Find Me in the Dark (4 page)

My heart races from anticipation, not fear. I’ve always known there was a part of me that was fucked up, but I’m starting to realize just how fucked up I really am. I’ve never felt this alive before. I want this obsession to deepen, not end. I want to feel like a ripple stretching out so far that it disappears.

I can’t stay away any longer, either. I don’t care if this is temporary or amounts to nothing. I want it. I want him. And I don’t care what happens after.

I open the door. It’s dark. I can’t hear anything but my own shallow breath.
Get a grip on yourself
, Laura, I think as I walk forward. I grip my cello as if my life depends on it. My free hand touches the top of each chair as I pass.

It’s almost midnight. Though I’m early, I wonder if he’s already here.

None of my friends were home when I dropped off my bags, thank God. And none of them had seen the trampled rose. I was infinitely thankful for that. Everyone would have wondered why I kept it, and I doubt any explanation I could have given would hold up under Dolly’s scrutiny.

I veer to the left when I reach the stage, stepping off the plush, red carpet and onto concrete. I tiptoe up the stairs. I’m pretty sure I won’t trip, but it’s dark and I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t want to take any chances.

Ha, don’t want to take any chances. Why did you come then, Laura?
I chastise as I peek behind the curtain to turn on a light.

A solo light illuminates the center of the stage. It feels a bit diva-ish, but I want him to see me and I don’t want to turn on any others; I might startle if things start to feel too real.

My footsteps echo as I walk to the light. I set down my case. The buckles click as I snap open the lid. I slide my hand up the neck of the cello as I grip my bow. I sit and place it between my legs, finding comfort in the familiar pressure between my thighs. I raise my arm, remembering all the hours I spent perfecting this very pose when I first started to play. My arm got so cramped and tired. It took such a long time to build up the callouses on my finger pads. Strange I should think about that now.

I shut my eyes and fall into position.
There. Find your peace
, I repeat. I think of my mother’s eyes and set the bow to the strings.

I don’t play yet. Instead, I peer out over the auditorium.

The darkness seems endless. It’s too big for me to be practicing here alone. Then again, my midterm recital will be here before I know it—or at least that’s the explanation I gave for reserving the space. My eyes sting from the bright light above beaming into them. Dust sifts through the air, catching light. It softens the darkness, but I still can’t see anything past the first few rows.

He might already be here, sitting in one of the seats in silence. He might already be looking at me.

Find your peace
, I remind myself. It’s hard for me to relax in the silence just before a performance. It’s easier by a fountain or in the woods, where it’s quiet and you feel like you’re speaking to a part of yourself instead of to people you do not know.

I inhale. The sound is sharp.
Find your peace
, I repeat, and begin to play.

The first notes are hesitant. The thumping of my heart makes my body shake, but my arms remain poised. I play from my shoulders, from my waist, harnessing my nervous energy and turning it into something poignant. It’s a song about the first days of spring where every happiness is tainted by the knowledge of eventual decay—it’s a song about the transience of love and beauty.

I lower my head. My dark hair slips from my shoulders onto my bare arms. I should have kept my sweater on. The auditorium is so cold that I can see goose bumps on my skin. I watch the shadow of my body sway back and forth.

I hear a rustle off fabric in the back of the room.

For not even a second, I stop. I’m barely off. Another probably wouldn’t notice, but I do and it bothers me. My hesitation adds an immediacy to the song as I speed up, catching up with my initial rhythm. As I try to hide it, filling my notes with more intensity.

He’s out there in the dark, but I’m afraid to raise my head. I’m afraid to look for him. I continue to play, forcing my breathing to slow as my heart races. The back of my neck feels like ice. Everywhere else I’m burning.

Another rustle of fabric. Is he standing? Moving? I elongate my note, prolonging my anxiety until its so stretched I feel I might snap.

I stop, hesitating before moving to the next note. My fingers twitch. I press the strings harder, just barely feeling them beneath my calloused fingers, and fill the silence with three breaths.

Then, he moves closer.

I’ll see him if I lift my head
, I realize.

