Ted Dekker: The Bride Collector

There was a single fly caught in the window to his right.

A hundred other stimuli had been trapped by his brain as he contemplated the fork. Not the least of which was the aromatic steam rising off his charbroiled steak.

Quinton held his fork in his left hand with one finger on the bridge to steady it. He sliced through the tender meat with a serrated blade, one provided by Jonathan Elway, the famed Denver Bronco quarterback who, based on Quinton’s research three days earlier when he’d carefully selected the restaurant for this occasion, had indeed been a favorite among all of God’s children.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

A man with enviable strength and intelligence, able to hurl an inflated leather sack through the air with such accuracy and power that few defenders could see it coming, much less stop it from reaching its intended receiver.

On his God-given field, Jonathan Elway, known to the rest of the world as John Elway, had been a god. He didn’t mistakenly think of himself as a god, like most humans desperate to live out their pathetic fantasies did. He actually was a god, something he himself likely didn’t know.

Quinton placed the first bite of meat into his mouth, pulled the tender morsel off using his teeth, and closed his eyes. The taste was heavenly. The seared crust gave way with a faint crack to the moist fibers beneath. Juice flooded his mouth and pooled under his tongue as he sank his molars deep into the flesh.

So delectable and satisfying, he allowed himself a soft moan. Two more chews with his eyes still closed to shut out all other visual stimuli. The pleasure demanded more vocalized appreciation. Whispering this time.

“Mmmm… Mmmm… Delicious.”

It was important not to be plastic. Pretending to himself only minimized who he was. Most humans wore a public facade, an attempt to compensate for their own flaws and weaknesses. The whole world was plastic, populated by people playing roles, fooling only the foolish. Sadly, they’d worn the facades for so long that they had lost even their awareness of the habit.

I am an important executive who has made money-the Rolex label on my wrist should make that clear.

I am a powerful lover and provider, signified by the way I’ve engineered my body to appear strong and symmetrically lumpy.

I am comfortable with myself, signified by the way I walk so nonchalantly wearing only sweats and a T-shirt.

I am nobody. But please, please don’t tell anyone.

The voice of the bratty boy, who was now seated across the room in a booth, scraped at Quinton’s mind. He fought back a grimace of frustration. It was important not to be plastic, but it was also important not to step on the sanctity of others’ space. The boy was upsetting the balance of peace and tranquility in the room. No doubt, every last patron would readily shove a sock or boot down the boy’s throat if they were not so afraid of being found out for who they really were.

He shut the boy out and focused on the cavalcade of flavors dancing around in his mouth. He began to chew with powerful strokes of his jaw, drawing the juices into his mouth and throat. Swallowing deep.

The details of his earlier activity, which he was now celebrating by breaking an otherwise strict vegetarian diet, slipped through his mind. His special time with Caroline had been satisfying in the same way all great accomplishments were rewarding. But he’d drawn no physical pleasure from the bloodletting.

Eating the steak, however… This was indeed like sex. And because Quinton had not known any sexual gratification since that terrible night seven years earlier, he relished every other physical pleasure that reminded him that physical pleasure was indeed an immeasurable gift.

News of Caroline’s death would soon fill the world with a single question: Who is it? Who is it? Is it my neighbor, is it the grocery clerk, is it the high school principal?

Humans were predictable. Like animated carbon units. Cardboard cutouts with fancy trim, far too much of it. There was only one human who really mattered, and at the moment that was him. Everything around him was stage dressing. He was the only real player on this stage.

The audience was watching him only; the rest were only extras. It was the same for all of them, but few were courageous enough to understand or confess this single beautiful, bitter truth: Deep down inside, each of them believed they were at the center of the universe.

But at the moment, it was Quinton, and he was wise enough to embrace it.

God had chosen Quinton Gauld. Simple. Indisputable. Final.

Which brought Quinton to the task set before him. Three more, as he saw fit. Ending with the most beautiful.

The boy in the booth was whining his dislike for peas. A perfectly good vegetable, but this dark-headed boy who looked to be about ten or eleven was refusing to consider reason, in part because the father wasn’t delivering reason, but distraction. “How about ice cream, Joshie? How about lobster, Joshie?”

Quinton cut off more meat and savored the bite. So delicious. Rarely had he drawn such pleasure from meat. But the boy was undermining the experience, and Quinton felt regression pressing in on his psyche. Joshie was mad as hell and there seemed no good reason for it. The boy was simply misfiring. Going kaput. Rotting before his time in the grave.

Few things distracted Quinton any longer. He’d long ago conquered his mind. A doctor had once diagnosed him with schizoaffective disorder, a condition that supposedly involved the complications of thought disorder and a bipolar mood disorder. Five years of his life had vanished in a fog of heavy medication, until he silently protested the oppression.

The condition was his greatest gift, not a disease. He still took a very low dosage of medication to control the tics-a natural by-product of a supercharged mind-but otherwise he relied on his own substantial focus and enlightenment.

At the moment, it took every fiber of his formidable intellect to remain calm. The square of seared cow flesh in his mouth was tasting more like cardboard than meat. After his significant accomplishment earlier today, the heavens were cheering, but the rats on earth were totally oblivious. There was no respect left in the world.

The father suggested that Joshie take a time-out to think about it, and the boy raced screaming to the restroom. None of the others seemed too put out by the scene.

The whole mini-drama was more than Quinton was willing to bear. He calmly set down his knife and dabbed his lips with his serviette seven times, alternating corners, a habit that helped to bring order to his mind. He took one more deep draft of the purified water, slipped a hundred-dollar bill onto the table, and stood.

With a nod and smile at the waitress who wanted him, he walked toward the restroom.

It was important not to stand out in a crowd while simultaneously living a nonplastic life. An authentic life. Authentic, but not proud and obnoxious, either. That was the boy’s problem: He was standing out in the crowd, acting as if he were a coddled king who ate ice cream while the rest of the kingdom was subjected to peas.

Quinton’s problem, on the other hand, was how to enlighten the boy without making the same mistake and drawing attention. He neither wanted nor needed the spotlight, particularly not now.

He walked into the bathroom with a backward glance, noting that no one else was hurrying to relieve themselves of dinner or drink. The door closed with a soft clunk. The boy faced the urinal, uttering a long, mournful wail that might be expected at a funeral procession, but not here after being offered ice cream.

Eager to deliver his message quickly, Quinton walked to the stalls, checked both to be sure they were alone, then approached the boy.