A Pig's Ear

There’s that sound again.

Samson quickened his pace. He didn’t look to the left or right, but kept his focus on the sidewalk before him, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other. He clicked up the volume on his headphones, ignoring the uneasy twist in his gut.

Just get to the next streetlight, he told himself, fists clenched in the pockets of his jacket. He started counting his steps: fifteen paces across the illuminated equator, then four long strides in the dark. He tried keeping two counts in his head, the rolling tally of steps divided into streetlamp after streetlamp, until the numbers tripped and stumbled over each other, jumbling up in a numeric car crash.

There’s that sound.

It was sort of like a growl, sort of like a whine, sort of like the keening breeze through stalactite teeth in an underground cave, where blind parasites feed on fungal blooms, the steady drip of draining glaciers carving labyrinths in the dark. Samson swallowed, aware of the dry cavern of his mouth, his mossy tongue camped between stone molars, a thin film of glue between his parched lips.

That sound.

Samson broke into a run. His feet pounded the pavement, each rubber-soled thud counted and catalogued on his smart watch, the familiar route rapidly chewed up under his high tops. He knew he wasn’t fast enough to completely elude the monster stalking him; couldn’t outrun the danger forever at his back, but he could put some distance on his heels, give himself a brief respite from relentless torment. He couldn’t escape. But he could keep running.

Breaking left, Samson deserted the sidewalk and dashed toward the path through the park. The trail was closed from sunset to sunrise, but Samson hopped the low gate, taking the risk to shave half a mile from his route. Jagged light pierced through the shadow-cast trees, cutting out a diamond pattern on the blacktop. Acid burned in Samson’s screaming muscles as he thundered up the hill, the chill night air freezing his sweat as he sped through the descent.

The beat blasting in his ears masked the frantic bell ringing from the bicycle. The cyclist had killed the headlamp that could betray the illegal shortcut, and expecting to find no one else on the path, the speeding wheels were beyond the brakes’ taming. Narrowly avoiding a collision, the cyclist’s sudden appearance made Samson spring from the trail, landing on the side of his sneaker and rolling over his ankle, electric pain shooting up his nerves as the spinning wheels veered off into the night.

Ripping out his headphones, Samson gritted his teeth, squeezing his hands around the throbbing ankle. The initial white blaze of pain dulled to a deep red pulse, and an experimental wiggle of cringing toes indicated nothing broken. Bracing himself against a rough tree trunk, Samson slowly pulled himself to his feet, crumpling with a gasp as agony lanced through his nerves. His hand wiped the sweat from his face, and came away red.

Okay. Okay. Can’t put weight on the ankle, and just leaving the park is a football field’s worth of rough terrain. With that hurdle conquered, it’s still a long hobble home in the dark. Still not sure where the blood’s coming from. Does not look like that cyclist is coming back. A swollen wave of nausea rose from the depths of Samson’s core, washing over him as dark rockets burst across his vision, a riptide of sparkling dizziness sweeping his resolve out to sea.

That sound.

Still holding the tree, Samson dug a scraped hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The surface had a superficial crack, just a few stuck pixels scarring the screen. Thumbing through his options, Samson steadied his breath, and made the call.

“Hello?”

Samson winced. It sounded like he’d woken her up. “Hi, Flora.”

“Sam. It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Oh, shit.” Suddenly, the voice sounded much more awake. “Where are you?”

Samson told her. After hanging up the phone, Samson limped gingerly down the side of the trail, grasping the skeletal trees for support. A fist of shame clenched inside of him, and he watched the path ahead for Flora’s dreaded approach. In his injured state, unable to run, the spectral stalker that haunted Samson’s steps would find him easy prey.

The bouncing beam of a flashlight reared up to shine in Samson’s squinting eyes. “Sam?” It was Flora’s voice. “Is that you?”

Samson offered up a wave, enduring a rainbow burst through his nerves. “Hi.”

“Jesus, you’re bleeding!” The flashlight dropped away, and Flora dragged Samson’s arm across her shoulders, putting a steadying arm around his waist. “What are you doing out here so late?”

Samson shuddered at the touch. “I’m okay. I just—”

They both froze. Samson held his breath, meeting Flora’s wide eyes. She had heard the sound.

With a deliberate clearing of her throat, Flora helped Samson forward. “I think I should take you to urgent care.”

“I’m fine,” Samson said. “I’m just gonna wrap it at home.” He stumped along in silence for a while. “Thanks for coming after me.”

“Yeah, well,” Flora grumbled. “Are you…how are you, lately?”

“We don’t have to do this right now.”

“Okay.”

Helping him into her car, Flora pulled down the passenger side visor so Samson could look at his face. The dark red rivulet from forehead to chin had already started to dry, a small cut high on his hairline gathering bruises. Flora started the car. “You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“Thanks.”

Flora glanced at him. “Why are you running in the middle of the night?”

Shifting his leg to a different position, Samson decided, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s going around.” Flora spared another glance. “There’s napkins in the glove compartment.”

Samson muttered, “I’ll be fine.” Thick silence settled in the car as Flora rolled over the deserted streets. Samson stared at his own transparent reflection in the dark car window, the ghost of his face staring back with warped and empty eyes.

The sound was amplified inside the car.

“Okay, look,” Flora said. “The last time we spoke, I said some things I didn’t mean.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Samson said.

“It obviously does,” Flora said. “Look, I was hurt, and I was angry, and it all boiled over at once. I’m really glad you called me, I wish the circumstances were better, but I’ve been meaning to—”

“It doesn’t—” Samson lowered his voice. “I’m not mad. You were right. I needed to change.”

“I think you over-corrected.”

“I’m fine.”

Flora stopped the car. She had heard the sound again. “Have you eaten anything today?”

Samson didn’t answer. Flora turned over his wrist, checking the smart watch that tracked his steps. “Sam. This isn’t healthy.”

The awful growl was louder than Samson’s voice. “I know.”

Flora unbuckled her seatbelt, leaned across the stick shift, and wrapped her arms around Samson. He flinched, fire shooting up his shin. “I’m so sorry,” Flora breathed. “I didn’t mean it. You are not a pig.”

The word ripped through his brain. It joined the overlapping echoes multiplying and reverberating in the singing bowl of his skull, from the first time that word, in Flora's voice, punched through his ears. You're a Pig! she'd screamed at him. A horrible, disgusting, greedy, Pig! And Samson thought, as the door slammed after her, that it was true.

Finally, Samson melted into her embrace, while his empty stomach gurgled and whined between them. “Not anymore."