Sophia Mahoney
Mozart's Requiem in D Minor hums in Sophia's ears. She rounds the last bend of the jogging trail in Brackenridge Park and stretches her stride. The first crescendo of the piece humming in her ears takes flight, and the violin sings with exquisite clarity.
Overhead, tree branches intertwine, creating a canopy that blankets the early evening sky. She hadn't realized how much she missed being home until her return.
Boston's nice, she sighs, but it's nothing like home - nothing like Texas.
The soles of her shoes strike the ground, keeping a steady beat to the music droning in her ears.
Jogging, the simplistic act makes her feel closer to her late uncle because it is one of the activities, he had done with her before his creaking, arthritic knee gave out.
Tears moisten her eyes.
Five minutes, that's all it took to shatter my world, she thinks to herself. Three hundred seconds to learn my uncle, Hugo Tardif, died face down in a pool of his own blood.
The hooded bastards caught fleeing on tape had carved Hugo's tongue from his mouth. They even extracted every ounce of blood from the muscle before slicing symbols into it and then pinned the bloodless mass to the stone wall of the basement.
She struggles to push the images from her mind.
Now he's gone. He's really gone. The thought saddens her and brings tears to the brim of her eyes. The detective says it's suicide. But I didn't believe him then, and I sure as hell don't buy it now - not even for a second. My uncle didn't take his life.
Another heavy sigh passes her lips, and she forces the emotions threatening to break her resolve down into the pit of her belly because she must be strong.
I don't care what anyone says, she thinks to herself. Hugo. Didn't. Do. It.
Gravel on the jogging trail crunches under the soles of her toe-shoes, but she doesn't feel them, not really. Her feet, like the rest of her, contain a deep-seated numbness.
The days following her uncle's death flow like a blur. They all mix together in a jumbled mess in her head. In truth, she hadn't known whether she was coming or going that first week. When her last exam had ended, she emptied her dorm room and weathered the commute from Boston to her home in San Antonio, Texas.
Hugo had worked hard to ensure she didn't want for anything while attending Harvard's Master of Liberal Arts program. As a stand-in-parent, he had always been attentive. He'd been there for her - a rock she had come to depend upon.
An image of his smile floods her mind. Lips curled into a goofy, crooked grin, and eyes full of unbridled laughter and merriment fill her thoughts. He had talked about attending her graduation so often. It had become an ordinary conversation. One more year - that's all that's left.
I took it for granted he'd be there to watch me cross the stage, she thinks to herself, but I was wrong.
She wipes a rogue tear off the corner of her eye.
Life, it's a fragile beast, she muses, it's odd, life, one minute, I'm on cloud nine and then the next, well, life knocks me on my ass.
Her eyes water, and she struggles to hold back the tears.
Shadows flicker and snake across the lit trail.
Two men, jogging next to each other, occupy the left-hand side. Their faces seem familiar. They've been on the path all week.
I guess they prefer to jog at night, too, or so she thinks.
Two guys reach the top of the hill, preparing to take the downward slope. Tall and lean like most runners, their frames move with ease, unlike some of the diet-crazed-wanna-be-joggers who frequent the park in rotating waves, such as the start of a new year or to shed a few pounds for summer swimwear.
One of the two men has curly dark hair that bounces around his head and face, and the other sports a copper-colored crew cut. As they approach, the darker-haired man holds Sophia's gaze. His penetrating eyes make her feel vulnerable, exposed. It's as if he looks deep into her soul, so she tips her head to the side to avoid him.
Once they pass, she slows her pace. Then she stops next to a concrete bench to adjust the sock wedged inside her toe shoe.
Johannes Brahms' Hungarian Dance No. 5 begins to play, her uncle's favorite - or it was.
A new wave of tears emerges from the corners of her lids and cascades down her cheeks. They leave wet, warm tracks that trickle the length of her face only to continue running down her neck. Using the backs of her hands, she wipes them away.
God, I must keep it together, she thinks to herself, I can't afford to fall apart because I've too much to do, she scolds herself. Plus, crying never solved anything. At least, that's what her uncle always says or had said before they murdered him.
The hair on the back of her neck stands on end, and her flesh breaks out in goose-pimples. Eyes. She feels them trailing up and down the length of her body, but she can't tell from where.
Whirling around on the balls of her feet, she half-expects to see the jogging duo, but the trail remains empty.
Shrubs rustle less than two feet away from where she stands.
A low, pithy hiss resonates, followed by a long and winding growl.
Heart drumming in her chest, she backs away slowly.
Out leaps a tiger-striped tabby with tiny stumps for legs. The short fur ball runs across the jogging path. Two larger cats, more than likely toms, follow hot on the heels of the first.
Great, that's just fucking wonderful. Sophia pivots around to avoid a direct collision with the hairballs. Well, at least, someone is getting some action.
Muddy black boots come into view, followed by black, skin-tight leather pants.
