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May

The following statements are excerpts from the defendant's diary found in her home on June 5, 19 XX . On Judge Temperance's order, they have been made admissible as an exhibit in court.

May 1, 19 XX :

It's May again. Time goes by, the world makes another spin, and once more the hammerlock falls upon May. I was awake this morning, just lying and breathing and sweating beneath the sheets next to Sadie, when the sun ascended from the treeline of pine, birch, and oak, a portly inspector general in a suit of golden fire. The sky was an ocean of violent pink and blue, what clouds there were that dared to fly in the same realm as that gilded colossus were a shade of purple, suffocation violet. The eighty acres that I owned within the protective arms of the full woods, the shallow dips and soft hills and the long, whispering grass that covered them, were soaked in a coating of golden light, shimmering with dew. I could see dust whirling and falling sparsely in the light that shone through the window like fairy dust, nature shimmer, but in spite of all the intricate beauty and splendor there hung over everything a pallbearer's shadow, a grim feeling that tingled in the back of my head. It was the same last year, and the year before, and all the years going back to my birth.

The sensations that I feel during this damnable month are never precise, never well-defined, never as close-cut as the Webster definitions for "dread," "dismay," "agitation," et al. My efforts to lock down and jab a finger onto the source, to give it a word or a face, have always been met with labyrinthine untruths and fallacies. After twelve years of self-therapy and self-doctoring, I've come to the conclusion that I have no fucking clue what's wrong with me.

And why May? (Why me?) Winter and summer months I can comprehend, I can rationalize them out, chalk it up to the cold or the heat and the stresses that develop with them. But May, at the tail end of spring heading into the mouth (month) of summer? Why, what, how?

I dare not tell Sadie. We are finally back together again and another shitstorm is one more we don't need. But she does need to know about a few of the things I may (May May May) do or say. Perhaps if I soak up enough of her courage then I will tell her later tonight, perhaps after she's been softened by the sweet touch of Merlot or Pinot Noir. Noon has just passed, and she is already gone. She did not tell me where she is going or what her mission is, but she is gone. She's left her canvases and paints all over the fucking room again, but I don't bother her about it. After all, she is the artist; let the baby have her bottle.

A painter will paint, and a writer will write. But when the writer can't come up with anything, has to call her publisher to let them know that things may (May) be a little late in coming, has to call her editor to tell him that things have stalled, has to wait by the phone and take calls for Sadie's goddamn art dealer for prices and commissions and possible buys, the writer is apt to get a little steamed. But I will not complain. I'm Norwegian, I don't complain.

I paced the length of the living room, clad in the scarlet robe I wore to bed, my bare feet muttering (muttering? Is that a suitable verb in this context? I'll let it fly) against the dark marble tile floor, which looked more like tarnished iron than anything, streaked in a grid of vanilla grout. I grew tired of waiting for calls that weren't for me and I walked into the kitchen, my tail tickling the backs of my calves. The sunlight caught on the pinewood walls of my house and seemed to imbue them with a soft light, a golden energy of morning. And that was when I saw them.

I'm not quite sure if I ever noticed how eye-like the knots in the pine walls were, but they seemed to stare out at me now. They do this still as I write, their pupils and sclera dark and unblinking. It is nothing, I think, and I make a pot of coffee for myself and some toast, but the eyes remain. Were they always like that? Surely, of course, naturellement, I just never have noticed them before until now, in the bright golden light of morning May. I just don't remember the house having so much of them.

It's not important, I thought and still think, because it isn't. I drank my coffee and ate my toast and that was the meat of my day. I took Sadie's calls, trying to hide my jealousy as her dealer--Benedict, his name is, Arthur Benedict--reeled off a list of figures, a number of triple-digit cash sums to be delivered to Sadie for her paintings Capricorn, Elegy, and The Halfsleeper. I remember each week Sadie devoted to each of those pieces, remembering her sour moods whenever I budged in to tell her I was making dinner, the way she spat over acid lips whenever I broke her concentration. She'd slap her brush down hard onto the palette, loud enough to make you blink, gave a huffy hiss through her teeth, and stare at you as if the world's problems were laid upon your head. She'd stare at you for the longest time and listen with glaring eyes as you said whatever you had to say. If you had the gumption to keep watching her after you've finished your spiel, you had the floorshow ticket to that cutting, rendering expression I call The Shake. She glances into the corner of the room and shakes her head ever so lightly, and the pain and bitterness you see in those eyes is strong enough to slice through your chest and rip at your heart.

The novelty wears off after a while, though. Like the freshness of bubblegum or enamel on teeth.

I took a few more calls, made some that should have been made a week ago, went to my desk in the living room and turned on my desktop computer. My publisher wanted to know when I'd have the next installment of Dark Up North, and I didn't have an answer, and likely wouldn't unless this damn block would go away, this fucking wall that always pops up when it shouldn't.

I know what it is; it's jealousy, the jealousy I have for Sadie and her accomplishments. Is that bad? Is that normal? I suppose it would be normal. Whatever.

She has a novel out, too; where she found the time to do it, I'll never know. As far as I'm aware, she had written it around the same time she was on a streak with her paintings. It's called Broken Skies, and every other month she gets a royalty check that's nearly forty percent more than mine. I haven't yet read it--perhaps I never will. She never found the time or courtesy to tell me about it. Sadie has many talents and I should be happy for her, but lately it seems that her every action is agitating me, tickling something that sets off my anger. She doesn't flaunt her abilities around or wave them in my face, but that's just the thing that bothers me; her fucking nonchalance about everything.

The walls are watching me as I struggle with the next issue of my series. In a matter of hours I put in only two paragraphs; I swear at the walls and they continue to watch as I shut the computer off and step away. I watch television for a while until Sadie comes back, her arms burdened down by grocery bags. I told her she didn't need to do that, but she said she did. I helped her pack away the groceries, asked her if I could help, shrugged after being snubbed, and went back to watch television, thinking about my characters and setting and plot and Sadie while the pretty wolf fixed dinner. What the hell did I do?

Later, at the table, I ask her if she wants to fool around tonight but she says no. We pass the dinner and the rest of the evening in silence.

The walls continue to watch as I write these words, pine-knot eyes dark and unblinking. Sadie has already fallen asleep, I can hear her slow and steady breath, feel the sheet as it shifts slightly with the rise and fall of her chest. I wonder what they see, what they want to see. I will give them nothing more. Good night.

May 5/6, 19 XX : [The prosecution may find it prudent to omit certain paragraphs from this entry while making their statement, at their discretion]

I heard the flutes coming from the trees like music on the wind where do they come from I know what they are

It has been far too long since I've last walked in these woods. The air is clear here, filled with the scent of life, vibrant vegetation. I've decided to lie beneath a tall birch tree at the edge of a tiny clearing, surrounded on all fronts by pine and balsam, the grass cool and the earth warm and I feel like I'm sitting on top of the head of some gigantic organism, alive and well and thriving. There are birds, chickadees and robins and others whose names I cannot remember, but they twitter brokenly, as though it were not the proper time for conversation. There is no breeze here, but I would not call it "dead," it's just not present. There are no paths that lead here, nor are there any leaving it. I feel that I could lay here all day and to hell with Dark Up North, to hell with those idiots at Red Forest Press, to hell with Sadie, to hell with everything outside of these trees.

