entry that makes me wish we'd met many moons ago: https://theprose.com/post/732963/a-drabble

dctezcan with a cautionary tale of solo travel: https://theprose.com/post/733229/alternate-reality

And ErJo1122 with a touching tale: https://theprose.com/post/735330/angels-in-the-architecture

https://youtu.be/_YcLwxkQKMU?t=1093

Her hands were never cold.

It didn't matter the time of year, or what we were doing, or where we were.

I've long heard the term "Harlow Gold." I didn't know what it meant until Google gave me the answer, but it fit perfectly, once I saw it. It's basically a white-blonde dye job. She didn't dye; she was simply the palest blonde I ever did see.

She wore her hair in a simple ponytail, mostly. Sometimes she'd try to tease it into a shape, with curls and whirls and whatnot, but mostly, it ended up held back with a simple elastic band.

I was always careful not to let her see me laugh on those days. I think that likely kept me from being stabbed.

She used to tease me, and sometimes, she knew how to make me blush. I didn't mind, though. In the end, I knew she'd let me take her home.

They hand me a folded blue piece of 8.5 x 11 when I walk in the door. It reminds me of the church bulletins from when I was a kid. I hate places like this little Primitive Baptist snuggled up between Savannah and nothing at all.

I always find it odd when they call it a Homecoming. If this is God's house like they say, then it was never really hers. It couldn't be, because she wasn't a hypocrite. Precocious, ferocious, but not pretentious or dishonest.

I recognize guys from our shared youth. Some of them knowingly nod at me. We all loved her, in our way and in our time. We each speak to the husband; she kept no secrets, and he thanks us for coming, even if he doesn't mean it.

I admit being a little uneasy. She was always good at that, and I suppose this is her last joke at my expense. I sit, staring at the back of the man she married while a stranger leads us all in prayer.

I smile and shed a tear. Her hands were never cold in the back of that old Monaco, but now it's all they'll ever be.

Home is the fantasy. The people where these men are from are the denizens of imagination; normal is the nearly forgotten dream.

Memories of home are smoke, and where there is smoke, there is a pyre.

It is oddly beautiful, in an apocalyptic sort of way.

If eyes are shut, the heat and smell can be mistaken for an open-pit barbeque. Long loins of pork or maybe even split half-hogs roasting over red coals, simmering and popping, can almost be pictured. This jungle, nearly familiar to men from the American South, is filled with things just different enough to remind an observer that they are most definitely strangers in a strange land.

They are doomed to be strangers in their own land, too.

The smell of hardwoods is missing, instead, dried grasses and bamboo mix with just the slightest tinge of scorched hair.

The humidity of the place almost boils in a flaming embrace. Combined with fire, the air temperature is nearly enough to bake the men watching the inferno.

Thunder rolls in the clear skies overhead as winds from an artificial hurricane whip the fire, nearly beating it to death. A Huey helicopter touches down far enough away from the village to avoid damage to the machine, but close enough to not care about damage to onlookers.

The skids stay earthbound for less than two minutes, long enough to load aboard two men and most of a third.

As the steel dragonfly's roar fades, the flames rebound. Thatched roofs and woven walls turn to char and smoke, and with eyes wide open, the smell doesn't remind the men of backyards or Friday nights after a big game. They sit, war-weary and worn, atop their steel helmets. Silent tears stream down the face of the younger of the two, and a man only three years his senior but infinitely older puts one grimy arm around the lance-corporal's shoulders.

Five minutes in the future, the stripes on the older man's sleeves will matter again, but in this moment, they are two men in mourning.

When they finally return home, they don't remain friends. They are from separate worlds, and the shared experiences they have in what should be a tropical paradise are things they rarely speak on, but think of much.

Shadows of vague horror cross the faces of those who listen to what few stories are shared. Looks of thinly-veiled disgust from friends and family drive home a need for silence.

While they don't remain friends, the men do share some things in common.

Neither will ever enjoy campfires again. Nor will they eat barbeque, wear boots, or own anything even close to olive drab green.

"I miss the days when a man could have a seat in an old vinyl booth, slide across the cushion shined up with Armorall, and order a fifty-cent cup of coffee."

"So the coffee is three bucks now. So what?"

"So, now I have to go outside, at least three paces from the door, to light up. Coffee and cigarettes in an all-night diner, son. I miss that."

"It hasn't been that long ago, except for the fifty cents a cup part."

"It's been too long."

"Like this meeting."

The clink of silverware on porcelain, the sizzle of the flattop griddle in the diner's kitchen, these sounds filled the air and complimented smells of bacon and pancakes. Snatches of conversation could be heard over the movement of city life.

The two men contemplated one another. One, an old man with the sharp eyes of a hawk. The other, a younger man with the wary eyes of a rabbit about to run. The old man knew the younger one was scared, so he kept movements large, slow, and measured.

