Work Text:
It was blistering hot today.
I felt like the sun was intentionally melting the skin—roasted and ready to eat. I despised the heat; it made me feel drowsy and dizzy. I hated the feeling of the cotton material becoming one with my skin, getting sticky and smelly.
Carrying bags of groceries into the apartment complex didn’t make it easier for me. I pondered the feeling of cool air on my body. Perhaps it was the placebo effect, but I suddenly felt a sudden rush of wind burst within me.
There were moving boxes outside the door next to mine. The door was cracked open with a box; it was quiet inside. Too quiet.
There was no way the owner left the apartment open and unsupervised.
The agonizing sun became a painful reminder, so I quickly went inside my apartment. The air conditioner became heavenly to my body, washing the heat away.
“Another female dead body found in a ditch.”
The news reporter was seen talking from in front of caution tape. The camera was switched to people taking pictures of a covered body being transported away.
“The sheriff of Detroit says there is a serial killer on the lookout; please be wary at night and lock every door.” The view was changed to the sheriff warning people of the potential killer. Photos of the victims were displayed on the screen as their families spoke of the matter, all drenched in tears and sobbing.
I felt horrible for the families. The victims looked very young, all in their twenties, I heard. They had a life ahead of them, and now it was taken from them.
There was a knock on the door.
Damn near made my heart drop. The news of the killer went on for weeks; everyone was cautious recently. I’m also on edge. This was the sixth victim this month alone. The genders are randomized, and there are no similarities in the victim, making everyone a possible target.
Making me a target.
The knock was heard again.
A tall stranger stood outside the door. His face is pale and slim. He wore a black long-sleeve tee and dress pants. The guy was insane wearing that in this hot weather. My hand trembled at the knob; the dread feeling stood the hairs on the back of my neck.
The stranger looked at his watch and at the door, his eyes shifting at the peephole. As if he knew I was watching him. I swallowed a beating heart as I backed away from the door, my breathing uneven.
“I moved in next door,” said the stranger, his voice sounding so close to the door. I itched closer, pressing my ear to listen. “I only wanted to ask if you can help me change the temperature setting.”
When I didn’t respond, the stranger began to explain further.
“You see, it’s very hot, and the landlord never showed me how to change it. I'm new to Detroit.”
I opened the door, making myself vulnerable and known.
"Honestly, man, why would you wear that when it's blazing hot outside?”
My comment was harsh, but the stranger laughed; his eyes carved my skin, devouring every inch of it.
Something about him felt off. His whole appearance alone was different from any regular person I spoke to. His smile was eerie and dangerous.
He guided me inside his home. “I had somewhere to be, requiring me to wear this unfortunately.”
The place was a furnace when I stepped in.
I didn’t respond to the man and located the thermostat. I quickly showed the stranger how to change the setting and did him a favor by cooling the apartment.
There was a red door at the end of the hall. It looked out of place and wore down. It is a contrast to the rest of the apartment.
I felt the stare from him, as if he were analyzing me. Looking for something in particular. A cold hand rested on my neck, my heart jolted, and my body froze. The stranger began swiping near my shoulder. It was gentle and soft. I could feel his back pressed behind me, his breathing so close.
“My apologies, there was dust.”
I turn to look at him, holding my neck as if he had gushed it open. I didn’t say anything back. There was something unsettling from the man, from the way he stands to the stare he gives. Like he is ready to eat me.
His hand felt too cold. Perhaps that is the reason why he wore winter clothing. I wanted to ask, but simply nodded my head and left his apartment. I locked myself in my room, eyeing the windows and the door, the unsettling feeling still there.
The eyes of the stranger never left my mind. Blue as the ocean, waiting to lure me to the deep, to drown me. I wondered that night if someone was watching me when I slept. Watching how vulnerable I am and waiting to strike.
I watched the sun rise, once again blaring down. Puffing out my smoke, I looked below the balcony, seeing someone nearing the complex back door. It was the stranger from next door. This time he wore a black coat and, once again, black attire. His hair was slick back with gel.
I crushed my cigar on the metal railing, ready to head back inside. The stranger spotted me from where I was and waved with a smile. I unknowingly waved back, surprising myself.
I headed inside and headed to work minutes later; afraid I'd bump into the stranger.
I worked as a chef in a restaurant called “La Feria.” My brother owns the restaurant, and I insisted on cooking instead of managing. Thinking back on it, I should have agreed.