Energy falters in places like these, as though seeping down into the earth. The warmth and stillness of the world is a non-vocal lullaby, a mental siren song that drains away one's virility and focus, leaving one still and complacent, as if paralyzed. Hypnotic, that's the worldword I'm thinking of (of which I am thinking--remember prepositions). If I'm not careful I'll fall asleep here, and maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

They are here I can hear them searching they want me and only me because I've seen them before long ago. The leaves do not move as they walk and the air does not rustle but they are here for me with their bright bodies and dark staring eyes. These woods are darker than they seem

I walked back to my home, where the shadows are cooler and don't move. It is evening already, the sun falling and fading below the treeline. I had hoped that my jaunt through the forest would awaken something that would allow me to make some breakthrough in my story, but there was nothing, only a loss of concentration and some words I don't remember writing. When I stepped across the threshold of my home, dazed from my brief sojourn, I was greeted--greeted--by Sadie, and we had a long conversation. I need not go into detail, but she apologized to me for being so angry and rash. She told me she was working on a very special project, a project on which she was centralizing all of her attention and energies and that she had no right to treat me like she had been. She apologized and I told her it was alright. She surprised me by giving me a kiss and telling me that she wanted to make it up to me later tonight. She said that with a smirk on her grey muzzle, and I knew what she was talking about...I think.

It didn't kill the little green monster I held against her, but it did make me feel a little bit better. I did love her, even though she made me feel like an inferior, a weaker shadow to the artistic spirit that she possessed. I felt all of these things welling up inside of me and each time I try to tell her about it, everything clogs up in my throat or my chest or somewhere and I cannot tell her. I hope that she might one day accidentally stumble upon this diary and read what I've written here.

I do love you, Sadie.

They scratch their names and sounds into the world and can only be seen at the right angles what are they saying? Look at the world look all around look all around they are here but what are they saying?

Had to throw out my favorite pen, damn thing cracked right down the middle and I cut my thumb along the fracture, fiberglass invaders still tingling in my flesh. It is night, the moon high and gibbous, a fat lump of bright iron (that's not very good) suspended in the sky. Now that the veil of sunlight is gone the stars are free to glimmer with an audience, and I watched them through the window as I lie here in bed, my nose filling and expelling the sex smells that filled the room. It was too hot, but Sadie didn't want the window open out of fear of birds, so our bed possessed June-level humidity and I'm not complaining at all.

After dinner we walked into the bedroom. I had forgotten about what she had said earlier in the day, so it surprised me when she threw her hands around me and she started kissing me. I knew what she was planning when she started nipping at my neck, painful little tooth-scratches that managed to set off sparks of pleasure down my body. She knew where to touch and what to do, we've known each other that long--I let my body soften in her grasp, knowing she liked it when I let myself loosen up. She escorted me to the bed, rubbing her lips against my cheek. As she goes to the bottom drawer of the dresser I take off my shirt and pants, leaving me in my white bra and panties. I know what she has in store for me and it pisses me off, she doesn't deserve it, but I try to enjoy it. We don't do this very often, certainly not as often as I'd like.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, letting my tail tap against the floor. I looked out the window, seeing the last trace of the sun fall beneath the swaying row of white oak and balsam. I could feel my heart beating in my chest, rising in anticipation as heat flooded my sex, perhaps against my will, perhaps only slightly. I turned my head and saw my lover and the strapon she had put on, wiggling gently between her thighs, its jet black surface glistening softly in the light. She looks at me and smiles and I smile back until I see what she has in her hand--a collar, soft white, a little metal heart dangling from the front. I hate wearing it, hate being her fucking little girl (fucking little girl? Ha), but I keep my smile as I tilt my head upward, allowing her to brush her clever fingers against my neck and to put the collar on me. She never puts it on too tight or too slack, always just perfect to the girth of my neck, which annoys me a little more.

I wonder where she has put the camera this time. It could be in the closet, but the door is not ajar (no, the door is not a jar, yuck yuck). I try to forget where it could be and try to focus on her scents and touch.

I felt the hook slide into the hole and the tail slide into the loop and from then on I stopped being me. I became Sadie's little girl, her little fucktoy angel, something she could break apart into a tired, shattered mess and put back together again. She gave me a look and kissed me on the lips, holding my head with both of her hands.

"You look so beautiful, baby," she said, her eyes electric with withheld energy, pent-up sexual adrenaline.

"Thanks."

"Everything about you is perfect; the gleam in your eyes, the sheen on your lips, the shine on your hair. There's so muchI want to do with you, hon. But first"--Sadie leaned in closer, her warm lips grazing my ear and gently blowing a hot, damp air onto the fur there--"I want to see those lips around my cock."

I nodded and waited for her to take a step back to do her bidding. I got down on my knees, looking up at her looking down on me. She took the dingus in her hand and rubbed it up and down as if she could feel it, as if she could feel the sensations of something that wasn't really there. I know what and how she wants me to do; I keep my hands down, covering my knees with what I imagined to be grace as I lean forward and rub my face against the toy, feeling its coldness on my cheek, the artificial frigidity that removed the carnal closeness particular element that made sex so, to put it bluntly, spiritual. I let her tap me gently on the nose with it, smiling up at her as I knew some part of me truly is enjoying this. Her breathing grows heavy, throaty; she clears it with a guttural cough that sounds a lot like a growl. I hum and murmur into the material until she grabs me by the hair and I know that's my cue; I open my mouth and feel the tip of the fabricated dick slip past my lips and onto my tongue. I grimace at the taste but she can't tell.

Sadie sighs with a note from a pleasure-song a pleasurable note, and she leans her head back, smiling up at the ceiling and I wonder as I bob my head back and forth if her imagination is such that she can feel it. Impossible but feasible. I keep sighing through my nose with high, pathetic noises, telling lies through my nostrils.

I lick and suck and swallow the synthetic cock, pretending that the taste of rubber or whatever it's made of is something I can't live without. Sadie looks down on me with a smile on her face, teeth like the moon. She thrusts her hips awkwardly, trying to drive the tip into and down my throat and she succeeds; I cough at her attack, but she holds me hard by my hair and keeps going. I close my eyes and feel tears escaping as her toy slides roughly into and out of my throat. Sadie tells me that my throat is just as personal a place as my pussy, if not more so, and she loves taking me there. She is fast and she is crude, and I see the wonder in her eyes and I'm curious how scared she is, how high on endorphins as I groan and gag around her. There is brutality in the artist, brutality that she inflicts on me from time to time because she cannot let that brutality endanger her work.

"Take it, bitch. Take all of it."

I do as she tells me, though I can hardly hear her over my own noises, over my petulant pleading for her to ease up and the wet rush of her dick going in and out. It hurts and it makes my stomach lurch upward but I have managed to control that, just as she has learned to control me, through patience and practice. My pussy is throbbing now, begging for her, and that makes the tears leak out even more. I look up and she's looking down at me, a snarl frozen on her face as she grunts and huffs through clenched teeth and everything is blurry. I reach up a hand to wipe my eyes and she slaps it away, no reason given or needed.

