Page 4 of Hunt Me

I’m in too much shock to follow, but the ghost of him lingers. I need to know who he is and why he protected me. And why the sight of blood didn’t make him flinch. Not even a little.

I manage to make it home, shaking and slightly nauseous. Locking my door with the two locks I had installed helps, and the shower soothes me.

But as I crawl into bed, a bat tucked in next to me, I think about the man who saved me.

So effortless, so simple. He punched that guy like it was his purpose, like it was what he was put on this Earth to do. And the small glimpse I got of him, the scar on his face, the width of his shoulders, his ripped chest, the sheer strength that seemed to emanate off him…

But also the kind way he touched me, wiping the blood from my face.

I should hire him to protect me. If I did that, I’d always feel safe.

Only problem is, I don’t know who it is. Who was he?

My fingers fumble with my phone, and I click it on, the bright light in the dim room making me blink wildly. When my vision finally clears, I go to the town’s social media pages and scroll.

He has to be a local. The town isn’t that big, but even so, I didn’t recognize him. But for the first several minutes of scrolling, I find nothing. Thing is, I’m not discouraged. I love doing this. My hobby is going to the basement of the library and going through old microfilm.

Fashion is my thing, vintage, current, futuristic. You name it. I love it. Perusing, admiring, thinking about the different ways I can incorporate vintage into what I wear.

And there’s something soothing about the slow scrolling on the translucent screen in that damp basement that comforts me. It’s truly quiet down there. No visual noise, no one to distract me.

My point is, I have patience.

So I carry on, moving through a variety of photos, some from the club I work at where I do drag, others from the different Deaf-friendly places in town.

I mean, he signed. It makes sense that he’d frequent those places. But once again, I don’t find him. I find nothing, in fact.

I press the phone to my chest and take a deep breath.

I need to go wider, bigger. Look at hearing places. That must be it.

I realize this incessant scrolling is most likely a hyperfixation. One that is supposed to help me not think about the fact that I was almost choked to death. My fingers flutter around my neck. It’s a little bruised, but nothing I haven’t experienced before. If anyone knew what happened in that alley, they’d insist I go to the hospital. Problem is, I don’t want the bills that come with it.

I know I’m fine.

I’ll be fucking fine.

I lift my phone once more and carry on, my eyes sagging from exhaustion, the adrenaline wearing off slowly.

A yawn cracks my jaw open, and I let out a loud breath—or at least I think it’s loud. Have no idea until a hearing person tells me it is.

My thumb swipes right, and then I shoot up in bed, my fingers zooming in on the face before me. He’s not in the main part of the photo, but he’s in the background, his head turned as he lugs something from a black tent.

Wait.

Is that a coffin? Is he carrying it on his shoulder? How is that possible? Aren’t they heavy?

This should make me more afraid of him than it does.

Instead, it only seems to intrigue me more. Suddenly, my mind isn’t on the man who tried to choke me but on the man carrying an eternal nap pod.

I zoom in closer and see that scar on his face, the determined look behind his eyes.

I pull my lips between my teeth as I breathe through my nose.

I still have no idea who he is, just that he’s actually in town. And that he’s carrying a coffin around like some kind of necromancer. Or vampire. Or psychopath.

That thought makes me giggle loudly, and I bite back the horrific sound I’m sure I’m making. I’ve been told by a hearing friend that my laugh is a bit like a donkey when I really let loose.