How Bittersweet is Karma

Other?: Karma

Was it possible that there was something other about me? Could my father have been Other? My mother had always encouraged my love of words, of writing. She bought me dozens of notebooks and my favorite pens, took me to the library every Saturday—her only day off at the post office each week—and let me peruse for hours. My life had been full of words. I'd gone to the University of Alabama and then come to Las Vegas for graduate school in anthropology because I wanted all of the knowledge, all of the words.

The hair stood up on my arms as I reached the darkest corner of the room. The vibration was so strong that the books jumped on the shelf. One popped free of its neighbors, and I couldn't resist the temptation.

I pulled it free and sat on the floor. It was dark behind the desk, but my phone still had enough battery left to run the flashlight.

Hesitating only briefly at the thought that perhaps I shouldn't look, shouldn't read the words in this tome, I suddenly knew the words were not meant to be locked away. Stories were there for us to learn from, to experience, to embrace. I cracked open the book and gasped at the first page.

Asim Omari Thoth

Coincidence?

Demetrius had challenged me not to believe coincidences were chance.

This book had my father's name in it.

I was meant to find this book.

After scanning the first few pages, I fell into the narrative of a young man trying to come to terms with the strange things happening around him. The words appearing on his skin, memories that came to him when he slept, despite the fact that they couldn't be his, the beautiful girl who danced for him.

My tears made it difficult to make out every word, but I consumed his tale of love and fear—of the terror that those who'd wronged him would find him again and take everything he held sacred.

The words were written twenty-five years prior, and they ended two months before I was born.

The door opened, and I hurried to wipe my tears away. When I tried to stand up quickly, I discovered my legs had fallen asleep. I was excited to tell Demetrius about what I'd found, but the voice wasn't his.

"Shut the door before anyone sees us," a man said, and then he laughed. "Demetrius is such a party pooper. He keeps this room locked up all the time, but it's got such great furniture. I can't wait to bend you over his desk."

I heard another man laugh, and the sounds of wet kisses and zippers sent me skittering back into the shadows. Oh God, this wasn't happening . . .

"Can't we just go back to your place?" the second man said.

"You really want me to wait that long?" the first one replied. "Come on, baby."

Their voices moved closer, and I figured I should try to take cover, but it was too late.

"What do we have here?"

The first man's voice belonged to a lanky white man with an expertly tousled hairdo that flopped from side to side like it had a life of his own. His lips were red and glossy . . . his eyes too. He wore a pair of leather pants and no shirt, and he was staring at me over the top of the desk.

"I'm waiting for Demetrius?" What else could I say?

"In the corner? My word, I didn't think he had that kind of fun. Tell me, is he going to punish you further? I might want to see that."

The two men stared at me, and for once, words escaped me.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?