He was walking home when he saw her for the second time. The woman from the parking lot, the one who had predicted the factory district’s nest, sitting on a bench in the park, beneath a street lamp. Illuminated in the dirty yellow light, she seemed ethereal. Greasy and wrinkled, the light did little to help her look any less disturbing, but it did help give the moment an air of dreamy-ness. As if he were only seeing her in his sleep, safe in his bed, not exposed out in the streets. She looked up at him and her eyes were completely white; there was no iris, no pupil, nothing except an empty whiteness broken only by the bright red veins. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but he stopped walking, observing it anyway. He wanted to get closer, to see, to hear, but he didn’t dare. The woman could be on the verge of going rabid for all he knew, he wasn’t about to push his luck and get caught too close to something like that. She was unsettling enough from a distance.
She was whispering but he could hear her, as if she were right next to him. He thought that was what bothered him most about the exchange, but he was wrong. What bothered him most was what she was saying, the same thing over and over. Every few repetitions she got the words jumbled, mis-arranging sentences, but eventually she stumbled back onto the same chant. Then her coherency would disintegrate and she would ramble the words out of order, only to once again find them.
Destiny does not trump DNA, it creates it. Bloodlines flow like rivers and leave nothing behind except residual traces of their glory. What was forgotten must be remembered or the rivers will run again.
A chill crept up his spine and he shrugged his jacket on a little more comfortably, stuffing his hands deeply into the pockets, suddenly unable to get warm. He didn’t know when the temperature had dropped so much, but it suddenly felt cold enough to snow.