Page 30 of The Triangle

Danny’s almost a full block behind. It’s not that he’s not fast. He most assuredly is. He’s a strong runner, in fact. He moves quickly and efficiently. But Danny’s built more for distance than speed.

Christine and I go fast and hard. Danny moves slower. But I suppose what that will ultimately mean is that he’ll still be running and moving forward long after I’ve broken the barriers of sound and light and burst into flame.

It’s no one’s fault, I reckon. People just are the way they are. Constructed to serve whatever purpose it is they were put here to serve.

I’m beginning to realize that Danny’s purpose is to be our conscience. The thing that keeps our merry band from spinning off the edge of the planet and out into space where all of us would be lost. Adrift in the soundless black of the cosmos. Where no one would ever hear us, and we couldn’t find our ways home.

Conversely, my purpose is to keep driving. Faster. More desperate. Keep soldiering forward ever further in pursuit of what’s mine.

Which is, as I once was told, everything.

When I was very, very young, I fell from a tree I was climbing on our property in—I actually don’t remember which property it was. It may have been in the States? Or we might have been back home? I don’t recall that detail anymore. All I recollect is that I scraped my knees and elbows and hands. Started crying. Because, as noted, I was very, very young. And I ran inside to see if I could find one of the house staff to patch me up.

But instead of finding house staff, I found my dad. He had just walked in the front door, so when I burst in, he turned and saw me. I was quite shaken, I remember. Not only did it hurt, but the wind had gotten knocked out of me.

Dad saw me sobbing, trying to get out the words of what had happened, and he rushed over and knelt beside me. He wiped the tears from my eyes and shushed me until I calmed.

I don’t know where Mom was.

After I quieted, I remember vividly him saying, “Listen, hey, shhhh, listen to me, man. There’s nothing to cry about. Yeah? Nothing ever to cry about.” Then he gestured wide with his hands and said, “Nothing at all. Look… this world. The world we live in? It’s yours.”

I imagine the expression on my face was quite confused, because then he furrowed his brow, brought his eyes close to mine, and said it again, “Hear what I’m telling you, man. The world. All of it. Is yours. K? It belongs to you. There’s nothing to cry about. Ever. There’s no harm that can come to you. Nothing that can ever happen to you that you can’t handle. Nothing that you can’t control. OK? Nothing. You hear?”

My crying finally slowed to a stop and I looked up at him and nodded my tiny head.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

I sniffed a bit, stilling myself and holding my small chin high, squaring myself off like the brave little man I was, and nodded again. I think I smiled at him a bit. I know he smiled at me. I remember that more clearly than just about any memory I’ve ever had.

And then he slapped me as hard as he could across the face.

And when my eyes got big and my breath caught in my throat, he slapped me again.

And then he stared at me. Daring me to let the tears start falling once more.

When they didn’t—when I fought back the shock and the pain and stuffed it down—his smile widened, he said, “Good man,” and then disappeared off into the recesses of whichever house it was.

The memory lands on me quite by accident just before we fling open the door of the flat we’ve been renting for this particular escapade, and Christine and I tumble inside. We’re not high, but it very much feels like we are. The rush of adrenaline coursing through both of us amplifies the need we already feel.

In the less than handful of years since I met the two of them and we started adventuring together, I’ve watched Christine grow from an irrepressibly spirited and spunky girl into an impossibly sexy and capable woman. And since I first began tasting her, I’ve needed to have her as often as possible. And so I have.

Because the world is mine.

Because she is mine.

I have her body suit ripped open and her back against the wall by the time Danny comes huffing through the door.

“What the fuck?” he gasps out.

Christine and I ignore him as we continue pawing at each other savagely.

He comes up behind me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

I don’t think he does it to be aggressive as much as to draw focus. So, while not his intention, it is his mistake.

My fist, someone else’s blood already drying on my knuckles, is made wet anew with the spray of blood from Danny’s nose as it makes contact.

I don’t know the last time I felt regret.