I whine loudly around her and I feel the cock slam harder into me, deeper than it has ever been and deeper than I would have let it go and she holds it there, my nose tickles in Sadie's small, dark patch of pubic hair. I can't make any noise and I choke and I know she's choking me, I can feel her grip adjust and readjust on my hair. Then she pushes me off of her--she doesn't pull back her hips, she pushes my head away--and I draw in a ragged, sobbing breath, music of the asphyxiate. There is saliva flowing down my chin and my neck, coating my fur and I can tell that she likes that. I don't wipe it away.

"Get on the bed," she tells me, her voice choked with what I imagined to be passion. I get up and crawl onto the mattress on my hands and knees, the dark blue bed sheet wavering beneath me like water. I hoist my tail up and over my back, lame red flag, and I spread my legs slightly. For what it is worth, even though I hate choking on her fake snake I enjoy it when she takes me from behind, and I know she does, too. We don't have to look into each other's eyes that way. She surprises and aggravates me tonight when she slaps me on the ass, hard and sharp lightning sting, and says "No. Get on your back."

I don't pause or hesitate, and that is what makes me even angrier. She already has that much territory in my mind. I roll onto my back and she sees the scowl on my face, returning a sneer, angry ugly grin that conflicts with her soft features. She roughly grabs my hands and shoves them up over my head. I hear the jingle of metal on metal and I feel the cuffs snap painfully around my wrists, the chain tapping and straining against the bar that crossed the length of the headboard. I glare at her, my eyes still wet and vision somewhat blurry, and with one angry hand she rubs the spit that had fallen down my mouth all around my face. She taps me on the cheek, a slight flick with the back of two fingers and I know what that means. I hold my anger for a moment longer before I put my mask back on and let my eyes plead and beg for her.

"You're so vicious," she says and I catch the mocking tone, condescending jest. She slowly runs the tips of her fingers along my thigh, tracing the border where red-orange gives way to white and when I'm certain that she is going to touch me there, her hand curves around and fingers the elastic of my panties. She pulls my underwear upward, just a little bit, so she can see the small stain, the lust-wet that has begun spreading there when she was fucking my smarting throat. I watch the smile crease her mouth, feel my hands grab and tighten on the chain as the friction of cotton against my clit sets of sparks.

"Good girl," she tells me, and I hate her and love her a little bit more. She starts tugging on my underwear in a rhythmic manner, watching and enjoying what she's doing to me, knowing that she could stop at any moment and really force me to beg. I humped up into the air, trying to maximize the pleasure she was giving me, but she pressed down on my belly with her knuckles, just enough to get me to stop. The growl I make turns into a cough, dominance failing me.

Eventually she tires of my underwear and rips them off of me, throwing them over her shoulder. The disrespect for my clothing allows for another surge of anger to rise up, turning down my eyebrows and making me scowl. Sadie does not notice it, now pulling my legs apart, spreading me for her personal enjoyment. She abruptly turns away from me and goes to the nightstand while I feel the coolness of the air on my exposed flesh. It's not so cool in May; by now my whole body is sweating. I hear the clatter of drawers and Sadie returns with a small key, the key for the handcuffs. She kisses it and holds it up to my face as though it were a blade, as though threatening to hurt me.

"This better not move while I'm fucking you, baby," she says, her soft voice dark and gravelly and swollen with potential danger. She sets it down in the white valley between my breasts and I barely feel it. I look up at the ceiling, thinking about things that I cannot remember, unimportant.

Sadie sits down on the bed, crouching on her knees. She doesn't look at me as she spits on her cock and rubs the saliva up and down, subtle mind game; she only wants one thing and everything else is erroneous. She leans forward, her stormy eyes locked on my slit, and she pulls me down to meet her, the chain straining tightly in the headboard, making more scratches on the already dented, heavily scarred bar, fire cutting into my wrists. I whine even before she rubs the head of her toy against my opening, sliding it over and around my clit. There is hardly any foreplay with her, not when she is like this--I hate it as much as I love it, and the moan I let out is as much out of pleasure as frustration. She keeps one hand on my thigh, leaving streaks of wetness there, the other on the strapon. She taps it against my lips, sending lusty whispers coursing through my bones. I'm trying to get a stranglehold on my excitement, trying to pin it down but it is like grabbing atsmoke dust; it is there but it keeps falling through the cracks.

Sadie keeps twirling and rubbing it against my clit, letting her spit, my spit, and my own juices mingle into what could constitute a viable lubricant. She breathes heavily, lust-driven air hot and wet that I can feel on my stomach. With a hungry sound in her throat she pushes the cock up into me and I am clenching down around her, hugging the damn thing that she ravages me with with which she ravages me. She is not making love to me; she fucks me how she wants, hard and vicious, snarling and monstrous, and my mind fills with a spiraling vortex of pain and pleasure. It hurts but fuck does it feel great. I feel sweat drip from Sadie's brow down onto my body, and I imagine it sizzling and spitting. She grunts, I moan, and I arch my body painfully so as to keep the damn key on my chest. I don't know what she would do if it slipped, but I wasn't going to find out.

She keeps humping me, driving it in and out until I hear a hitch catch in her throat, broken, sobby gasps. She rams it harder, just once, and she stops--I feel her shudder on top of me. She is leaning over me with her mouth open, a streamer of saliva falling down onto my face and her hands roaming up over my body. I can feel her wetness on the sheet beneath my ass.

I don't cum; she doesn't care. In her exhaustion her face falls down to my chest, displacing the key, and I feel the metal slide into my bra. My fur ruffles in response to her panting, slow and heavy, and I let my own breath fall in line behind with her. She is still inside of me and I want her simultaneously deeper and out of me. I push up and whine against her; she holds me in her arms, resting her head against my breasts. Her hair gets in my face and I almost sneeze.

"Thank you," she groans on top of me, and I sigh in response. She shifts over my body and I feel her toy move inside of me, soft invader. She sits up and slides it out of me; I don't even pretend to want more, I'm just too tired, I have a headache, I'm not up for it. She gets off the bed and goes to the bathroom to clean her toy for the next time she bashes me with it.

The pine-knot eyes are still watching; I hope they like what they see. As I listen to the flow of running water I watch a spider, a big ugly thing, black with odd white circles on its body, crawl up the far wall, casting a long blue shadow. I'm not scared of spiders, and they're far more useful than terrifying, particularly during spring and summer. Good luck, little sister, on whatever night errand you're on. Sadie comes back, cock in hand, latex straps dangling weightily from its base, and she sets it away in the bottom drawer of the dresser, packing it away with a degree of what I would call reverence. She lies down beside me on the bed and asks where the key went; I feign surprise and tell her I don't know. She shrugs and turns to shut off the light, leaving me cuffed to the headboard. She wraps her arms around me and settles her head over my shoulder, her nose pressing lightly into my neck.

How did I go from past-tense to present-tense? I should watch that.

"You're so distant," she told me and I shrugged away a response as well as I could, giving her a weak smile.

"You are black," said pot to the kettle, who was himself possessed of a darker metal (That's a good one). She giggled in the dark and was asleep not ten minutes later. I think I fell asleep sometime after midnight, watching the spider weave something in the corner of the room.