Finally, the grizzled veteran of wars fought at home and elsewhere sighed.

"Kid, I know you did it."

"Did what?"

Instead of answering, the old man rolled his eyes. He took a long sip of his almost-too-hot coffee, added a little more creamer from the tiny metal pitcher that sat next to the salt and pepper shakers. He sipped again, nodded, and reached into the jacket of his cheap sport coat.

The rabbit flinched.

The old predator smirked, tossing a clear plastic bag on the tabletop. It was like a ziploc, but not as supple. Crinklier. It was permanently sealed with a red band at the top; any attempts to reopen it would end up with the word "evidence" broken and split apart. The next best thing to tamper proof, it was certainly tamper evident.

That last thought, fleeting as it was, made the old hawk laugh out loud.

"What's so funny?"

"You, mostly. But stray thoughts make me giggle in my advanced age, too. So. You want to run, or what?"

"Why would I do that?" He licked his lips, tensing. He glanced around at available escape routes.

"I won't chase you, kid. I don't do that."

Somehow, that made the younger man even more nervous.

"Why would I run, anyway?"

"Because you killed a man with a forty-five caliber handgun. You shot him six times. You picked up five shells. The sixth shell has a partial thumbprint on it. I found it. You didn't. Ballistics have been run on the slugs, and there's no match in our database to the barrel, but I figure, if I were to search you right now, you might just be dumb enough to have the piece tucked in your waistband. Or maybe you're smarter than that. Maybe that gun is gone. Maybe you're super smart; lots of people have forty-fives. Maybe just the barrel was tossed in a river somewhere, and you were slick enough to pick up a replacement barrel at a gun show. With cash. Out of town. Maybe even out of state. Could be all of that is true, and it's all damned clever, too, except for this troublesome little hunk of brass here. Wrapped up so pretty and nice in a plastic bag." The man's speech seemed to have worn him out, his breath was a little hollow. He coughed, sighed again, and sipped his coffee.

The rabbit was now white, but still not running.

"What is this, detective?"

"Breakfast."

The waitress reappeared as if by magic, and an omelette appeared on the table next to the cup of coffee. The old cop smiled up at the young lady, thanked her, and he proceeded to butter his toast.

"Seriously."

"Seriously. I don't joke about food, kid."

"I guess you're a man who doesn't joke about much at all."

The detective shrugged, ate. Watched.

Tentatively, the younger man reached for the plastic bag. He held it up, looking through it at the man who had invited him to the diner.

"Pretty crazy of you to just toss this at me, if what you say is true. I could just ... take it. Maybe shoot you. Maybe just leave." With that, the kid flashes a chrome 1911, complete with what looked like pearl handles.

The cop's response was to scoop up a mouthful of fluffy, deliciously cheesy breakfast.

"I love how this place is just greasy enough, y'know?"

The rabbit cocked his head at the predator at the table. "I threaten you, and you just...eat?"

"I don't feel threatened."

The younger man couldn't help but bristle a little at the subtle insult.

"Kid, if I wanted you gone, you'd be gone. If I wanted to arrest you, we'd have done this in the dead of night when you were tucked in bed with your sweetie-sweet. Naked as the day you were born, snatched up and cuffed before you knew what day it was or where you were. Instead, I invite you to breakfast. I didn't invite you to the station. We're not in an interrogation room. We're at a diner. Jesus Christ, you're thick. Smarter than most, but still so fuckin' dense. Flashing me your nickel-plated sissy pistol like it's my first time. I'm a long way from prom night, sugartits." He stops, takes a bite, sighs. "Goddamn, we never catch the smart ones, really."

"You never caught smart ones, huh?"

"Sure. Had to kill a few more than I caught, though."

Just like that, conversation was over.

The rabbit watched the hawk eat, sip his coffee, and finally lean back in the booth.

"Old man. What is this all about? Can I just, Idunno, go?"

"Sure. You never had to stay."

"What about the shell?"

"What shell?"

The plastic bag slid off the table and into the rabbit's pocket.

"No."

"No? What do you mean, no? You just said 'what shell'!"

"Fuck's sake, kid. Take the shell out. Wipe it down, wrap it in a napkin, toss it in the trashcan in the bathroom. Just like that, it's gone. Like it never existed. Throw away the bag somewhere else, but make sure it ends up in an actual trash can on the street. Go be good to that woman."

At this, the rabbit's eared perked. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is, she's worth it. You did the right thing. Be good. Do good."

"What do you know about it? Aren't you supposed to take me in, or something?"

"My job is to catch bad guys, kid."

"Murder is bad."

"What you did was kill a man. That makes you a killer, not a murderer."

"What's the difference?"

"If you do her like the last man did, you'll know."

With that, the old man left the younger one to pay the tab, and they never saw one another again.

