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together at nineteen.
    Sitting down at his table with a bowl full of
soup and a roll from the Polebridge Mercantile, I hadn't realized
just how hungry I was; until I noticed my mouth had started
watering.
    To accompany our meal, Christopher sets a mug
of the richest, dark coffee, in front me; and, I know instantly
that he makes his coffee the same way as Lilly … and simply
thinking her name, takes me back to her.
    Sitting in her kitchen, alone and talking,
while everyone else was in town, I watched the snow fall outside
her kitchen window. The very same window I would watch her from
when I would return from my patrols around the property boundaries.
The coffee she set in front of me, to warm me up, tasted different
than the stuff the guys made by the gallon in our barracks. I would
watch her press her brew in a small glass carafe, asking questions
the entire time. When I wouldn’t answer honestly or mumbled, she
would look at me from under her bangs with an eyebrow raised; her
dark eyes would make my breath stop in my throat.
    Quickly taking a drink of the hot coffee to
cover my reaction, I burnt my tongue every time. Those eyes, I had
never seen eyes like hers before, and I doubt I’ll ever see
anything like them again: sea green around the outside and rich
brown at the center. When I finally kissed her, the brown had
turned deep red … almost the same color as her hair.
    Back at Christopher’s table, staring at the
mug of coffee in front of me, in the dark liquid I can see Lilly’s
window and the snow. Long dark nights full of giant snowflakes …
light reflected and broken on the surface of the steaming drink.
“Snow … cold, bitter; frozen…we sat in comfortable silence just
watching the snow.” I say dreamily.
    When I look up, Christopher has his arms
crossed over his chest, nodding. The defensive posture of his arms
is openly betrayed by the understanding look in his eyes. Looking
down at the table he speaks quietly, “Ellie devoured my soul too …
the consumption of such intense passion can derange your mind,
forever.”
    We sit nodding at the unspoken vulnerability
laid out on the table, but nothing more is said on the topic of our
obsessions.
    Eating in silence, then cleaning up after
ourselves, and stoking the fire, we sit down in the living room
adjacent to the whelping pen. “Tell me about what happened in
Vegas. One doesn't have to be ‘talented’ to know you’re hiding from
something, and I think that something is in Nevada.”
    With an obvious bitter tone he blurts out, “I
suppose the whole ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ thing
won’t work for you, will it?”
    Shaking his head like he is trying to forget
a bad taste he continues, “I found out that there are actually
worse creatures than simple humans; I found out that monsters are
real.”
    Waiting for him to continue, I realize he is
going to need prodding. “Monsters? Like what … Frankenstein or
serial murderers?” As surreal as the question is, I admit I am
curious to know the answer.
    The goose bumps that form on Christopher’s
arms arrive as his gaze shifts to the left, and his expression
softens considerably. Like before, watching him talk to air, this
reaction makes the hair on my neck stand on end again. Whispering
“Yes, all right” to the phantom, he returns his eyes back to me …
but he is looking through me, not at me.
    “My world changed about thirteen months ago …
I started having these nightmares, hearing voices; and I was angry
all the time. It took every ounce of my strength to not take my
pain out on everyone around me. I was sure I’d gone insane. Have
you ever had so much anxiety, anger, and pressure, that your head
and stomach actually hurt? The discomfort leads to not sleeping,
which of course, leads to more pain. I muddled through school,
work, and my so-called home life, but I was being pulled apart
inside. Then my grandfather, my closest friend in the world, had to
be moved to a hospice; he