The Participant

He would stroll into the vicinity, always keeping to the background, but his hunger feeding on her beauty from a distance, remaining an obscure figure in shadows. He was buying gas at the convenience store when he saw her. She was driving her yellow Charger. He thought yellow must be her favorite color, since she often wore in, and her car was yellow. She had a yellow coat that he had seen her in, and he thought it was the sexiest thing he had ever seen, her in the yellow coat, little black dress and strappy heels. He paid for his fuel and jumped in his truck, following Sylvia as she drove through town. She pulled into the donut shop and he parked across the street, watching her.

She came out and he watched as she put her purchases in her car, pulling into the parking lot as she was finishing. He pulled into the parking spot next to her, admiring the curves of her ass, encased in yoga pants as her top rode up. She straightened, and he got out, intending to walk by her and into the shop.

As Sylvia was placing her third cup of coffee into the holder, she heard the sound of a vehicle pulling up behind her. She stood up and turned to leave. What she saw froze her in place, for a brief second. It was a blue truck, with one grey door. Her eyes flew to the occupant, and she saw The Face. It was etched into her memory, framed by her kitchen window, haunting her with its echoes in her mind. Terror filled her, briefly, only to be overwhelmed by a white-hot fury. This was the face that had made her miserable, this, the man who had invaded her privacy, making her fearful in her own home, overriding her sense of comfort there and making her nuts.

She took two steps toward Rodney Wilson, her fist coming up in a vicious hook to his liver. Sylvia was a strong woman. At nearly six feet and 140 pound of muscle packed tightly on her frame, she was an athlete. She lifted weights four days a week, and worked on her fighting skills, punching and kicking bags, three days a week. She wanted to look good for her husband, and worked out with that single-minded goal. Before meeting John, she had often sparred at her gym, fighting both men and women in kickboxing matches and mixed martial arts matches. When her fist struck Rodney, it was just below his diaphragm and above his stomach. It struck with all her explosive fury, pent-up frustration and fear behind the blow.

It was a left hook, landing with her full force. It landed under Rodney's ninth and tenth ribs, and traveled upward toward the base of his shoulder blade, Sylvia's fist sinking deeply into his soft body. The air left his body, explosively, and an excruciating pain filled his mind with a red haze. The left was followed by a right to the same area, and he sunk to his knees, crumpling forward in his pain. As he fell, his face was met by Sylvia's right knee, rising in a powerful knee strike to his face, breaking his nose and sending blood splashing on the asphalt.

He lay there in a haze of pain, and felt a new pain as he was seized by the hair, his head lifted and his blurry vision was filled with the face of a vengeful goddess. "Remember me, Motherfucker?" the goddess screamed in his face. "Come back to my house and I will end you and feed you to my dogs! Do you hear me?"

Rodney did his best to convey that he understood quite well. His head was slammed on the asphalt, and he heard a car door close. The rumble of her exhaust came and he heard it recede into the distance. He fought the agony of his body, managing to crawl to his truck and pull himself inside. His nose was bleeding, profusely, and he found paper-towels to staunch the flow. He felt an urgency to get away, in case someone had seen the encounter, and he managed to make his way home, where he collapsed. He peed blood for three days, both his eyes were blackened, and his nose assumed a permanent crook.

His health was not the only thing he nursed. Alcohol and drugs fueled a rage within him that combined with his obsession to make him unable to rest, images of her face, fury written on every feature, mixed with his images of her naked splendor. Obsession became compulsion, and as his body mended, his hunger grew.

*****

On the fifth night of John's absence, Sylvia made her dinner, a nice salad with fresh berries, and took it to the den to curl up with a book, Nails and Grant snoring on the floor beside her. She was very into her book, a mystery with a murder in the first chapter and not a sign of the murderer up to the point she had reached. She had built a fire, and it crackled happily in the grate.

Totally immersed in the story, she failed to notice the security lights come on, and was startled from her reverie only by the shrill of the alarm as her security system registered the forcing of her back door. She sprang to her feet, calling to Nails and Grant, and fleeing to her bedroom. She slammed the door, locked it and snatched up the shotgun, retreating to the bath and chambering a round. Nails and Grant, sensing her fear, prowled around the bedroom, growling their displeasure.

Entering the mudroom through the broken back door, Rodney Wilson took the time to check the layout of the house. Passing through the den, he noted the fire burning, indicating that Sylvia was at home.

The eyes of the elk head over the fireplace glinted obsidian malevolence and Rodney quailed beneath the gaze. The fire snapped angrily, causing him to start, and it seemed to him that the statue of Cupid at the foot of the stairs was aiming his nocked arrow straight at Rodney's heart. His nerves, never the steadiest, and sparking from the meth he had consumed, were on a razor's edge.

He made his way through the house, its open floorplan allowing him to quickly ascertain that Sylvia must either be behind one of the three closed doors, or upstairs. His hunger drove him and he flung open the closed door off the kitchen. A pantry met his eyes, and he entered, looking for anything hidden. The possibility that Sylvia might have a panic room crossed his fevered mind.

The floor creaked, ominously and continuously, to his ears as he moved. As he passed by a tall wine rack, dark bottles filling every cubby, something shifted and the door swung shut behind him. Turning, he rushed toward the door and his shoulder bumped the rack. A bottle fell, breaking on the tile floor, and the wine splashed his feet and the floor, causing him to slip and lunge into the rack as he fell to his knees.

As he looked up in helpless horror, the heavy rack, filled with hundreds of bottles of liquid, leaned forward precariously. He shouted, hoarsely, as the rack toppled, crushing him to the floor as two bottles of Cabernet, jagged thirsty necks broken and exposed, plunged into his chest. Crushed beneath the heavy rack, blood spurting from his pierced breast, Rodney struggled briefly and he was still.

Stillness filled the house. The timbers settled into normal configurations, the fire crackled happily again, and the gaze of the elk smiled benevolently across the empty room.

When John returned from his trip at 5AM that morning, he saw the flashing of the alarm when he arrived. He disarmed it and went looking for his wife. The bedroom door was locked. John had keys, and he used one to open the door. Sylvia sat on the bed, the shotgun across her lap, her eyes closed in exhaustion from the vigil of the night. Nails and Grant rose from the floor on each side of the bed, zooming to John for petting. He knelt and embraced them, scratching their ears and causing them to snore in ecstasy. Having greeted his wife's furry guardians, he moved to the bed, sitting beside her and pulling her into a tight embrace.

She started from sleep, trying to raise her shotgun, but he held her firmly, murmuring strong words of comfort and love in her ear.

"Were you waiting to shoot me, Kitten?" His soft words brought her to awareness, and she clung to him, now sobbing in the comfort of his arms.

"John, it was horrible!" She laid the shotgun aside and sank into his embrace. "Someone… someone broke in. The alarms went off… I was so afraid…"

"Shh," he kissed away her tears. "It's okay. I've called the sheriff and he's on his way. We'll just wait right there until he arrives." They heard the sounds of sirens in the distance.

The Observer watched over them, its ambience of peace sending comfort and calm. For a moment it had become more than an Observer. It had been The Participant, flexed its powers, and found itself strong. No harm would come to those under its protection, ever again.