"There are only two."

"I'm sorry, what?" She sat fully back in her black armchair, one leg bouncing lightly as it crossed the other at the knee. A yellow legal pad was in her lap and a cheap Bic pen was between her teeth.

He sat uncomfortably, first leaning forward, then leaning back. The couch wasn't the problem; it was leather, luxurious, and just soft enough but firm in the right places.

A little like the lady across from him. He couldn't help the fleeting thought as his eyes darted from a diploma on her wall to the glint of a soft light reflecting across her fuck-me librarian glasses.

Primal thoughts like that had become a little more common in the weeks since his incident. She told him hyper sexuality was likely, given what he'd gone through.

He finally stopped fidgeting and put his hands in his lap, being careful with his injured left arm. Her eyes never left his, even as she made a note on her paper.

"There are only two silversmiths in the whole state. I googled it. Two." He held a pair of fingers up with this right hand to emphasize his point.

"Okay, and?"

He rolled his eyes. "You know why I'm here."

"Yes, we're processing your trauma."

"That sounds mighty fancy."

"You want plain talk?" She leaned forward, and her leather chair creaked.

"Yes ma'am, that would be welcome."

"Okay, fine. This is our fifth meeting, and you have yet to actually mention outright that you killed a girl."

"It wasn't murder."

"I didn't say it was murder. But it was homicide. You did it. You freely admit it."

"Well, yeah, I did it. She was trying to kill me."

"She was fourteen."

"You make it sound like I'm some kind of monster."

"Are you?"

"Oh, I don't think so. But I know she was."

"The grand jury agrees. You were cleared. You're still on administrative leave with pay until I advise the Chief and Mayor that you're fit to return to duty."

"The Mayor?"

"It is a small town, after all. You made big waves."

"Not by choice."

"You knew the job."

"Really? Aren't you supposed to be a therapist, offering therapy, not bullshit?"

"I'm a no-bullshit therapist. And I'm not criticizing anything you've done. I'm only stating facts, because you seem to only respond to me being a bit of an alpha."

He smirked at her choice of words.

"Did I say something funny?"

"Yes, actually, you did."

"Does this have anything to do with your bullshit with silversmiths?"

"That isn't bullshit."

"So what is?"

"You as an alpha."

"You don't think I can be the leader of a pack?"

"Do you have any idea what you're even hinting at with that word choice?"

She sat her notepad and ink pen on the small side table next to her chair. Scooting forward, she placed both feet on the floor and elbows on her knees.

"You have to tell me what's on your mind, or you're not getting back on the job. Not here, anyway. They'll force you to resign, and you'll be back to riding a beat someplace on the south side of Atlanta, or maybe you'll be down in Savannah again."

"Savannah wasn't such a bad gig."

"So why'd you walk away from their pension to rescue cats from trees in Appalachia?"

"That's the fire department."

"Yeah, I talk to firefighters, too."

He blew out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "How many cops do you get in here?"

"From your little town? You're the first."

"From Atlanta?"

"A few each year. Some feds from task forces get sent to me, working gang stuff in Hall or Gwinnett."

"The MS13 guys?"

She just smiled at him.

"That's all I get?"

"You want me to tell my other clients all about the giant scary black man who shot a little teen girl in the mountains of North Georgia?"

"Shit, wasn't I on the news?"

"A little. But you didn't rate nationally."

"Why? Because we're both the same race?"

"I can't say. What I can tell you is that the folks you work for have more political pull than you'd realize. Stuff doesn't necessarily come to light when it's in the shadow of those foothills. You've policed there for years, you should know that." She leaned back in her chair, picking up her legal pad again.

He sighed.

"Okay, so here's the thing. There are two silversmiths in the whole state who pop up on a Google search."

She rolled her eyes.

He ignored her. "I'm making a point. On Main Street, there's a shop. I've never seen it open. Ever. Sometimes I've seen lights on, but never any actual customers."

"That's odd."

"Exactly. And you know what the painted glass sign says?"

"Silversmith?"

"Exactly. And they don't pop up on Google."

"So what's the deal, and how does it to relate?"

"If the whole state only supports two advertised silversmiths, why the hell is there one on Main Street, prime real estate in town, surrounded by hopping little stores and restaurants? But they never seem to be open, and I've seen people in there when I've worked graveyard shift?"

"I don't really see your point. Don't most jewelry stores offer that sort of thing?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. But this place, through the windows, I can see glass cases filled with the stuff one night, and then it's empty the next. Tableware, flatware, tea sets. All of it perfectly shined and glinting under my flashlight. And they don't have 'jewelry' listed on their sign. Hell, they aren't even in the yellow pages. I looked. It just says 'silver smith'."

"What's your point, and what's this got to do with your trauma?"

"Everything. Every-fucking-thing."

"Explain."

"Did you read my report?"