“I went dolphin watching during the weekend,” recalled a waiter; she showed pictures on her phone. “We should go together next time,” the waiter suggested, her eyes waiting for my reaction.
“Next time,” I muttered, too busy cooking for the customers to ever dare look at the photos. It was near the end of my shift, and I wanted to finish quickly and get the hell out. Another chef placed down a prepared plate, “table twelve,” he stated. The waiter gave a worried look; her mouth twitched as if she wanted to retort back but decided against it.
The waiter simply laughed awkwardly; she grabbed the plate and said, “I will check the schedule when you are available.” When she left, I groaned and left to the back, needing a damn smoke. Out in the alley, there was a heavy scent of blood; it didn’t bother me, but it was a strong smell. In fact, I'm quite used to the smell since I am the one who butchers the meat.
I headed back inside after finishing, ready to finish my shift. Someone elbowed me, saying that the waiter was definitely into me. I rolled my eyes at the statement, crossing fingers that my brother didn't add my name on the schedule sheet.
‘I don't swing that way’, is what I wanted to tell them but decided not to. It's none of their business either way, and I have made it clear to the woman that I was definitely not interested. Multiple times, actually.
I ended up chopping raw meat for the next day. I stench of blood. Washing the blood off didn’t help much; the smell was lurching onto me. So, I hope no one will approach me till I get home and get a proper bath.
Unlucky me, the waiter from before approached me once again. Holding up the schedule to my face, “It says you are free on Mondays and Thursdays,” she says nervously, pointing to my name and days I am indeed off. I tried backing away, but the woman insisted on speaking so close to me.
“We can plan for Monday, yeah? How about at three?”
She stood so close that I could smell the perfume she wore, aggravating my nose. It latched on and blended into the smell of blood. I pulled her to the side and pinched my nose, feeling my own blood drip down.
“Move,” I uttered, grabbing a nearby napkin to clean myself. The blood soon went away, and I hurriedly excused myself away from the waiter, not wanting a headache so late at night.
Somehow, I made it to my apartment alive and sane. I pushed my head onto my door, taking in a sigh of relief. I felt a buzz in my pocket, then another buzz. Lowering my head, I pulled out my phone and saw how the waiter managed to text me.
I froze. I don’t remember giving my phone to her or to anyone in the matter. I specifically told my brother to not give my number to anyone on the staff. I read the last message she sent, and my heart dropped to my stomach.
‘Are you at your apartment?’
Looking around, I notice a small figure in the distance. I immediately recognized the red curly hair. How did she find my address? Who gave it to her?
I felt my hands shaking, nearly dropping my phone. I dropped to the ground, hoping she didn’t see me.
I had to find a way to get out, to leave, to run.
At that moment, I spotted the man from next doorstep into the fourth floor. He gave a surprised, then concerned look.
“Everything alright?”
He asked in a hushed tone. Another buzz sounded from my pocket, and I just knew she was close. I could hear her footsteps echoing in the stairs. Her breathing. By the time I looked at the stranger, he had already unlocked his door, eyeing me.
Once I spotted red hair, I pushed the man into his apartment and closed the door behind me. Another buzz went off. Then the sound of someone knocking next door. The buzzing continued, and I was afraid to look.
The man pulled me away from the door and checked the peephole. A knock was heard, but this time at his door. The man turned to me and pointed at the red door at the end of the hall. I immediately understood and hid myself.
All I heard was mumbling and the sound of my own heart. I decided to check the messages she sent.
‘I am at your door’
‘Are you home?’
‘Gavin, let’s talk’
‘I need to tell you something’
I felt chills run down my spine as I finished reading the text messages. I finally looked around the room and realized I made a terrible, terrible mistake.
‘There has been a man following you home for the past few days’
‘He wears a black coat’
The room was completely empty.
No furniture, and all still very dusty. Now that I think about it, the living room and kitchen were also empty. It must be because he just moved in. But he had boxes; it must've had stuff in it. But where did the stranger sleep?
“Gavin.”
The voice of the man coos, something scraped along the wall. His footsteps were nearing the door. I locked the door in a panic, pushing myself farther into the room. The dust filtered my lungs, making it hard to breathe in.
I never gave the stranger my name.
I was right; this man is dangerous. This must be the killer. He has to be.
