itamu
to be damaged; to go bad
itamu
to hurt; to feel a pain; to be injured
itamu
to grieve over; to mourn; to lament
I was leaning against the wall, wondering what I had to do to get this woman out of my house, and out of my life. As she walked down the hall, she was staring at me, an intensity in her eyes that was only noticeable once she got within reach. Just before she got to me, as I was about to grab her arm, take her by the shoulder, ask her what the fuck she wanted here, again, she abruptly turned, and disappeared out the side door. I stood there, resting against the doorframe, and watched as she walked down the side of the house, and out of my life. Again.
I still don’t know why she had come back. Too fucked up to care anymore.
I should explain.. This woman, Kirran Abbot, has spent the last 5 months making my life a living hell. Wait, that’s a little unfair. Let me rephrase that. Kirran and I have spent the last 5 months in what could be called a relationship, if we weren’t so hell bent on hurting each other. There, that’s more like it.
I met Kirran at a meeting. Well, it was a de-briefing. I was working as a counsellor within the department of Internal Affairs. We usually deal with undercover agents at the end of a case. Problems range from re-entering society, issues that have come up in the case, assigning a new identity, should it be necessary, you get the picture. Kirran was an undercover federal officer. She retired from the force, just after I met her. It was my suggestion that she retire, given the circumstances of her final case, and the difficulty that she was having getting over it. About 3 months after she retired, she called me, requesting an appointment.
When she arrived for that appointment, she walked in, sat down, and started telling me how she was still operating within the case that she had previously been working on. Even though she had gotten a conviction, and the case was closed, she couldn’t extricate herself from the ties that she had made. She was no longer an undercover agent, she was one of them.
This put me in a difficult situation. By the oath of my profession, I had to report this to my superiors, which would have brought a prosecution against her. I didn’t want to do that. I liked her. She was in a difficult spot that she couldn’t get out of. So far, she hadn’t taken part in any illegal activities, she just hadn’t totally taken herself out of the situation in which she had been placed. I told her that I wouldn’t drag her into an investigation, and that the proceedings of the meeting were confidential, and that I wouldn’t act upon them.
The next time I saw her, she turned up at my house. I arrived home at 5.15pm, had a shower, changed into my Levis and a black bond shirt, and heard a faint knock at the side door. I took a quick look through the window. She was standing there, hands on hips, looking out over the back yard. The late afternoon sun reflecting off her jet black hair, which was loose, falling around her shoulders.
I opened the door slowly. She turned to me, her gaze interrupted by her void-like sunglasses. We stood there, saying nothing, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, her face relaxed, and she said “Its ok, no one followed me.”
“How did you find me?”
“I’m an ex-fed. I can find anything.”
I knew she no longer had access to federal records of any sort. “You followed me home.”
“Yea” she said.
I stepped back from the doorway. “Come on in.” She hesitated. I guess she was surprised that I hadn’t told her to get the hell out. As she walked in, she removed her sunglasses, and scanned around the room. She eyed off every stick of furniture, every item. This one was a researcher. She gathered information not only from people, but from their surroundings. She’d completed a BA in psychology, before she entered the force. That’s what made her so good undercover. Research skills, observation, and psychology.
And now, it seemed, she was researching me. Did I want this? Could I help this girl? Could she help me?
“You don’t have a girlfriend.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s no sign of a female presence.”
“Explain.”
“You don’t have photo’s of anyone in your office. There’s only one tea-towel in the kitchen, and that’s crumpled on the bench. Empty pizza boxes by the fridge. The decor is sparse. The Pulp Fiction poster on the wall, and a lack of any other form of art. No cushions. No candles. The place has a very masculine feel, like it could be an Ikea catalogue, if you added a few things. Your toilet seat is up… and I followed you home, and you didn’t ask me to leave.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“I was curious. You’re an interesting guy. You’ve got a mind that I want to get into.”
Uh oh. I should have known then, that this would lead to trouble.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be here long.”
“What’s so special about my mind?”
“Are you going to get me a drink?”
So how long is she going to stay? And what does she want? My mind was racing. What role in her game did she see me taking? What game was she playing? And how does she know she’ll win? She sat down on the couch. The same couch I slept on last night. I had fallen asleep, watching infomercials.