"Of course."

"Which report?"

She squinted at him. "What do you mean?"

"There were two."

"Since when?"

"Since my sergeant shredded the first one when he called me into his office."

She was genuinely interested in what he had to say, her note taking forgotten.

He went on. “He said ‘write me another report that includes toxicology and her with a knife,’ so I did.”

"Toxicology wasn't available until the crime lab got back to you days after the incident."

"Funny, ain't it?"

"Your official report states that the girl ambushed you as you got out of your patrol car. She slashed you with a carpet knife, and her system was full of methamphetamine."

"Yep."

"So you're telling me none of that is true?"

He cracked his knuckles and popped his neck with a violent side to side tilt of his jaw. "I was attacked. Pretty fucking savagely."

"Right, I've seen the photos of your lacerations. She really cut you badly before you were able to get her off of you."

He stared off, looking through the diplomas on the ego-wall.

Silence sat between them.

"She ripped me apart."

"Excuse me?"

He looked down at his slung left arm. His hand was free and clear, but from bicep to forearm he was wrapped in bandages.

"They had to surgically reattach the bicep and triceps. The muscles were ripped from my arm. Shoulder dislocated. Pretty much the only thing holding stuff together was some skin.”

"Ripped?"

"Torn, really, I think. It's a bit of a blur."

"So how do you explain the photos of your injuries looking like cuts?"

He shrugged. "Maybe they were taken during surgery."

She thumbed through a file. He could see what looked like glossy eight by ten photographs.

She paused, looking back at him.

"So what really happened?"

He smiled.

"Do you have any idea what kind of ammunition we use in our duty weapons?"

"What?"

"Our ammo. You know anything about it?"

"No, why would I?"

"I'm not a gun guy. I can do my annual training just fine, I shoot ok. I qualified solidly as an average shooter in the service. I never had a gun at home until I got in the business."

She adjusted her glasses, and he could see the frustration on her face. "I just don't understand what you're going on about," she sighed.

He couldn't help smile again. "After I was put on the spot for gunning down what folks keep calling a little girl, I paid a little more attention to what we use. It's Speer, by the way. Gold Dots." He fished two bullets out of his pocket, one wrapped in a tissue. Leaning across to her, he handed them both to the therapist.

"What am I looking at?"

"Those are both Speer. Notice anything different about them?"

"Sure. One is a gold bullet, the other is a silver bullet."

"Exactly."

"You lost me." She handed both rounds back to the officer.

"This one," he held up the gold-colored round. "This one is normal. Plain-jane, buy it at Cabelas. This one," he plucked the silver one and held it carefully at the bottom rim so it caught the light, "this one is courtesy of that shop on Main Street. I think they modify all the department’s rounds, and have been for decades. Only I believe they have a brisk business among locals, too. Real secret-knock password stuff. I have a hunch there are some truly terrifying things in those beautiful, quiet mountains.”

His voice trailed off as he lost himself in staring at the light glinting on the shining projectile.

She cleared her throat. "None of this explains how a hundred-pound naked girl ended up with four holes in her chest."

"Sure it does."

She raised her eyebrows.

"The thing is, I am pretty sure she ripped my arm up good, but I also think she bit the hell out of me. Maybe those injuries were masked by the ripping and tearing. There aren’t photos of it in the file."

"Okay?"

He smirked.

His thumb covered the silver plating of the altered bullet, and a wisp of smoke floated up into the air.

Her eyes widened as the smell and sound of the singed skin filled her office.

"What did you do?" She stood, walking over to his smoking hand.

"It ain't what I did, doc. It's what was done to me."

She took his hand in hers, turning it so the bullet spilled to the floor. Sure enough, a perfect circle of burned flesh puckered on his thumb. It reminded her of when cars used to have cigarette lighters in them, and how as a little girl she touched the glowing red rings once when she was waiting for her mom to run into the post office.

Worried, she glanced from his thumb to his eyes, back to the bullet on the floor.

"Self-harm is a serious issue. I wish you'd told me about these tendencies last time."

He laughed.

"I'm not interested in self-harm. I just wanted to show you my new allergy."

"Allergy? To bullets?"

He nodded and laughed again. "Hell, aren't we all allergic to those?"

She didn't respond, returning to her chair.

"I'm allergic to silver, doc. Just like that girl. Only she wasn't a girl when I shot her. She was a bitch."

"Being angry at your attacker is normal."

"No. I mean it. She was a literal bitch.”

"Ok, yes, I understand."

She almost didn't see the glint of amber that flickered in his eyes, but she couldn't help but notice. Maybe it was her imagination, but fear bloomed somewhere deep inside her, and her sudden unease was thick between them.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose.

"You shouldn't be afraid of me. You're the alpha here, remember?"

She was almost sure it was her imagination when his smile seemed toothier than before.