The trees the trees to mimic the seas the seas to answer the breeze the breeze

May 9, 19 XX :

Fuck everything. I wish I could k

The woods are so peaceful. I wish I could stay here forever.

If there was a way I could do it without getting caught I would I fucking WOULD!

Bad trees red hands in bad trees red red red hands

May 11, 19 XX :

Something is different this year, this May. The dread and tranquility, interspersed along the month like random splotches of paint, are becoming more rhythmic, almost predictable. But this year it is different; something new has been added, as they used to say. (Did they ever really say that or was it just in film and radio? And what does it matter?)

My memory is skizzy shaky. It wavers and becomes as oblique silhouettes in mist, sometimes there and sometimes not, or partly there and partly not. I have to write these down in case I forget them at some pivotal moment in the coming days.

[1] I met Sadie Genevieve Yarmouth (tall wolf, silver grey fur, blue-grey eyes like a summer storm, long black hair brushed perfectly straight like an oil slick, tiny half-glasses, long sexy legs and a green ring around her tail over an ass that deserved its own series, soft voice that spoke harsh statements) at a showing of an art exhibition in Minneapolis, at the Walker Art Center near Calhoun Square and the American Swedish Institute. I was the only woman wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket; even the small group of goths that flocked and jabbered like a flock of ravens were dainty, refined, had more estrogen than me. She found me sipping wine in front of one of her pieces, a large canvas named Hard Times; I had been drawn away from the rest of the schlock and toward this particular piece because of its Dada-esque style, its fusion of darkness and light, its illusory appearance as two separate things which were whole. It depicted two nude women, their bodies bright in moonlight, seemingly in mid-dance around a small campfire. To tilt your head to the side or take a step back and one would see a man with sunken eyes, his canine face broken and pleading, unnoticed by the dancers in his face or the stars that gleamed in his hair.

But I was uncertain, for I had felt there was a third image within that painting, a triple feature locked somewhere in the paint and I was trying to deduce what the third part could be. She [Sadie] flowed in beside me, wearing a fake suede jacket over a silky blackish-brown dress. She asked me what I thought of it and I answered exactly how I thought--what did I say? Unimportant--and she liked it. She enchanted me with her sharp eyes and long black hair that curled softly around her supple neck and she carried herself with grace, with a smooth, self-assured sway. She invited me to her hotel room and we fucked until we fell asleep.

She lives here with me in her studio apartment in St. Paul but she hates the city so she comes here to stay with me every three months to recharge her batteries and paint. At first our time together was random, like tossing splashes of reds and blues and blacks and browns onto the wall but we finally settled on a set date. I wonder who she fucks when I'm not there. I love her I love her I love her I love her I love her.

[2] The main character's name is Lucinda Redgrave, a thirty year-old raccoon from White Hill. She is the viewpoint character for Dark Up North; she is bisexual and has three separate lovers and none of them know of each other. One is a stockbroker, one is a youthful politician, and one is a witch. WHICH ONES ARE WHICH--REMEMBER THIS. There is something terrible happening in this new edition, something big and awful but what is it? What was I planning?

[3] I am a fox. I am a red fox and nothing more. I am twenty-eight years old. My name is Lisa Arvid Amundsen. I have short chestnut hair down to my neck and a pair of soft brown eyes. I am a successful writer (three books, one upcoming). I like women, old movies, seafood, and Igeography, rock music, and I fuck I can't remember.

[4] Time is dead and the sun is a liar.

May 12, 19 XX :

What was it mom had said about the trees? It was some kind of rhyme, something about a breeze, I can't remember. Why can't I remember? It makes me so goddamn fucking MAD that I can't remember anything. What the hell is doing this? Perhaps I should see the

NO I'M NOT SEEING THE DOCTORS. THEY DON'T KNOW. THEY DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

I watched the spider from last week skitter along the floor. I recognized her from her black body and white rings. She touches my foot as she runs along the floor and I make no move to deter her on her journey. She has made a home in the corner of my room, the floor dark with the dried corpses of her prey. There is a small white sac stuck to the middle of her large, spiraling web; she is expecting. I asked Sadie this morning about the spider and she said she hadn't seen anything of the kind, though she has seen some cobwebs around. She will, sooner or later. She will look up as she walks into the bedroom, just as casual as you please, and I'll be able to laughconsole her after her fit.

Unless she doesn't mind spiders, of course.

I walked into the woods again in the afternoon, rediscovering that womb-like piece in the forest that seemed to be part of two worlds, a conductive conjunction between realities, or two dreams. I sat under the same birch tree and fell asleep, perhaps intentionally and I dreamed of the owl again, the thing that was neither owl nor wolf but was both, one and the same. I am sitting around a fire, looking across from it at him, his eyes massive and like amber dish plates. Around me is the woods at night and the trees are swaying to a night breeze. "They're coming for you," he said, and I could hear in his voice the truth; lying was not permitted for him and his kind, whoever he is and whatever they are.

"Who are they?" I asked.

"They are coming," he repeated, his curved, golden beak snapping shut to pronounce the end of each sentence. "They will send one to hurt you. You will have to be strong, [he says my dream name which I won't write down]. You will know the one by their red claws." Before I can ask for more I am awake and the breeze kisses my face.

Someone is coming to get rid of me. That sounds crazy, but I don't doubt it. I've been alive for twenty-eight years and I seem to have done my very best to piss off as many people as I can. It's a big world, and there is always somebody out there that sees you in their way.

May 15, 19 XX :

I've not seen the spider in a while. Maybe it has died after giving birth, but I think Sadie has killed her. I won't ask her about it.

I can hear the music on the wind, replacing the dead drone of air. They are like pan pipes but not, like drums but not, and they are what makes the trees dance, not the wind. It is the most beautiful sound in the universe, and I wonder if this is not the heartbeat of the universe itself themselves. I know Sadie cannot hear it or if she will ever be capable of hearing it, so I don't bring it up in conversation. She is busy working on her paintings, and I've succeeding in breaching that damnable writer's block. That asshole might not have it this week, or perhaps not even in the month, but he'll have it, damn it.

Sadie and I made love last night, actual love, something that held a vestige of compassion and partnership. She didn't once glance to the bottom drawer of the dresser. I wonder if she felt bad for hurting me, or if her guilt was something that passed over her, a feeling she can neglect and not worry about.

I started wearing my collar just for the hell of it. I actually sort of like the feel of it around my neck.

Sort of.

May 16, 19 XX :

I dreamed of the owl again. I won't repeat our conversation, and I won't write down what he or I said. It was something for my ears and my ears only. Nobody else can have those words.

John Kildare called again, complaining about my lack of efficiency with Dark Up North. He said I should at least put something up on social media explaining the reached-and-passed deadline to the readers. I told him to shut the hell up and be patient, that what was coming will come. He called me a bitch, I called him a cunt, and I think we both hung up at exactly the same moment, phone slapping hard into the cradle. He makes me so mad I want to punch him right in his fat fucking face. I've been to the building in White Hill, it's just old brick and wood; it would go up like kindling, like old trash.

