Other

OTHER

Every sweet has its sour, every evil its good.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

2010 Breaux Bridge, Louisiana

A bolt of lightning shot through the sky, shattering its tranquility as another bolt-the more adventurous of the two-struck out separately, her fingers stretching wider, longer, toward the ground, targeting the thick canopy of trees below. Then, with unfettered superiority, she chose her target, sparks of reddish-orange flames shooting out into the night as she met the ground.

Beneath the two sister's temperament, a figure moved through the night with no regard for their power; fear was not an emotion suffered, only hunger, the need to feast...

SYDNEY

The clouds surrendered fat drops of rain and pounded the wetlands as claps of thunder rumbled loudly, voicing exultation within the chaos. Beneath the spectacular moodiness, the moisture intermingled with the musty scent of the wetlands, creating a pungent, yet almost addictive fragrance. With a small inhalation of the familiar aroma, I shifted closer to the edge of the creek. I'd sought it out, needing to understand this edge of death, the insanity it built within my mind, and as I peered at the water, I caught sight of a small limb battling to stay afloat within the chaos all around it.

With curiosity, I watched its fight, its tenacious will to survive. Why? I wondered. Why fight so hard only to wash up on a sandbar further down the creek? There, the limb would only lay beneath the blistering rays of the sun for endless days. Hour by hour, it would shed what remained of its life. Its leaves, turning brown and crisp, until finally, with the slightest provocation from the wind, they would release, floating through the air until they landed, feet, yards-possibly even miles away, only to become mulch for future life. Was that what life was all about? Its purpose? To fight to survive, and then eventually wither and die? If that was the design of something alive, then what was the intent for something...other?

I shook my head, again feeling the pull to just toss myself over the bank and find out if I truly was immortal. I'd always known I was different, but I'd had no idea I was this different! Immortal. Really? How was that even possible? I mean, were there others like me out there? I couldn't possibly be the only one, could I? Surely others of my kind-whatever kind of immortal I was-existed? I wasn't a vampire, I knew that much-I didn't have fangs and I didn't need blood to exist, so I could mark that one, off. I hadn't changed into anything with scales or fur yet either, so I figured I was safe to mark that one off too. Maybe a Superhero? Nah, too afraid of heights. Angel? Demon? Don't be absurd. So, what the hell else was there? I'd poked, prodded, and begged for an answer, but I remained ignorant of what I was. Maybe I'd remained that way because no one else knew how to label me either. I'd never thought much of my ancestry, but I'd believed I was at least human-yet...I'd been told differently.

Slowly drawing my eyes away from the creek's churning madness, I noted the increase in the wind. The moisture it spat at me stung my face, and not much a fan of its aggression, I turned to make my way back through the dense growth of trees.

Restless, my gaze took in my surroundings as I walked. I'd felt the need deep in my bones the moment I'd opened my eyes this morning to explore the wetlands behind my home, though I couldn't help but wonder why now. Nevertheless, I still felt the need, as if my soul was looking for something.

As I made my way deeper and deeper into the marshes, a touch of the storm held reign over the wetland's inner growth, the fauna dancing within the storm's breath. Twisting and turning within the puppet-master like control of the wind, the Spanish moss-or Barbe Espangol as it was called in early times by the French, as it had reminded them of the Spanish conquistadors' long beards-fluttered across my face and shoulders, much as a hairy beard would have done.

Several minutes passed as I continued working my way forward until I finally pushed through the vast swaths of the bromeliad and gazed at the huge circle of grass that reminded me somewhat of a huge version of a fairy ring. However, my steps faltered, then ceased altogether as I sucked in a startled breath. Ripples of disbelief undulated throughout me as well did a battery of emotions.

With his eyes closed and face turned upward, Declan Guchereau stretched his arms above his head, paying homage to the storm as biting drops of rain bombarded the chiseled angles of his face and saturated the chocolate tone of his hair, making it appear rich, dark chocolate.

Fascinated, I couldn't look away. Instead, I watched as small droplets of rain tracked down his sculpted cheekbones, then past the curve of his jaw, where continuing to spiral downward, they traveled to the arch of his neck before pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Then after a slight pause, they overflowed the barrier of bone and advanced onto his bare chest, as sprinting downward, they disappeared into the soaked waistband of his low-slung jeans.

As my eyes made the return journey up his body, I refreshed my memory, taking in the man before me; absorbing his chocolate hair, the boot-clad feet.

I still had my eyes pinned on his face when he gave a slight twitch before his nostrils flared slightly and his jaw tightened. Slowly turning his head, but otherwise remaining still as stone, he stared at me out of intensely-silver eyes. On impulse, I stepped forward but gave a slight squawk when, with a light growl and some weird static charge in the air, the ground shifted beneath me, landing me on my ass in a puddle of muck.

For seconds I sat, disbelieving what had just happened and not making even the slightest move to get myself out of the slick, gooey mess.

Finally, shaking myself out of my stupefaction, I placed my hands on the ground to either side of my hips and pushed upward.

Several minutes later, and many failed attempts, as I just kept sliding like a goose on ice, I finally managed to right myself, then as I began slinging mud off my hands I looked up and hissed, "Mother fucker-not again!"

Carefully climbing to my feet, I despondently brushed at the leaves, twigs, and mud clinging to my clothes. This wasn't the first time I'd seen Declan's image over the past two years, but it was the first time he'd looked back. All the other times he'd shown no indication he'd been aware of my presence.

Slowly my surroundings came back into focus, and an awareness of the unsettling hush within the marshes crawled through me.

The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end: the silence, eerie as I noted the storm had grown quiet, not even a rumble of thunder in the distance. The peculiarity of how fast it had ended sent a chill over my body, as did the fact no insects were buzzing, no animals chattering, and not even the Tree frogs were peeping.

The possible source stole through me, and after what I'd seen it do to Merrick, I made short work of getting out of the mud pit.

As I broke into a run, fear consumed me, and though I'd been told I was immortal, I'd never tested the truth of it, and no matter my earlier thoughts, I wasn't ready to find out now.

# # #

I'd only made it a few hundred yards before I was forced to slow, the moss-covered limbs creating a thick wall of no-escape. As the scent of damp rot hung in the air, surrounding me, small sprinkles of precipitation fell about my head and shoulders, my movements having shaken the moisture loose of the shelter they'd attained within the moss and leaves of the trees.