THE GREAT YEAR

He had not been expecting a letter. More like a series of numbers, or address. Yet, out like a breech birth it stuttered, stalled. Then bursting forth in all its bloody way it emerged, gasped, then screamed. Of course, Aven had to cut it out of him. Severed, his victim's consciousness


collapsed. Now Tuned, salt molecules shimmied his nose cilia when his eyes watered at the corners.

Aven was thorough. He unearthed the memory of when I and his prey first met; a swirl of cotton candy and corpses. Four came for me that day. Lethal. That was before I knew there was a they, before I knew it mattered that I was me.

I stumbled in a fog of deep fried snickers, moldy, unattainable stuffed animals, and rage. Concrete digits grasped the neckline of my favorite sweater; my body surprisingly, suddenly, defying gravity.

He told me to call him Henry. He looked old, like a grandpa. At least what I assumed a grandpa looked like. He smiled as he floated toward me. His blurred hand held the light of a star. Its ascension triggered my fall. The impact was of little consequence. I'm eight at the time. I heard the kidnapper's voice. I smelled his blood. He's ten feet and counting away from me as I scrambled, but I still felt his fist against my neck. My foster parents lay among buttered popcorn, sharing the lonely experience of growing colder by the second.

Later, amid the symphony of panting, perspiring, and panicking, nearly five minutes of prying at the severed hand attached to me and only one finger was broken. I nearly lost it when he flashed the knife out of frustration for our gory Gordian knot. I ditched the sweater, February or not.

One came for Henry today. One much worse than the others. We were challenged periodically, my mind training testing theory in real world throw downs. But Henry knew. He counted on Aven being the uncreative, linear hunter. Every night before bed, but after Cor-Com, Henry drilled the plan into my very cells. During these sessions his eyes held their own conversation. His hidden thoughts roughed the whitewater of words. I soon knew that this was not in-case, it was inevitable.

Aven held Henry's head. Reflecting each other, their eyes infinite mirrors. Poor Henry, his brown lifesaver irises drowning in Aven's toxic emerald oceans. Off beat, his breath steps all over its partners' feet. His chapped, cracked upper lip in classic contrast to the plump, saliva swollen bottom one whose cup runneth over, spilling all over that ratty flannel I hated as much as he loved. Maybe as much as Aven loved his suffering.

A trickle of blood sauntered down Henry's scar tissue. The indentation from the bullet collected the red life, some of which Aven pressed into a distinctive fingerprint. In his ecstatic oblivion, Aven dug into Henry's weathered skull simultaneously pressing deeper into his mind. Henry's memory was fast forwarded like a pawn shop VCR. The sky vomited snow; I blurred down the steps. I saw myself slip back in to focus and slow as I reached the front door. Solid, scarred hands surround me, followed by corridors of god awful turquoise and grey flannel. I still remember the smell of Atlantic snow and love nuzzled in polyester.

Aven was pleased. He had located the last memory of me. Subconsciously his tongue bullies his meager lips in anticipation. My hair floated in the squall like it was underwater. Aven fingertips burst blood vessels in Henry's skull; concentric bruises appeared and made the sides of his head look like a domino. In Henry's mind eye, the image of me tints royal blue. The memory of me aimed a flash card with al the menace of an Abrams tank. The letter A siphons away all other existence.

Aven's dry throat clicks in recognition and fear. The day Henry saved me open his eyes. He told me they were after me because I am unique. I no know that isn't true. Aven came today sure both in his abilities and the certainty of my capture.

He now knows that wasn't true.

For the past week I knew one would come Henry guessed it would be Aven or M'Arco. I allowed them to find me. As much as I loved Henry, there is nothing I wouldn't sacrifice to get Orzon. The ungodly mount of discipline! For hours I sat quiet in Henry's mind. I endured the revulsion as Aven probed and molested every naked neuron. Until ultimately, he was too far in the escape the Lock.

Even as I write this the irony makes me smile. Their greatest weapon unleashed, on them. Tonight rest. Tomorrow the Teacher. If I can reach the Son, death is merely a delay.