There was a hint of blood in the air. It had to be me, not outside the door. But the possibility was there.
The knob on the door twists and turns, unable to open the door. The man gave a shallow knock.
"Gavin."
The man says once again, his voice so close to the door, "What's wrong? Open the door."
My breathing was so uneven, and my mind raced at the possibility of my own death. God, why did I lock myself in my own chamber of death? I sent a quick message to my brother, telling him to send the police over as quickly as possible. This was the only way to save myself.
There was a sigh behind the door, then a forceful push of the door. The man was trying to break it down, knowing the door was fragile.
"Stop! Jesus! What do you want from me?!"
I sounded so pathetic. I tried to sound harsh, but my shaky voice gave away my fear. The banging stopped. "Let's talk it out, yeah? I don't want to hurt you." Somehow his voice was convincing, as if he understood why I was wary of the situation.
I got close to the door, nearing my ear to it. Listening in closely.
"How do you know my name? I don't remember telling you."
My heart slowed a bit, hearing the man's heavy breathing.
"Suppose that slipped from my mouth," he stated.
I could hear the cogs in the man's head, thinking of an excuse. I tried not to panic, but my mind still raced at the thought of getting killed. My own heart is drumming at the door with my heavy breathing.
"Who are you?"
The man laughs gently. "I suppose that's fair enough," he pauses. "Conan Anderson, I am your next-door neighbor." The man sighs once again, his breathing more calm. "That woman, she's gone; I told her you weren't home, okay?”
"Yeah?"
I responded. The sound of Conan's voice was smooth and trustworthy. Perhaps it was my imagination; perhaps I was overthinking the situation. Conan's been nothing but kind, and I am the paranoid one.
"Yeah," reassured the man, "please, let me help you."
And so, I did.
I unlocked the door and opened it.
"Oh god."
Cold hands embraced my back, smoothing small circles. His breathing was hypnotizing; it was a calm breeze on my ear. Lips were pressing my hair, a grin emerging, "She's gone, don't worry."
By the doorstep was the waiter.
Blood was gushing out of her throat and stomach. She gargled in her own blood, her body twitching uncontrollably, her hands holding her own stomach. Her eyes plead for help.
I couldn’t help her. Not when the killer himself is cradling me dearly. The stench of blood was coming from her, her blood oozing from her body. I only stood frozen, watching as the woman who tried to warn me slowly died, her life diminishing by the second.
Conan began to whisper pointless promises of safety while holding me close and dearly, leaving pepper kisses on my hair. I stared floatless, his words slowly indulging myself into his words. It manipulated my course of thinking.
His bloody hands began to soak into my already bloody shirt, then into my skin. I felt dirty. Conan's cologne did an amazing job disguising the smell of blood. In some way it was comforting; my hands gripped onto the man's coat.
"That's it, love," he whispers so gently, so lovingly, "you're safe."
My mind went into a spiral, not knowing that was real anymore. His scent and his words are a disease, and they were spreading to my body and mind. I allowed myself to enjoy his words, taking in the sweet honey from the hive, knowing I would be stung.
My head sink more into Conan's chest, a sign of relief left out of me, then the air was rushed out of my lungs.
A sharp, unbearable pain was thrust and twisted into my side. My scream was muffled by how tight Conan was holding me. I could feel my blood painting his black shirt. I held onto his coat tightly, fully embracing the man in agony.
I stared at him, wanting to tell him why. But my voice got clogged in my throat. I cried onto his chest, holding him close. He held my face, analyzing and wiping away my tears. Smiling as he saw me trembling as the spasm of my blood fell onto the floor.
"You’re so beautiful."
He whispers, kissing my tears from my eyes, "So pretty."
Something within myself lightened up; my heart went soft. I smiled weakly at him, "The prettiest?" My voice was weak and squeaky, yet I didn't care at the moment. I could tell my question surprised him; it made him chuckle, and the wrinkles at the end of his eyes showed. Finally showing a genuine smile.
Once again, he kissed my never-ending tears and pressed his lips onto mine.
"The prettiest of them all, Gavin."
He pressed me onto the red door, his teeth scraping my cheek, then taking a sweet bite. I groaned at the pain, and the knife began to dig deeper. Conan told me I was safe with him, and I believe him.
I took a shaky breath, my thumb brushed his lips, and he licked and bit it harshly. His finger dances on my skin, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of bloody marks.
