CHAPTER 20 – Suspicious Minds (2)

At 9 PM, Eppie decided to go for a run before curfew struck.

It was a habit from her past life, and the use of her youthful body was a pleasure in itself. The freedom she felt to stretch herself beyond her physical limits without repercussions the next morning was simply [Sublime].

This late at CSULA, the campus descended into a kind of concrete noir. The new and old, consisting of glass-wrought lecture halls and old brick and brutalist buildings, created dark pockets of geometric shadow, warmed only by the jaundiced light of the old sodium-vapour bulbs.

Whenever she passed one of the lamps, her shadow would grow and shrink, or split into fours or sixes before retreating into the body of the summoner. She had yet to purchase the proper shoes for jogging, but her new body could take the abuse without complaint. When she huffed, the Southern California chill cooled her flaming lungs, egging her onward toward greater heights.

One lap in, Eppie was streaming with sweat. Underneath the dull lamp, a stream rose from her petite frame as she drank deeply from an oversized bottle.

Behind the C-wing of the Lincoln Hall, across the street from the sunken entrance to the Rec Field, she stopped to catch her breath.

She stopped because there was someone watching her, someone with a camera.

Goosebumps broke out along her thighs, travelling up her spine until she could feel the hair raise on her neck.

Either in this life or the last, Eppie was no stranger to being seen.

It was precisely because she was photographed so candidly and so often that she could feel in her gut the difference between being “seen” and being “watched”. To others, the difference may not feel so apparent, but she knew this sensation like the back of her hand.

There was a tangible aspect to being watched with purpose that was different to serendipitous observation. When she jogged past the college kids, and the boys spared her a glance, it was a natural reaction, a passing fancy. When someone felt keen enough to stop her and talk to her, it was the desire to establish a connection, a form of desired mutual recognition. From staff and colleagues, there was attention, affirmation and communication. Even Madison’s stares were those of longing and insecurity, which were perfectly natural.

The man in the distance, the long lens he was holding, was far from natural.

A paparazzi? Eppie moved a bit into the shadows so her eyes could adjust. Did someone from the NYC party want to know her true identity? Unlikely. Because the man was neither subtle nor professional.

Trusting in her inexhaustible stamina, she ran toward the man.

It took about ten seconds for her photographer to realise he was being accosted. Packing his Canon-coded long lens, the man ran.

A young man. Asian. About five-eight. Athletic. Young and dumb enough that he only remembered his hoodie when she was just a hundred meters away.

When the man ran behind the Whitman building, she stopped.

This late, there were still students here and there on campus, all of them college-aged, hoodie-clad, and either in pairs or alone, carrying the same JanSport bags that were everywhere.

She was not far from her dorms now, and all that stood between her and home was the old dorms for the Gen-pop students. The path she was on had a single lane for driving, a lane for bikes, and just enough room for joggers. To one side, Lincoln Hall was softly illuminated by accent lighting, while the geography to her right was better described as menacing splotches of shadow.

She nervously licked her lips.

Her lips were dry and hot.

Her hands were shaking.

She was shivering.

Her [Persona] was… Eppie realised with a sudden, paralytic terror, afraid.

She was afraid because she knew just how easily a group of men and women she had paid no heed to had pushed her off the edge of that yacht. She was scared because if someone were to drag her into the dark now, even kicking and screaming may not summon the necessary help quick enough to prevent the worst.

Her legs were solid lead.

Evidently, when it came to fight or flight, the original Eppie’s response was option C: become catatonic.

“Meow?” The unbidden sound of something soft drew her attention away from the shadows she needed to transit before arriving home. Eppie looked down and saw a tiger-striped tabby rubbing itself against her leg.

The author’s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Almost instantly, the tension dispelled.

She knelt, feeling suddenly fatigued, and ran her fingers through the cat’s luxurious fur.

“Meow—” the cat purred.

“Hey buddy,” Eppie mimed a meow of her own. “Where did you come from?”

“Meow!” The cat sprinted away.

Her eyes followed the cat’s shadow as it grew, stopping finally at the feet of a giant silhouette sitting in the shadow between two yellow lamps, where a bench had been placed.

There was a ring of cats around the bench, about six or seven.

And the cats had evidently summoned a man.

As in a dream, Eppie walked toward the light, cajoled by the cats.

Closer, she could see that it was an Asian guy, older than she was, but not by much. He didn’t have their clothes or the air of a LAPA Senior, which meant he was a college student who attended Cal State. The man had a bag of food that looked like Chinese takeaway tubs. Presently, he was stroking a cat while feeding another, nuzzling a third, while two more made infinity circles around his feet. The man was a bonafide Cat God surrounded by faithful feline adherents.

About ten or so meters away, the felines caught wind of her scent and bolted.

“Oh…” Eppie realised her mistake too late. “Sorry…”

“It’s alright,” the man replied, his English afflicted with a slight accent. “They’ll be back soon enough.”

The two of them looked at one another awkwardly.

“Are these your cats?” Eppie asked, then realised just how stupid her question was.