Before, at the fountain, I was so afraid. I remember the sound of rustling water moving over my pulse, unaffected by my own internal rhythm. I remember my fear and desire increasing with each heartbeat.

That was nothing compared to how I feel now.

Slowly, I glance up.

I can’t see his face. It’s hidden in shadow. In fact, all of him is hidden. He looks like a dark smear.

He doesn’t come closer. I hear him inhale. “You stopped.”

I can hear his whisper, somehow, over everything. I react as if it’s been what I’ve been waiting for all my life. Seconds pass before I can answer. My mind races as as if I’ve been submerged in the song I’d been playing.

“Yes.” It’s all I can manage.

“Why?” he asks.

Again, my mind races. I’m not looking at him anymore, but back at my own shadow. My hand holds the bow loosely. It looks like it could fall at any moment. I grip it tighter. “I heard you approaching.”

“Did it bother you?”

I take a deep breath. God, what was wrong with me? He was just a guy. Even if it was dark, he was just a guy. A guy I didn’t know and had obsessed about for months. A guy who followed me places. Who made strange demands.

Alright, being in a dark room alone with him might not be the best idea.

“Laura?” he asks again.

Another woman might have run. But then, another woman would not have coveted his letters, hid them under her bed, and dreamed about him at night. Another woman would not have been drawn to this dark creature, or become one herself.

I fight the urge to get out of my chair—to step out beyond the light, nearer to him. “Hearing you didn’t bother me. Not really,” I babble. “I just…I don’t know. A part of me didn’t think you would show up.”

He pauses. “I didn’t know if you would either.”

I glance down, thinking of how forceful he was at the fountain. “I didn’t know you would accept no for an answer.”

“Why is that?”

Once again, the difference between how he sounds and how I thought he’d sound strikes me. He’d always been my sunlight—something soft and invisible that could warm my entire soul. Now, a chill passes through me as I answer, “It just sounded like you were commanding me is all.”

The air seems tense for a moment. “Are you suggesting you’d do anything I asked?”

My inner thighs clench. My heart beats faster. I run my fingers over the soft, polished wood of the cello.
I should lie and say no
, I think. That’s what a normal girl would do. But instead I say, “Yes.”

He takes another step forward. Another. It looks like something is drawing him forward. The light hits his polished shoes, gray slacks, the bottom of his business jacket.

His clothes look expensive. Refined. I hadn’t expected that. He didn’t wear a tie. The first three buttons of his shirt are loose. The skin beneath is muscular and smooth.

He stops just before the light hit his face.

“That’s a dangerous thing to tell a man like me,” he says.

What is a man like you, exactly?
I slide forward. The cello sinks deeper between my thighs. “I guess that’s just another power you have over me.”

“What?” he asks.

I shut my eyes. “It’s strange, but I can’t bring myself to lie to you.”

Fabric rustles. Squinting, I see him move behind a row of seats. His knuckles grab the chair in front of him.

“Who are you?”

I don’t realize I asked the question until the words were gone from my throat. In the silence that follows, I wonder why I feel as if I’d broken some unspoken taboo.

“If it takes you that long to answer, then maybe you shouldn’t,” I say.

“Why is that?”

“Because it’s obvious you’re trying to come up with a lie.”

He exhales slowly. “Telling the truth is harder than lying.”

He hasn’t moved from that seat. His hands still grip the chair. I wonder what it would feel like to be touched by those strong hands. It’s hard to see completely from this distance, but they look scarred and rough. I want to be the one that relaxes them.

“Don’t worry about it, then,” I reply. “All I was saying was…I just didn’t expect you to come.”

“Really, when I’m the one who sent for you?”

His voice echoes through me as if body were hollow.
I didn’t think you would because you’d never tried to contact me before in person. You seemed content with letters
. I can’t say these things. Admitting them out loud would make them too real. I don’t want him to know I’m that filled with longing, so I ask, “How could I not come?”

“I can think of a few reasons.” He slides out from the seats, back into the row. “You don’t know me.”

“That’s not true. I read your letters every day.”