"Conan," I whispered softly, caressing his cheek, admiring his ocean eyes, "you have to leave." The once stranger closes the space between us.
I could hear the sirens approaching, yet the killer paid no mind to it. I tried to push him off, "Leave." I then cried. He chased after my lips once more; he pulled my hair and pushed me further onto the door.
The footsteps got closer and closer by the second. I embraced the man, inhaling the last of his smell before the officers took it from me. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. He pressed a kiss on my nose and let go of me. I slid down the red door, smearing my blood on it. The knife still dug in me.
The officers ordered the man to get down, and he obeyed. He was then taken away. From what I remembered; I lost consciousness after.
When I woke up, my brother patted my head with a smile.
“Finally, you wake up,” he told me, giving me water for my dry throat. I felt a sharp pain on my side as I moved up. I looked at the delicate stitches holding in my organs and blood.
“It’s a miracle you're alive,” uttered Elijah, his head lowered to the bed, touching my wrist and feeling the small pulse of life. He looked at me with a miserable expression. “When I received that message, the adrenaline was high; god was I terrified.”
“The waiter... is she...”
I struggled to speak, her pleading eyes still in my mind. She must have been horrified in her last moments of death; “she died on the way to the hospital.” If only I asked why she was so persistent in meeting with me. Perhaps she’ll still be alive.
The small television provided in the room captured my hearing. The face of Conan's mugshot covered half of the screen. My heart swelled a bit, missing the feeling of his embrace. Which was weird, because he nearly took my life.
“Eight deaths confirmed, and one is still admitted in the hospital, having survived the killer, now identified as Conan Anderson.”
Elijah looked at me, squeezing my hand in comfort. “I refused telling them your name, so don’t worry.” The door to the room, my heart skipped a beat, the haunting and unsettling feeling still there.
A man dressed in a suit walked in; he came with a folder in his hand.
“Hello Gavin,” the man started. “I’m the prosecutor for the case; my name is Carlos.” The man proceeded to sit near me; he gave me a pitiful expression.
“I am going to need you to recall what happened a week ago.”
“A week ago?”
My voice cracked. Bewildered, I looked over to my brother, “You’ve been in a coma for a week.” I knew the knife dug deep within me, but I never thought it was fatal. I mean, yes, it was so painful that I can still feel the way the knife twisted and turned. But a week?
“I need your testimony,” stated the man. He pulled out a recorder in front of me, his eyes scanning my face. I struggled to speak, tears already welding up. At that moment, the man pressed record, his eyes still analyzing.
“Will he be okay?”
The prosecutor's eyes widened, stunned by the question. His brows made lines and curves; he was unable to form a response. In return, my brother frowns and looks at the television, seeing the man who stabbed me.
“He will be sentenced to death row,” he stated as a fact, “he deserves that much.” My heart ached at his way of speaking, but my mind agreed with his words. Conan deserves death in any way possible. No one is capable of killing, especially eight people. Innocent souls were taken away.
"Yes,” said the man, “he will be sentenced to death row, only with the help of your testimony, Gavin.” I sighed and nodded. I told him what happened the day and the day before. I only left out the details of the small intimate moment we shared.
And before I knew it, the judge had decided on death row in Indiana for Conan. I wasn’t in the courtroom that evening; I waited outside. I saw how the police dragged him towards the van. Conan stopped near me, and the policemen struggled to move him along.
I stared at him, and he stared back. He smiled at me, showing his white pearls. A sense of relief washed over me, and then I knew.
I felt dirty.
From the moment I met him to the moment I touched him. I felt tainted and ruined. My hands soaked in blood. My senses reached that point. I knew. I knew I was just as messed up as him. And he knew. His job was to awaken that darkness, and he succeeded.
When the van reached the midpoint on the road, a deer crossed its path, causing the van to steer and crash into a tree. I opened the back of the van, and a man greeted me with a warm smile. I uncuffed his hands and guided him off.
I threw a pair of keys towards him. “I suppose you know where to go next.” I felt dizzy because of the heat. Conan and I entered the car. I began to close my eyes, feeling dizzy. The once stranger finally spoke, “to my family, of course.” He bent over towards me and kissed my sweaty cheek.
I smiled, “Alright then,” my eyes squinted and burned by my sweat. The car went to life, and we fled the scene. I stared out the window, seeing the sun burn down the fields of crops.
It was blistering hot today.