Violet was running a little late that morning. Her hair was all over the place and the wind was not helping. She scrambled to work, panting for air as she ran all the way from the subway.
She didn’t see the shadow that was following her in a distance.
I waited for her as the night fell silent. She left late that night, almost a quarter to ten. As she strolled off alone, I couldn’t help but followed her, matching her step in step, relishing the feeling we shared. I knew she felt lonely, the kind that no makeup or smile can hide. I knew the moment I saw her, that she would understand me. She would be the only one. Other than you.
Around the corner, she entered an old clock and watch store. Interesting, I thought.
I followed her in.
The drab room reeked with the musty sweetness of damp wood. All around, several filthy and torn chaise-longues and a number of rickety, bent legged side tables were arranged in a hodge-podge manner. On some of the chaises, the furniture was rotten, lazily scattered. The room itself, like its furnishings, had seen better days, I would imagine. The ancient varnish on the wall panels was veined with cracks and flaked like encrusted blisters to a floor which may once have been carpeted, although I was not entirely convinced it was carpet that made the floor seem somewhat spongy beneath my feet.
Above the panels the walls rose, black with the decades' stains, to a ceiling lost in darkness. A single gas lamp on the far wall failed to throw its feeble light far. Somewhere, a clock tick-tocked, its persistent ticking at odds with the discomforting pounding of the heart, sometimes with a sigh or a moan.
"Oh, I’m sorry. We do not have what you are looking for." I overheard the counter lady reply. "Perhaps you should try the Tilbury Clockworks Shop on Main and 56th."
"Thanks. But I have been there and they didn’t have it either." Her voice quivered, hardly hiding her disappointment. Her eyes seeming to follow a moth as it fluttered through the room. I followed her gaze for a moment before realizing that whatever it was she was seeing was entirely in her own befuddled mind. Then her gaze briefly found focus on me. I gave her a smile and a nod.
Her faint return smile hung for a second before she turned to the counter, “Thanks again. I will look elsewhere then.”
That moment, before she made her exit, her eyes landed on me briefly. Calm as I always have been, it sent a shiver down my spine. With a look, she turned the table.
“Pardon me.” I shifted my body with subtlety to block the only entrance and exit. This is part of the psychological game. If you block the exit from the view, then almost instantly she will be inclined to stay. How long she stays then is up to how well you manipulate the interaction. Trust me, I know. I have been playing this game for far too long.
The next 15 minutes went by calculated and precise. I threw in a few secrets of my own to gain her trust. There was a great chemistry I had never felt with my targeted victims. After, when we left together, we had made plans to meet up the next day to visit another shop.
Perhaps. Somewhere inside, I had already started to realize, she was never going to be my victim, as I had became hers.
As we parted, I remembered I had an errant to run.
She didn’t see the shadow that was following her in a distance.
I waited for her as the night fell silent. She left late that night, almost a quarter to ten. As she strolled off alone, I couldn’t help but followed her, matching her step in step, relishing the feeling we shared. I knew she felt lonely, the kind that no makeup or smile can hide. I knew the moment I saw her, that she would understand me. She would be the only one. Other than you.
Around the corner, she entered an old clock and watch store. Interesting, I thought.
I followed her in.
The drab room reeked with the musty sweetness of damp wood. All around, several filthy and torn chaise-longues and a number of rickety, bent legged side tables were arranged in a hodge-podge manner. On some of the chaises, the furniture was rotten, lazily scattered. The room itself, like its furnishings, had seen better days, I would imagine. The ancient varnish on the wall panels was veined with cracks and flaked like encrusted blisters to a floor which may once have been carpeted, although I was not entirely convinced it was carpet that made the floor seem somewhat spongy beneath my feet.
Above the panels the walls rose, black with the decades' stains, to a ceiling lost in darkness. A single gas lamp on the far wall failed to throw its feeble light far. Somewhere, a clock tick-tocked, its persistent ticking at odds with the discomforting pounding of the heart, sometimes with a sigh or a moan.
"Oh, I’m sorry. We do not have what you are looking for." I overheard the counter lady reply. "Perhaps you should try the Tilbury Clockworks Shop on Main and 56th."
"Thanks. But I have been there and they didn’t have it either." Her voice quivered, hardly hiding her disappointment. Her eyes seeming to follow a moth as it fluttered through the room. I followed her gaze for a moment before realizing that whatever it was she was seeing was entirely in her own befuddled mind. Then her gaze briefly found focus on me. I gave her a smile and a nod.
Her faint return smile hung for a second before she turned to the counter, “Thanks again. I will look elsewhere then.”
That moment, before she made her exit, her eyes landed on me briefly. Calm as I always have been, it sent a shiver down my spine. With a look, she turned the table.
“Pardon me.” I shifted my body with subtlety to block the only entrance and exit. This is part of the psychological game. If you block the exit from the view, then almost instantly she will be inclined to stay. How long she stays then is up to how well you manipulate the interaction. Trust me, I know. I have been playing this game for far too long.
The next 15 minutes went by calculated and precise. I threw in a few secrets of my own to gain her trust. There was a great chemistry I had never felt with my targeted victims. After, when we left together, we had made plans to meet up the next day to visit another shop.
Perhaps. Somewhere inside, I had already started to realize, she was never going to be my victim, as I had became hers.
As we parted, I remembered I had an errant to run.
