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5
PENROSE
Flaxen streaks of light hit the juniper walls of Dayton’s bedroom. The sun clocking out for the day.
He was slumped on the floor, back to the dresser, eyeing the shoebox beneath his bed, that graveyard of sin. Sins in the name of progress. Understanding.
Months had passed since he’d peered inside. The mess with Jasmine almost prompted him to give up his disciplined lifestyle. He feared he had hit a point where the risk far outweighed the reward and that fear kept him quiet for a while. Until Kenna waltzed into his office. She opened her pretty little mouth and he felt the pressure, a belt tying off his arm. She was a necessary tool in acquiring his high. It had been too long since Dayton last felt the rush, the frenzied excitement of an addict as they held a lighter to a spoon and watched with delight as their euphoria bubbled.
For him, it was the promise of a warm body.
Adrenaline enveloped him like an embrace. He slid the box across the floorboard with care and placed it in his lap. Hands trembling, he lifted the lid and set it aside.
A cacophony of steady ringing filled his ears as he took in what was on full display.
Trophies of his research.
He never kept shoes, underwear. A lady might go looking for her wares but never a picture she didn’t know existed.
Plucking one of the Polaroids, he admired his photography skills against the moonlit backdrop. His chest hollowed out at the sight before him. A young woman in her underwear, body half-covered by Dayton’s black bedsheets, bronze flesh glowing brighter than the dim light.
Jasmine. May 23 ’18.
His last victory. The sight of her face tore at his insides and conjured flashes of memories he’d fought to bury. The scars had faded but they would never heal. Lifelong reminders of his lustful gluttony.
He moved on.Ivy. Dec. 1 ’17. She lay on her back. Deep brown blunt bangs and flowing straight hair framed the soft features of her slumbering face. A delicate death’s head hawkmoth tattoo rested below the right side of her collarbone. Their mutual interest in Thomas Harris had been an early bonding point. She had openly confessed her love near the end of their affair. Love, that silent weapon most of them possessed but dared not brandish.
“Enough.” Dayton discarded the Polaroid amid the rest and returned the box to its home, pushing himself off the floor.
He tugged at his hair while pacing the room. Disgust crawled over his skin and frustration closed off his throat. One ugly emotion scaffolding off the next. Regret was absent from the swarm.
Being in the space where he’d slept with all of the women hidden away in the box did nothing to quell his unrest. He needed to immerse himself in the natural beauty that lay beyond his four walls. Fresh air. Pines. The biting chill of the constant January rain.
Dayton traded his office clothes for a pair of athletic pants and a faded David Geffen School of Medicine sweatshirt, somehow still intact from his days at UCLA. He slipped into his sneakers and grabbed his reflective belt on the way out.
A slither of sunlight persisted among the clouds as he sprinted off through the freezing winter mist, building speed with each footfall.
He had not always been a runner; he picked it up midway through college when he’d finished grieving a high school lacrosse career cut short. It was freeing, an escape from the pressures of performing well in medical school. But he was older, jaded, and his mind had become a prison, the confines of which had steadily extended to every corner of his life.
It required every ounce of restraint to successfully lead his new research-oriented life. Running was a temporary haven from an existence dominated by self-control and calculation.
Coming upon the intersection of a major road, he bent and caught his breath, waiting for traffic to disperse. Once it was clear of headlights, Dayton crossed to the other side, continuing his path through the sleepy streets of Branch Spring. He breezed past the brick storefronts, blurring the lights and neon signs in their windows. The city center was hip yet historic. Century-old buildings that had been preserved but renovated. A small group of students made fun of his reflective belt as they all waited for the pedestrian crossing to flash white.
Assholes.
An amplified guitar poured out into the street and threatened to deafen any passersby. Couples and groups of friends emerged from bars and restaurants, laughing, cursing. Some jaywalked to feed their parking meter. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the week; people were out in full force. The party never stopped in a university town.
Bursts of icy wind chipped at his face and burned his cheeks. Just past the historic district, he slowed to a leisurely jog as he reached Pacific Heights, an apartment complex with mostly college residents. One such resident?
Kenna O’Callaghan. 2102 Apt. E.
Maybe he’d lifted more than her schedule from the registrar, but where lay the danger in that? He wasn’t prowling Penrose Lane to pay her a visit. Not directly.
Sticking to the edge of the parking lot, close to the trees, he searched for building F. She was on the second floor but Dayton wasn’t sure of the exact unit. Fleetingly, he considered scaling the stairs and lingering on the landing long enough to find a door marked ‘E.’
It was too risky. Senseless.
He tucked himself amid the trees and split his attention between the windows of the second floor’s front-facing units.