Sadie is making pasta; I love pasta and she knows it. She's changed somehow this month: she wants to spend more time with me, her voice has softened, she compliments me more and more, and when our eyes lock she holds the contact. I want to ask her about it but I'm honestly scared of what she'd say. I don't know why but I am.

I can't help but feel that this is all an act for something, some bigger and darker motive that's reeling in her head. I bet she's bought a gigantic new fucktoy, cramped in the lower drawer of the dresser with her old favorite or maybe given its own lodgings, a treasure chest beneath the bed. Something to make me whine louder and scream her name when she's giving it to me, something to rip me apart and break and shatter me into a million pieces and when she's finished she can tell me how much she loves me and how everything is going to be okay. She'll stitch me back together with her words and kisses and she'll be my guardian angel forever after, and I'll still be her little girl. I wonder.

The pine-knot eyes watch and do not blink. I wonder what they are wondering. Maybe they could tell me if they could speak, or would they ever reveal their secrets to someone who glares back at them?

May 19/20, 19 XX : [The omission of specific paragraphs in this excerpt is required for it to be a part of the prosecution's statement]

The town is losing its mind.

When I went into the gas station for a couple things the girl working there, a mouse, the daughter of a friend from high school days--shit, nothing makes you feel older when you find out that all of your old classmates have all married and already have kids--she asked if I was alright, and I said I was. She hummed and nodded her head, just like that, and that stupid gesture seems to have stuck with me. I would have waved that off to the kid's wet personality but there were other instances. People are asking me if they can help, and when I confront them and ask for what they would like to help with, they clam up. That annoys me and scares me; who are they to pry into my affairs? They are still my affairs, aren't they?

I've lived in this town my entire life, everybody knows me and I know them. Whatever their deal is, it's not my deal.

When I got home, Sadie must have been busy working, the foul scent of paint and paint thinner and whatever the hell else she's using fills my nostrils and keeps me from asking her what she's doing. She likely wouldn't answer me anyway; her canvas is set with its back facing the door. She never shows me her work, and I try not to care but I do. I want her to let me into her world and not just be the thing on which she vents and expels her frustrations by way of her nine-inch faux cock. What's wrong with that?

I set my things away and go to my desk to work on Liar's Dance (a Dark Up North novel) and I see Sadie sitting there at the chair. She glances up and her eyes go wide. "Oh! Hey, I didn't think you'd be back so soon." There is an annoyingly fast series of mouse-clicks, she's working furiously to exit out of something.

"What're you doing?" I say, a bit too huffily. I don't mean to be a bitch, but an artist is apt to hold close to her the things that make up her art; for the painter it is the canvas, the brushes, the paints, and for the writer it is their pencils, pens, typewriter, or word processor located on their computer. When an artist sees somebody else fiddling with their medium (or the thing that contains it), they get edgy, worried, tense. It is the way of things.

"I had to send some messages to a couple clients, no big deal."

"No big deal?"

"I'm telling them that the works they've commissioned will be available at a later date and I've pushed them back in favor of a project that is far more pressing."

Oh, great, I think. Some big business exec has probably hired her and they've paid her how many thousands of dollars to work on some advertising pitch.

"Wouldn't that just piss them off and make them demand a refund?"

Sadie smiled. "They know I'm too good to pass up, prices being what they are."

I walked around to the small almost-kitchen behind Sadie and I notice that the computer is already on the desktop background. I purse my lips angrily, but when I look at her in the light coming in from the window, the anger just fades away. I turn and put my arms around her--I feel her stiffen slightly at my abruptness--and I kiss her on the cheek. I told her I was sorry for sounding so testy when I walked in, and she said it was alright. She apologized for using my computer without saying anything and I said it wasn't an issue.

I feel so stupid now for being jealous of her and for being so angry with her, she doesn't need it and I don't need it. We are both successful in our work, and we each have our fans; jealousy is unwarranted.

I kissed her again and asked her if she had eaten anything yet. She said no and with a tinge of pride I made us both some soup. It might have been canned, but I usually add a few things to make it better, secrets of living alone. We went upstairs to the actual kitchen and sat at the table, something we rarely ever do because of the demands of our careers. Sadie said it was great, but I think she was just being polite.

Everything was fine, perfect, but when I stood up to take our bowls away I think I might have stood up too fast; I felt my head become light and tingly, filled with crawly things and my vision was blurred for a couple of seconds. This had never happened before--never. I placed my hands down onto the wooden surface of the table and closed my eyes, waiting for the curious dizzy spell, the first I've ever had, to pass away.

"Are you okay?" Sadie asks me, and I tell her I'm fine, make up some excuse that we both can tell is a total lie. I take our things away to the sink but inside my mind is flooding with fear. I've never suffered from dizziness or vertigo or anything of that ilk, and this one bout of it filled me with horror and dread; what was going on in my head?

"Do you think you should see a doctor?" Sadie asked, her voice filled with concern. She was already up and at my side.

"No. I'm fine, really." And that was our conversation. We went back to our own work for the rest of the day. Nothing much of note happened; I added a pair of chapters to Liar's Dance and I watched ice or fungus or something else crawling up and down the pine walls. It is fluid with a silky, glistening sheen, bluish-white and solid but growing, slithering over staring eyes so they cannot see anymore. Harmless hallucination, not much happens on Mondays.

The sun goes up and it comes back down on the other side, the moon chases it like a silver child. Days just seem to creep by and by with no ultimate reason. The trees are like the stars; they don't care.

When night had fallen I felt it was time to save the progress I had made; I was tired, drained. I headed up to the bedroom and saw Sadie, one hand clutching at her breast and the other shifting under her bright yellow panties. She was on her back and whimpering, whining my name, her eye wide and milky and her tongue black, hanging out over her lower lip like a strip of dark leather. I blinked, and the image and the sounds disappeared. I shook my head and took off my clothes, all of my clothes, as it was a very hot day, crawling into a hot night. I still wore my white collar, the little heart tapping against my collarbone.

With the one sheet it was still far too hot; I could not sleep, nor could I think properly. My thoughts just seemed to pop up and disappear without logic, colliding into each other and making something new, tearing themselves apart into smaller objects, marbles rolling across the floor. That analogy is a poor description; my head was more like a lava lamp. I was staring at the ceiling, mind-dead, when Sadie stepped into the room with her usual swagger. She was real Sadie, no milky eyes or black leather tongue. Her eyes were blue-grey, her fur silvery and beautiful, and there was a smile on her face when she saw me. As she began stripping out of her clothes, primly setting her adorable half-glasses on the dresser, she asked me how my day went. I told her and copied her question, listening to the answer. She told me that her current project has a very special client, and she is putting all of her strength and soul into it. I tell her that it must be exhausting, and she says it is, saying also that she wasn't tired right now.

"I want to try something tonight," She says as she lies down beside me over the sheet. I ask her what it is but she doesn't tell me. She only looks into my eyes and I can see the emotions inside of them, something like sadness and affection. I wondered where the monster has gone, where my bestial mistress and her woman-hungry toy have gone, leaving this meek sister in her place. I'm not complaining, not at all, but I'd like to know what's going on in there, behind those pretty eyes. She places a hand on my cheek, smooth touch running through my fur, and I don't move, not without her permission. I feel like she still wants to take and only take so I let her, but with her other hand she grasps my arm and leads it to the small of her back. Her thong panties (purple, not yellow) are riding low on her hips, and I pull them up just a little bit. She leans forward and

Past-tense!