Midnight. Candy pitched forward into the darkness. Twisting and plummeting. The muscles in her arms instantly snapped taut like great iron suspension cords as she scrambled wildly in mid air. All sense of which way up was lost; but the direction was not. Down. Down hard. Down fast. The surface of the water came up to meet his tumbling form. Unyielding and unforgiving, it met him without mercy. She broke the murky surface and the oily blackness consumed him. She couldn’t swim and was regretting never making the time and effort to. She was panicking, fighting for her life. A primal instinct for survival exploded like an electrical storm along her flailing arms and legs. It took over, and made her fight for the surface.
The water was freezing. Painfully cold. Her body’s ability to convert glucose into immediate energy was halving by the second. What little energy she had left was burning low, fast. Muscles were cramping. Her diaphragm had convulsed as she hit the surface of the water. Her lungs had involuntarily tried to fill. The water was thick and dirty as it flooded her mouth and nostrils simultaneously. There was so much of it. She swallowed a few mouthfuls - ice cold, heavy and black water. The absence of air was terrifying. Hers lungs struggled to fill. They were screaming for oxygen. In an instant they rejected the foul fluid, with one almighty explosive, contraction. They then tried to refill again instantly. She reached out, trying desperately to climb through the water. Fighting, kicking, anything to break to the surface. Her clothing, which was already five times its normal weight, was dragging her down, further and faster.
Her limbs finally slowed. A strange, reassuring and almost pleasant warmth spread through her body. She could no longer think clearly, as in her higher brain, vital cells died in their thousands. She was aware of an all-pervading sense of contentment and peace that blossomed, gradually she relaxed. One of the laces on her shoes snagged on an old co-op trolley that laid half submerged amongst the mud and weeds which covered the canal bottom. Her eyes were now wide open, staring vacantly out into the eternal darkness. It was over. As her hand finally unfurled, the photo of a pretty little brown haired girl escaped his grip, and floated up toward the surface.
I sat there watching her in a distance, feeling a sense of pride and fulfillment I can’t really describe. It was beautiful. Pity that I can’t share my stories with anyone. Not you. Not Violet. You would just reduce all my accomplishments with a simple shake of your head. As for Violet, I can’t really predict what she will do and that is why she must never know.
The sea was calm yet again. I picked up the photo and wiped it clean. There are things that even death can’t take away.
Life. If anyone ever told you that it was easy, they lied. Hell is easy, death is easy. But life? Life is hard. One moment, you’re standing on the top of the highest mountain, looking down at everyone else. You look up to the sky and feel the warm glow of the sun. It’s an amazing feeling, a certain carefree and triumph flow through your veins.
The water was freezing. Painfully cold. Her body’s ability to convert glucose into immediate energy was halving by the second. What little energy she had left was burning low, fast. Muscles were cramping. Her diaphragm had convulsed as she hit the surface of the water. Her lungs had involuntarily tried to fill. The water was thick and dirty as it flooded her mouth and nostrils simultaneously. There was so much of it. She swallowed a few mouthfuls - ice cold, heavy and black water. The absence of air was terrifying. Hers lungs struggled to fill. They were screaming for oxygen. In an instant they rejected the foul fluid, with one almighty explosive, contraction. They then tried to refill again instantly. She reached out, trying desperately to climb through the water. Fighting, kicking, anything to break to the surface. Her clothing, which was already five times its normal weight, was dragging her down, further and faster.
Her limbs finally slowed. A strange, reassuring and almost pleasant warmth spread through her body. She could no longer think clearly, as in her higher brain, vital cells died in their thousands. She was aware of an all-pervading sense of contentment and peace that blossomed, gradually she relaxed. One of the laces on her shoes snagged on an old co-op trolley that laid half submerged amongst the mud and weeds which covered the canal bottom. Her eyes were now wide open, staring vacantly out into the eternal darkness. It was over. As her hand finally unfurled, the photo of a pretty little brown haired girl escaped his grip, and floated up toward the surface.
I sat there watching her in a distance, feeling a sense of pride and fulfillment I can’t really describe. It was beautiful. Pity that I can’t share my stories with anyone. Not you. Not Violet. You would just reduce all my accomplishments with a simple shake of your head. As for Violet, I can’t really predict what she will do and that is why she must never know.
The sea was calm yet again. I picked up the photo and wiped it clean. There are things that even death can’t take away.
Life. If anyone ever told you that it was easy, they lied. Hell is easy, death is easy. But life? Life is hard. One moment, you’re standing on the top of the highest mountain, looking down at everyone else. You look up to the sky and feel the warm glow of the sun. It’s an amazing feeling, a certain carefree and triumph flow through your veins.
But all of a sudden, the floor seems to break away. You slip. Your feet feels nothing but the air and you fall. There are rocks to greet you each time, like old memories that hurt like new. In that instant, you remember the people that really matter. They ignite the courage you have bottomed inside and you get a firm grip on a rock and start to climb. But the rocks continue tumbling, they grow into an avalanche.
There you are, sitting at the bottom of the mountain, in a dark place surrounded by silence. No birds are singing. No crickets crinkling. All alone, with only your thoughts to keep you company. Your palms are bleeding and sharp pain tickles through your body. At that moment, you wouldn’t know to laugh or to cry. That moment, you will just sit there - cold, empty and …. Dead.
Rest well, Candy. May death treat you better than life.
Rest well, Candy. May death treat you better than life.
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