He glances down. For some reason I can’t see his head. Something is covering it. “Like I said,” he replies slowly. “You don’t know me.”

And then I realize he’s staying in the shadows so I don’t see his face. “Are you going to come closer?” I ask.

“Is that an invitation, Laura?”

Yes
. Heat surges through my body. He hasn’t moved, and already my body is buzzing as if he’s touching me.

“If you want me to come closer, shut your eyes.”

Shut my eyes? I frown.

He chuckles. “I know it’s an odd request.”

Yeah. Really odd
. “Why do I need my eyes shut?”

“You don’t trust me, now?” he asks. “It’s alright, I wouldn’t trust a stranger who’s embedded himself into your life like I have.”

“You haven’t embedded yourself into my life,” I whisper.

“Yes I have. I sent you that first letter because I wanted you to think of me because I always think of you. But above that, I prayed for your obsession to mirror my own. I wanted you to wonder what my skin tasted like. I wanted you to touch yourself in the middle of the night and think of me.”

A shiver shoots through me. I can’t believe he’s saying these things. I can’t believe how much I want to hear them.

He chuckles again. “No response for that?”

I wonder why he keeps saying my name. It’s almost as if he’s obsessed. Then again, I suppose he is obsessed. He just admitted as much. It should frighten me, and maybe it does, but that fear only enhances my own curiosity.

And, more than that, my own obsession.

I stretch my left leg, pointing my toes. With it, I begin to draw a circle on the floor, stopping only when my my leg is pulled so far back that I can’t go any further. His breath catches. I can see nothing of his face, but I know he’s watching my leg intently.

I wonder if he’s thinking of touching it.

If he wonders what my skin would feel like.

I wonder if I will feel his obsession when he he finally gives in.

“Do you still want me to come closer?” he asks.

My outstretched leg begins to ache. My mind races. A part of me wants to stop everything, but a dark feeling grows inside me, demanding I submit.

I nod.

He leans forward. Taunting me, almost, with how the shadow slides up his neck, almost to his chin, but stops just short of giving me a glimpse of him. “Are you going to shut your eyes?”

I shut my eyes instead of answering.

It feels like an eternity before he moves. The carpet muffles his footsteps as he makes his way to the stage. My staccato breathing makes it hard to hear his approach and trace his position in the auditorium. Finally, his hands slide over the top of the stage. He jumps up instead of taking the stairs.

He never breaks his pace as he comes towards me. I don’t know why I expected him to. Maybe because my body is shaking and I want some of those nerves to be reflected in him.

I wait until he’s too close to disappear before opening my eyes.

I yelp. I release the cello. It slides between my legs until the neck catches on my thigh. My hands grip the chair to keep me upright.

His face is covered by a mask. The kind robbers wear to distort their features so they all bleed into darkness.

He cocks his head but doesn’t move closer. “I told you not to look.”

My tongue feels heavy. “I…I…”

“It’s alright. I expected you to.” He circles me, moving towards the orchestra pit. “That’s why I’m wearing one.”

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“Why I wear it?”

I nod.

“Because you would not love me if you saw my face.”

A thousand things race through my mind. His muscular silhouette. The compact power of his shoulders. The dark, cryptic message of his words.

There’s a warning there. He’s hiding something. I know I should think about these things more, but thing I can focus on for any length of time that he used the word love. It surprises me even more than the fact he’s wearing a mask.

“You should see how you look right now.” He raises his hand as if to rub his face, then thinks better of it. “Did I speak of love too soon?”

My throat feels tight. “I barely know you.”

“That’s what I told you before.” He crouches and looks up at me. I search his mask for any sign of humanity, finding only darkness.

“I know I don’t know you, but it’s just…you’re just…”
Different than what I expected
, but I can’t say that. I’m afraid to articulate what I really mean. Reading his letters was like reading everything I’d ever wanted to hear. I’d allowed myself to be seduced.

No, I
wanted
to be.

“I’m just what?” he probes.

Just everything I desire. Everything I never knew I wanted. Perhaps its even better this way that I don’t see your face—perhaps that’s even why you decided to do this—so that I can keep this fantasy
.