She leaned forward and said "Kiss me, Lisa," and I did--I pressed my lips against hers and when I closed my eyes it felt like there were tears there, manning the black battlements of my eyelashes. Her lips were dry and firm, firmer than most of the girls I've been with, swooned over in high school or partied with in college. I could smell the chemical scent of her paints mingling with her stronger, sharper natural smell. We kissed over and over again, our arms sliding up and down each other's backs, our legs rubbing together, and I finally felt like we were together. She wasn't my superior, I wasn't weaker than her--we were finally acting like we were in love. It wasn't my body being overtaken, enveloped by her heat, it was ourheat.

I let my hand wander down her body, following the curve of her waist to her hip, letting my fingers rest at the hem of her panties. I heard a sniffle, felt the fur at the edge of my nose ruffle, and I opened my eyes--Sadie was crying.

I broke away, letting my hands rise up on her back, tracing the shadows made by her shoulder blade. I asked her what was wrong, and she cried even harder, sobbing. Sex can wait; I pulled her head to my breast and held her there as she wept. I felt her lips moving, heard the words "I'm sorry," repeated over and over again. I listened and held her close, feeling her body shake against me.

"I'm sorry for hurting you," she said. I rub my head against hers, trying to calm her. It didn't really matter, it really didn't. I tell her that everything is alright--when she shook her head and said no, I put my hands on her face and tell her to open her eyes. She looked into my eyes and I saw something small in there, something I can't exactly describe--a glint of a gleam behind my reflection and behind the swirling storm clouds. I told her once again that everything is alright, and she smiled, believing my words. Hell, I believed them.

Ten minutes later, after her last sniffles petered away into a long sigh, I asked her what she wanted to try tonight, thinking she was too tired or too sad, too locked in her self-blame. I didn't expect her to tell me, and to ask if I was up for it. I told her that I was onlyif she was, and she moved out of my arms. "Are you with me tonight?" she asked, giving me a look I couldn't identify. I didn't know what she meant but I said yes.

She wiped away a stray tear that had eked out from under her eye as she sat up on her knees facing me. She told me to move around so that my head was closer to the edge of the bed rather than the headboard. I shifted, crawling over the sheet and again twisting onto my back, again staring at the ceiling. The wolf moved until she was on top of me, our breasts kneading together and setting off small sparks between us--she pressed her mouth to mine and our tongues made a slick dance within the private walls of our cheeks. We probed each other's teeth and gums, tasting more than just that; we licked at our strengths and weaknesses, testing and commiserating each other, getting off on all of our senses. Her face was still wet and I didn't mind.

I felt her rub herself against my leg, which I had absently pressed up to her; she moaned a response into my mouth as she began a slow, rhythmic pulse, rocking her hips back and forth. Although I had closed my eyes I could feel her breasts caressing mine with a sultry, pleasurable whisper. I could already feel the dampness spreading from her panties onto my knee and I moaned back at her, into her. I began playing with her breasts, cupping and massaging them. I took one of her nipples between my fingers and squeezed, gently, and she expelled a grunting sound from her nose, packed with lust. I felt her grind against my leg with a quicker, harder pulse, her body murmuring against mine.

Suddenly, I felt her heat leave me, her boobs escaping my clutches--she got up, slid over the side of the bed and quickly took off her underwear, the little tag complaining. Judging by the speed and strength with which she removed them I had thought they would rip, but they didn't; she let the flimsy purple thong fall to the floor, quickly returning to me. "Are you ready?" she asked, her voice heavy and breathy, and all of a sudden I can smell her arousal, hitting me like a solid wall of sex, a runaway train that carried with it everything that was female, slamming into my nostrils and I could feel my body responding in kind.

"Yeah," I told her, and she moved over my body, her breasts swaying as she crawled forward. They brushed against my face and I just barely resisted the urge to take them into my mouth. I tucked my arms to my sides to let her legs pass, my head bouncing on the mattress as she moved, and soon my vision was filled with her womanhood; her labia were full and dark, partially hidden by her thin brush of pubic fur, stuck in wild, damp clumps from rubbing against me. Her smell and her heat is one hundred percent now and I fill my lungs with it, breathing her in as my heart threatens to break out of my ribcage.

Slowly, she lowered herself down onto me with a squeak of nervous tension. My eyes went wide, as I had thought she would hold herself and give me some kind of warning. I brushed my lips against her, kissing her, holding back for later, feeling my own pussy tingling as I breathed on her, first hot then cold. A kiss in just the right place that I won't ever forget.

She whimpered and jerked her hips when my nose grazed against the little pink nub I saw in the tangle of her fur. I smiled and started in with my tongue, feeling her muscles spasm lightly at my touch. I was turned on like I had hell down in my crotch, all fire and no action, but I ignored my own indulgence and focused on my lover. I reached up and grabbed her ass cheeks, squeezing them and noting how firm they were as I played with them, eliciting a soft groan from somewhere up above me. I kept breathing on her and licking her, letting my tongue explore and tease and tickle the hot, wet folds of her flesh like I did on the day we had first met. I could feel she was trying not to rock back and forth over my face, to let me do all the work, but I took her ass and when I started moving her she got the idea, not so much rubbing as jerking forward and back.

"Oh, baby," she said, and I saw her hands go up to grab at her breasts, gorgeous and round. She made a circling motion with her hips and rose up and away from me, leaving me befuddled before she came back down, my nose burying into her nether fur. I felt the walls of my own pussy twitch in want and need until it became so that I finally sent out a hand to take care of things. I slid my forefinger and then my middle into my throbbing entrance, my body filling with electricity shooting up to my head as I encircled my clit with my thumb. My body was already clenching around my fingers as if starved, hungering. I moaned deep and hard into Sadie, and she replied in turn. I felt like I was lost in a nebula of sex, nova coitus, and I was reeling from star to star as I continued to plunge my tongue into the wolf above me. All of my senses were on overload, stuck in ludicrous-speed; I couldn't tell if I was crying or if it was Sadie's rampant secretions leaking into my eyes. To be honest, either one or both could have been true.

"Lisa," she whined, and I rapped on her clit with the tip of my tongue, circling it before ducking back down into her. She shook when I did that, whined louder, clawed at her tits. I spanked her ass with my free hand as I fingered myself, my hand soaked. I increased my speed, adrenaline pushing me harder, and when I felt a hand running over my hair I opened my blurry eyes, seeing my wolf above me beyond her mound that I was attacking, placating, and worshipping. I was lost on a cloud of her taste and scent, and somewhere in the haze that began to fill my head I felt my chest tighten and my stomach clench and I swore in my head because it was too soon, but I came anyway.

I came long and hard, longer and harder than I can ever recall doing so. I made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a moan, pressing my face into Sadie's slit, making her shake again. When I felt I could move my hand I felt a long trail of dampness covering the sheet under me. I don't know if she noticed me quivering under her in the throes of my climax, but if she did she didn't make any comment. She kept riding me, running her hand through my hair, breathing hot and heavy through her open mouth. I went for broke, powering through post-copulation exhaustion and giving her body everything I had left.

