I love a good story . . .
A hunter – a successful hunter – has a superior knowledge of the habitat and behavior of the animals he hunts. He stalks his quarry with unhurried confidence, relishing even the danger of the game. He is a master tracker who is able to blend into the background so he can observe his prey and pick the perfect moment for attack. Hunting as an art form is a test of patience and mastery over emotion; the expert hunter does not go on a mindless rampage. No, he hones his instincts. He waits. He pursues. He must have complete self-discipline.
A measure of blood lust also helps.
Simon raised the cup of coffee leisurely to thin colorless lips as his eyes trained on the woman and her brat seated mere yards away from him on another park bench: he had no doubts about his measure of blood lust.
That she knew she was being hunted was not an accident. He savored each time she looked behind her in fear, considered it a personal triumph every time a stranger bumped into her and she reacted by hugging the boy close to her, ready to bolt. He’d let her survive this long because she amused him. And he toyed with her because she was trapped—trapped while living in complete freedom, trapped as she fled from city to city.
A week ago he’d even held her in his arms. He had followed her to the neighborhood grocery store, a run-down building that had once been a warehouse and whose outdated ventilation system did nothing to diminish the sickeningly sweet stench of rotting fruit or the pungent odor of the exotic fish the immigrants in this part of town loved to consume. Her arms burdened down with purchases in paper bags, she had used her body to push against the doors. He had abruptly pulled one open causing her to stumble into him.
He’d kept his hands on her arms a fraction longer than was necessary to steady her and how he’d loved seeing the panic rise up in her eyes. But he’d flashed her an affable smile and used his most soothing tone of voice, “Whoa! I’m so sorry.... are you OK?”
And she’d relaxed then, thanked him even! She’d rushed off but he was sure she was probably chastising herself for being so jumpy. Simon congratulated himself again on his mastery of disguise. His was the face she must see in every nightmare and yet she’d looked right at him and had not recognized her personal demon.
Of course, people only see what they want to see, as Simon knew. Having donned a clean shaven face and business suit he hardly looked like a predator to be feared. Who would ever choose to look past that to see the monster lying beneath? Lying isn’t about misleading people at all, he mused, it is merely letting people see what they are already begging to believe.
Simon smiled mirthlessly now as he overheard the lies the woman was telling the boy. “We’re explorers, honey. Like Marco Polo or Vasco De Gama! It’s exciting!”
The boy furrowed his brow as he considered her words. “But aren’t explorers supposed to go places where no one’s ever been? They’re supposed to discover new worlds, aren’t they?”
She touched his face tenderly and leaned in close so that their noses almost touched. “Sometimes, love, there are new worlds where we least expect to find them. Now go on! Go make friends!” She turned him around and gave him a gentle shove toward the playground.
Simon was pleased by the whole exchange. New worlds, she had promised the boy. He sipped again from his coffee: they had no idea.
