Darkheart

The Present: Rhyme & Reason

Shiny, raw mounds in all shades of pink and all manner of shapes glistened on trays and platters within the glass case. Coils and lines of bratwurst, huge stacked slabs of marbled roasts, ribbons of ground beef and pork (those were the worst to look at, Jeremiah thought), pale pimpled chicken legs in their tessellated rows, rib eye steaks and pork steaks and strip steaks, scarlet round tenderloins and racks of rib whose bones were too corporeal for comfort, hand-rolled meatballs and burger patties in whatever mix of animal one could ask for, just meat, meat, and more meat--and all of it diced and cubed and mushed and tenderized and cased and skewered and displayed in gruesome glory for the civilized carnivores looking for a meal.

Jeremiah wouldn't have been standing there looking at it had his mother not asked him to go into town to pick up ground pork for a meatloaf she felt like making. As a rule, Jeremiah avoided raw meat--looking at it, thinking about it, and definitely touching it. He definitely never touched the stuff. He was no vegetarian--ate meat more out of habit than any actual taste for it--but when he grew close to anything too reminiscent of its original form, he was overwhelmed. The meat counter in particular, its wanton display of death and flesh, the humiliating and demeaning ends of things once alive, things who'd surely have protested such indelicacy regarding their remains . . .

Jeremiah had to quell the nausea within. He began to breathe through his mouth so as to block out the smells, and he forced his eyes upward, toward a breathing human rather than the lifeless piles of muscle. Engaging in as little interaction as was necessary for the transaction, Jeremiah managed to procure his mother's ground pork and, once it was all bagged up, proceeded directly out of the shop.

For all the things it didn't have, Port Killdeer did have a decent butcher.

As he headed toward the old bike he'd ridden into town, Jeremiah caught sight of a familiar face attached to a woman coming his way down the sidewalk, and though his first inclination was to hide from her, he recalled that he hadn't heard back from Cris after his last message and figured this was a good opportunity to ask after her.

"Hey, Jess," he greeted as the woman neared, attempting a friendly smile as he mentally noted her large eyes and fair, wavy blonde hair, so much like his friend's although actually styled in contrast to Cris's perpetually frazzled mane.

Jess stopped walking, acknowledged his presence, but maintained a distant affect. She appeared to be thinking a little harder than necessary. "Hi--I . . . I'm so sorry, but do we know each other?"

Jeremiah almost laughed but realized she was serious. "Yeah," he nodded, a bit put off, "it's me--Jeremiah."

Jess was slow to nod, but when she did, Jeremiah's relief was palpable. "Oh, right . . . right!" she admitted. "I think I do recognize you! Were you in Dusty's class? Did you graduate together?"

The man's face fell. "Well, younger, actually, but . . . but I'm also Cris's friend."

The woman leaned back a bit as if to study him. "Cris's friend?"

"Yes! Your sister--Cris?Crystal?" She had to be messing with him. He realized he was relatively forgettable, had never been one for a wide circle, but really! She'd just bandaged him up a short while ago.

If Jess were playing a game, though, she played it well. "I think I understand. You're mixing me up with someone. I don't have a sister."

Her words took a moment to register, and just as Jeremiah assured himself he'd seen the most subtle flicker of hesitation within the woman's eyes, she was making unnecessary apologies and moving on past him toward the butcher shop.

The man must've stood for several moments pondering the absurdity of what'd just happened. For all the nonsense his life had presented up until this point, none of it had felt as unsettling as the conversation he'd just had. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Jeremiah looked at the last message he'd received from Cris, several days ago: the resort, the 4th, dark. He chewed the inside of his cheek, rubbed his tongue along the backs of his teeth. He'd immediately replied with what time? can you get me? but she'd not responded. He hadn't heard from her at all, yet, and while that hadn't necessarily worried him, Jess's weirdness definitely did.