In my daze I had a twinge of curiosity; I took the hand I used to finger myself and reached up under Sadie's tail, slicking her backdoor with the back of one finger. I felt her tense, saw her shake her head. For some reason or another we have never discussed our sexual proclivities, and though I liked a little anal every now and then I had always wondered secretly if she did or not.

I didn't push my digit in, but I didn't take it away, either. I tickled her with it, gently pushing and rubbing against her tight hole, which I knew had never been touched. I could tell from the sounds she was making that she had never known the amount of nerve endings in the target location, the feeling of having those nerves touched, and I felt a small wave of pride knowing that I was the first to show her.

Moments went by and soon several things happened with remarkable rapidity; Sadie let out a throaty moan into the hot air; the hand that she used to brush my hair grabbed a tight, painful fistful; she slapped her body down hard onto my face; I saw her stomach flutter, shadows of muscle rippling; I felt the fleshy walls of her vagina grip and bear down on my tongue; and I felt a rush of hot wetness wash over me, flooding my mind as much as my nostrils and mouth and eyes.

The time that passed between Sadie's climax and us climbing back into bed was lost in a fuzzy daze. We held onto each other as though being out of contact meant destruction, kissing brokenly as we struggled to catch our breath. Once we crept under the sheet Sadie buried her face into my neck, said "Thank you so much, baby," and was asleep within minutes.

I saw the children of the spider crawling across the floor and the walls. Their bodies are black with white rings, like their mother who died before her time. They have my face.

The spiders all have my face. I watch them watch me and I hear the flute-like music brushing against the windows outside, sounding like sad songs of whales, and I think I fall asleep. I dream of the forest and the things that live in there, awake and moving, their plans coming to wicked fruition.

May 22, 19 XX :

I feel the faces that they have scratched into the trees and the rocks outside, out there in the woods. I can feel them watching me, always watching me. They've not sent their killer but they're thinking about it, I know they are. I haven't seen them yet, they're just waiting for me to do something, but they'll just have to wait.

Where is my red-handed assassin? They must be very far away, or else the woods would not be so vocal. I've moved my desk so I can watch the trees through the window, and I've set up small traps at the edge of the forest. I've made calls, secured provisions; I will not leave my home until this thing is ended. Someone or something is after me but I do not lose any sleep over it; isn't that kind of funny?

May 25, 19 XX :

It has been a week over a week since the dream with the owl and I've not yet met my killer-to-be. He told me they will show me how they will do away with me, in some manner or other, and that I had to keep my eyes wide open. Perhaps they are afraid. I suspect everybody in town: the mailman who looks out the window with too-big, too-dark spectacles that look like binoculars; the young teenager who works at the hardware story, just thrown up by the halls of high school; the pretty and pretty dumb cashier at the gas station who looks like she'd do anything for a dollar, her fingernails are painted pink, dark pink, but that's not really red. It could be anybody.

I've nearly finished proofreading what I have for Liar's Dance so far, having reached my fifty-percent mark--my eyes hurt from staring at my screen for so long, from scrutinizing the two hundred-plus pages of words written in size-eleven Times New Roman font for the slightest error. I look out the window, feeling a headache slithering over my frontal lobe, pushing up against my cranium like some dark and foul thing trying to break out of its shell. It is a dark day outside; clouds like damp spidersilk spread across the sky as though in a single thick sheet, threatening rain. There are no shadows outside, no sunlight to make them; it is only the slight rolling hills and shallow dips and the arms of the forest and their colors somewhat drained, some vampire of pigments at work.

I was about to turn away and head to the bathroom to grab an Advil when I noticed something out there, or rather a feeling of having noticed something. Call it a compunction, a gut feeling, etc. I look out of the window and see something odd within the location of brushes and rocks and grass, or perhaps it the location itself. With a start that invigorates my headache to new climes, baby monster scratching at its shell, I see exactly what it is, what fills me with equal mixture of interest and trepidation. It is like a jigsaw puzzle, only moving your head to the correct position is what pulls all of the pieces together.

Out there, the placement of bushes and rocks and grass, with all of their individual features that make them what they are, spell out the name "LISA."

I felt an urge to walk outside, but that's what they want me to do. They want me to walk out into the open, but I won't, no, I won't. I turn around and head into the bathroom, grab the bottle of Advil and hear a satisfying jingle as I pop open the cap and dry-swallow two capsules. It won't do anything to the reality outside, but it will help this temporary, provisional pain. How did they get so close to my home without my seeing them? Doesn't matter, I'm ready for them.

When I headed to the semi-kitchen, I heard a flurry of steps hailing from the stairs. I was too busy perusing what was in the refrigerator to have seen what was happening, but I heard her feet padding on the floor, heard her worried swearing. I shut the door, Dr. Pepper in hand, and as I heard the rush of water I asked her what was wrong. She must not have heard me over the water, didn't matter. I went to my desk to reposition the pens I had set there [mental note: buy pens that are sturdier than the shit I currently have]. I look over past the open bathroom door and see Sadie washing her hands. There is acrylic paint up to her wrists, stained blood red and almost dried. Her nails are long, vulture-talons gleaming crimson.

No. I refuse to believe it is her. They could not have gotten to her.

But then why has she been wanting to get closer to me? She fucks my body to pieces, ripping herself into my mind like a centipede, dominating me and my willpower over the length of several months and then apologizes--why? I had been wondering what's been going on in that mind and now I know. My Sadie is one of them.

If they think that I'm going to give in just because of that they are very much mistaken. The pine-knot eyes can watch all they want, they won't get anything from me, only my hate.

They are not going to beat me. They've been trying for twenty-eight years and they've not succeeded yet.

I think I'll wait and let them make the first move. As if that will help them.

May 28,19 XX :

(From www.old_days_old_ways.com, "Sacred Months and Their Powers")

"During spring, the axis of the earth increases its tilt relative to the sun, and the length of daylight rapidly increases for the relevant hemisphere. Because of this, the increased warmth and sunlight causes new plant growth to grow, allowing for numerous cultures to attribute the spring season with growth, rejuvenation, fertility, and life. This is accentuated by the often unpredictable or unstable weather patterns, displaying life's desire to not be watered down into something predictable. The chaos of life is more present during spring...

"For centuries, cultures across the globe have celebrated spring in a variety of incarnations, the most common being fertility rites or dances celebrating new life."

(From www.magicoftime/pages/spring/holidays_and_festivals)

"Of all of the modern pagan festivals celebrated today, some would argue that Beltane is held as the most sacred. Celebrated on May 1, this festival represents the marriage or mating of the God and Goddess. Traditionally, dancing around a maypole is common practice...though celebrations vary according to traditions. Connected with the Lord of the Forest, The May Queen, and growing fairy magic...Nature beings are more active at this time in preparation for the Summer solstice."

What does all of this mean? I can't make head or tails of it. Is it the same or something else? No, they are different--very, very different.

Not even this will help me.

May 29/30, 19 XX :

A lot has happened today, a lot that the moon and the darkness beneath it cannot hope to conceal. There is finally a tranquility over me, a peace that I haven't known in years, as though I have purged myself of nearly three decades of mental perdition [catharsis is a better word]. I have truly, finally, absolutely beaten them back.

