chasing destiny by james callan

Rare are the times I wake to my alarm. I rise before its cheerful jingle, when shadows vie for power and night and morning are at odds. It’s dark during these godawful hours, but I call it morning; morning, because I have woken; woken, because sleep comes with visions that weigh on my soul.

I have dreams of a girl. A long distance runner. My neighbor’s daughter. Destiny. She is faster than me, but she is frantic, which slows her down. She looks over her shoulder, eyes as wide as dinner plates while I cackle through my burning lungs. Destiny stumbles, her shoe catching a root or rock. As I descend upon her, bearing my fangs, I wake, roused and aroused, no chance to reclaim my sleep.

I take my time in the shower, which I call my Baptism, turning the water colder and colder. I shave my face, an act I dub “my shedding.” By the time I dry off I am ready for coffee, and by the time I take my first sip, the stars begin to slip away. Eventually, my alarm goes off—6am—and right on cue, she appears.

I watch from the window, face against the curtain, the inch-wide partition up against my eye. Her white sneakers appear first. Then her vague human shape, tall and willowy. The sun rises, precisely behind her, framing her boyish figure. Wearing her green school colors, she looks like celery, and by the time she passes my window she is wet with sweat from her 3-mile jog.

It’s almost like my dream—almost—except here I am, hiding in my living room, watching covertly, not running after her, ready to pounce. My chest is like an ocean liner piston. Every beat breaks my heart, moving the curtain in rhythmic swells.

I watch Destiny pass my lawn, steady as she goes, her legs colored by the lazy sun. On and on she jogs down the lane, shrinking, smaller and smaller. Long after her shape has disappeared, my heart still beats out of my chest, as if I am the one running. Suddenly, I realize how tired I am. My hunger grows and grows.

*

I bought a treadmill last week. New shoes. A little TV to watch while I train.

I run three times a day—morning, midday, night—like meals for the soul. I moved the couch, making room for the new equipment. I open the curtains in the morning and for a brief time we run together, Destiny and I.

I crank up the speed when she turns the corner. My legs move so fast that the rhythm of my pounding feet becomes a drum roll, the anthem to the chase. I sweat many drops, which mingle with my tears. I weep at the sheer beauty of our synchronicity. Our bond emblazoned in the dawn.

I train for weeks. I build muscle in my legs. My endurance increases. My runner’s high is sublime.

I watch Dragon Ball Z when I jog. Sometimes, basketball. I get so horny after a run that I masturbate right there in the living room, panting like a dog, howling like a wolf on the prowl.

I am transcended. I am new. This is Baptism. The old me has truly been shed.

I run. I watch. I train. Finally, I sleep.

I dream.

I dream of matching her pace, striving to catch Destiny, to take her down, to take her, full stop. In my clearest visions, I surpass last year’s state champion. I obliterate her. Or, as they say: I wipe the floor with her.

*

Last night, my usual dream took a dark turn. I hesitate to call it a nightmare. An omen? A sign?

I was running, like in every dream I ever have. But I was not chasing her. It was I who was chased—chased by myself—pursued by a version of me who was wearing her clothes, green and white sweats, Hornet logo. I was even wearing her shoes, which were brighter than police lights directed in my eyes.

As the faster me crept closer, I saw that he—I—was rock hard beneath loose sweats. He was unshaven, too. Unshed. Unclean. More than anything, he was fast.

I had no hope of outrunning him. So I turned to face him, and in no time he was upon me. As we clashed, I felt tremendous pain. An undoing of myself. An unraveling of my core.

My soul had slipped away, or so it felt at the time. Then I woke up, surrounded by darkness.

In sweat, in despair, I entered the shower and Baptized myself clean. In tears, I shaved away the last trace of taint.

It is hours before my alarm is set to go off. Before it does, I will warm up on the treadmill. Later, when the bell tolls for Destiny, I will run to meet her.

*

Her white shoes are two fabled pearls. From down the avenue, they shimmer small, growing closer, rising to the surface from the deep. Her legs are iguana tails in their school-green tights. I wonder…if you cut them off, would they regrow? Her pigtails are tassels on a satin cushion. See how they flick with her stride?

I leave the treadmill running on high. It hums a droning pitch that suits the mood. I keep the TV going, volume up, with Super Saiyan Goko wiping the floor with Frieza. I back away from the window, its inch-wide partition closing in on Destiny, narrowing to this moment. Its slender view constricts her, and all my dreams come true.

*

Outside, I am cheetah fast. Ferrari fast. The houses pass by in a rhythmic blur, fading as I enter the wooded path.

Ahead, two white beacons. Gleaming pearls. Long legs, like celery, sheathed in green. Her pigtails are frantic. So is she.

She sees me. She knows… destiny is catching up with Destiny.

My training has paid off. I am fast. I am clean and newly shed. But she is as pure as an unshorn lamb, and faster even than I am.

I endeavor to become better. Like Goku, I will transcend. Like Jesus, I will rise. I will move so fast, I swear, I will run over water.

Destiny is a true athlete. Really, I have no hope of catching her. But when I howl like a wolf she looks back, wide eyed, and slows, veering to the side. I howl and howl and even though she could ignore it, she can’t stop looking over her shoulder.

I howl at the moonless morning. I am an Alsatian savaging a cat. A greyhound in pursuit of the mechanical hare.

If she simply ran, ignoring my antics, she would be off to the races, and I would have some explaining to do. If she would just stop looking back, Destiny would run free.

I cackle, demonic and joyful, when she slips and falls. She just had to look, the fool. When I am close enough to see that her eyes, like her uniform, are green and glaring, I realize I am no wolf. I feel like I am dreaming. I am losing control.

I descend.

The last thing I see is the day’s first light reflecting off of her braces. Her beautiful white shoes red with blood.

James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Burial Magazine, X-R-A-Y, Reckon Review, and elsewhere. His collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is available from Anxiety Press.