Everything is so vibrant now, so clear and unmarred; I write these words with a pencil rather than a pen, as I've grown tired of scratching out words or statements that I am displeased with or do not understand; there is no breeze tonight, no music to make the trees and grass surrounding my home dance, and the air is heavy with heat and moisture, like being inside of a womb; the moon hangs fat and gibbous in the sky, bloated like a politician and surrounded by an audience of gleaming stars, mostly white and blue, but some with a reddish tinge, coloring the black velvet tapestry; I am sitting on the swinging chair on the porch, staring out into the dark fields beyond my home, wearing a low brown fringe skirt and a grassy green top, my white collar wrapped around my wrist like a love bracelet, the little silver heart twinkling lovingly in the moonlight; the world is filled with earthy spring smells and I fill my lungs with it, and it enters me like a tide and carries away what I neither want or need.

I will try to write down events exactly as they have happened--some of these occurred with such feverish gusto that it made one's attentiveness falter or at times seem impossible, but I will try my best.

It is the final week of May; the battle was nearly at its end, and the enemy had yet to make their move. I've stood by the wayside, watching as the pine eyes watch, without action, continuing to work on the fourth installment of Dark Up North. I would not permit myself to do something that would make me seem vulnerable in their eyes, so I have remained here at my desk, straying only to go to my bedroom to sleep or to the kitchen to eat. I have held my vigilance with unwavering fortitude, and nothing has slipped beyond my notice. Of course nothing has, because nothing has happened yet.

I clicked the mouse, saving what I have done in the document. Standing up out of my chair, I heaved a sigh and stretched, hearing the satisfying pop of tired joints as I reached up to grab at the ceiling. It was passed noon, the sky was pockmarked with wispy cirrostratus clouds though still bright and blue, and the sun high. I went into the kitchen to make myself some tea--I had only recently started drinking chamomile tea and now there is little else my taste buds will accept--and I heard the patter of Sadie's feet coming down the stairs. I watched her as she descended, a little bounce carried on each step, her hair moving fluidly like black smoke, her tail twitching with her hips left-to-right-to-left.

She had managed to cleanse herself of the red paint, but there was still some residue under her nails, marking her. When she came up to me, a cunning devil's smile on her face and a gleam in her eyes I smiled back, not removing my eyes from her for one second, trying not to blink. I dip the teabag into the hot water, feeling time not so much slow down as stumble, broken pace.

"I want to show you something, Lisa," she says, and when she touches my forearm I don't flinch.

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you."

"No?"

"Nope, it's a surprise. Just come on up and see it."

And she tries to lead me up with her, pulling me by my arm, and I twist out of her grasp, setting my hand in hers. I will not be led to my end, I will go to it.

I walked with her up the stairs, my hand holding my mug of tea as though it held my entire existence, gripping it so tightly that it shook. Sadie or whatever she was couldn't have not noticed that, and I'm sure she did, but she did not bring it up. We stepped through the hall and into her studio, my former guest room, and I surveyed the mess she been making of it; a kaleidoscope of colors was sprinkled along the floor, even though she often set old newspapers beneath her. The room was barren for the most part, after we had removed the small bed to the first floor, with a desk and some shelves by the walls on which burned clove and mint incense, giving the air a symmetrically balanced perk. On the far wall, the window-door was cracked open, just an inch or two to allow the air in the room to circulate. At the center of the room stood on object on four thin wooden legs, an oblique something concealed by a sheet of beige fabric. Sadie went to it, brushing her fingers along one edge of the sheet while I stood and watched from the doorway.

"Come on," she said with a smile on her face, gesturing for me to come forward. I took a sip from my tea, the taste of chamomile mingling pleasantly with the incense in the air. I felt like I was walking into a spider web, a nice-smelling spider web.

I stopped in front of her hidden canvas, unsure and filled with energy, wondering if I should run or stay. She asked if I was ready--I told her I was, and with a dramatic flourish she threw off the sheet, twirling it around her hand and letting it fall at her feet. The abrupt sound of the fabric ruffling through the air sounded like a gun being fired amongst a flock of crows, and I wanted to scatter. Instead, I held my ground and looked at what she had done, at what had been allowed to gestate up here in the herbaceous, placental warmth of spring.

"I'm calling it The Queen of the May," Sadie said.

It would be outlandish to say or even suggest that the painting did not possess the same qualities that had made her first works the talk of artistic urban circles and which made her rise to fame. It expressed the painter's obsession with folklore and magick, expressing it perfectly, her soul and passion stuck in every brushstroke and dab, infused deeply into the paint to display a vision from another world, or perhaps this world at another time. In it, a short vixen stood within a clearing, the woods around her sparkling with fairy-lights. The scene suggested that it was night, but there was hardly any darkness. The figure wore a long, flowing gown of resplendence that was modest yet regal, the soft and semi-translucent fabric fading into twigs and branches as it neared the forest floor, her eyes closed in a thin, pleasant smile. The posture and magnificence of the figure seemed to exude a feeling of serenity in its most complete, undiluted form, natural beauty of beauty, a princess within a lost and forgotten world.

The figure was me; it was my face that held that resplendent joy and peacefulness, my dress that darkened as it fell and became part of the earth.

The painting was as much the pinnacle of her illusory style as it was a prime example, and I saw the second image clearly. Within the woods and around my form was Sadie's face, looking up at the sky, her eye a conflagration of fairy-fire within a section of brambles. There was happiness in her face to match my own, and that she was looking upwards suggested to me a sense of loyalty, confidence, trust, et cetera. She was expressing an anticipation of things to come and that she would be with me forever.

But somewhere within the brushstrokes, behind the maze of colors and directions, there was a third image, a messy tertiary feature that lurked within everything else, contained within the shadows and the light and perforated everything with its awfulness and pestilential grotesqueness. Once I saw that third picture everything else became extraneous and meaningless; the curves were drawn into straight lines and vice versa, ad infinitum. I saw the secret thing that she--it--had created within the painting, probably thinking that I would not see it, what it truly wanted to do to me deep in those woods, and I screamed. I screamed and the mug fell from my hands and the concussive sound that echoes along the room didn't stop me from letting out my fear, my horror venting through only one exit.

"What's wrong!?" Sadie shouted, her eyes wide, her fingernails red and reaching for me, but I would not let it get me.

Sadie used a T-bevel as a straightedge; it was resting on the desk, its trapezoidal blade gleaming in the light. I bet that this was what she was going to use on me. I grabbed it in my hand and did to her what she was going to do to me. Afterward, I did to the painting what I had done to her, and as it lay in broken tatters I let the bevel drop to the floor with a dull, hollow clatter.

I walked outside, inhaling spring and sat down on the swinging chair in the porch and have not left. It was day and now it is night, and soon it will be day again which will rise back to night. The phones continue to ring from inside the house, growing into an almost childish whine but I do not answer them, I don't care to, they are not important.

It really is a beautiful night.

The trees are swaying as if they had heard my thoughts, whether waving at me to stay away or beckoning for me I cannot tell. As the music reached me I start moving my head to the sounds. There is nothing more to write.