Part One:
There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship
-Thomas Aquinas
Tuesday, December 2nd
"Come back with a copy of Romeo and Juliet on Monday! Okay?" the teacher called out to her students. "And have a great weekend, everybody!"
"Thank you, Miss C!
"Thanks, Miss C!"
"Have a great day, Miss C!"
Then the classroom was empty.
A long day it was for Tim, a small, scrawny little boy for his age. He awkwardly maneuvered his way to the bathroom, trying to make his walk as casual and inconspicuous as he could. He didn't enjoy people looking at him, let alone knowing that he existed. He was a quiet kid, and he enjoyed his private silence: that's what he told himself at the very least.
He looked around, seeing that no one was near, and opened the bathroom door, hearing that no one was inside. He held his breath for a minute, the smell was almost unbearable; urine and shit obviously. How come it smelled this bad though? Did the boys not flush or anything? Did they scatter their feces all over the walls and toilet seats? Did they somehow miss the urinal and spread their golden stream all over the yellowish-white tile floor, or had they done that on purpose?
Gross gross gross!
The boys' bathroom were all disgusting at Tim's school, so much so that sometimes he just held it in and went home. The school must've given up when they didn't even bother to replace the broken locks on the bathroom stalls. No point in replacing them if the same group of jerks were going to break them again. Some jerks. No one knew who they were, but the boys hated them. It was because of those types of people that they were holding their stall door closed, begging Christ Almighty that no one would open their stall, see them taking a piss or crap.
Luckily, Tim didn't need the stall or anything, just a sink and some paper towels. He had been raising his chin up a little higher than usual, so the blood just slid down his throat. Tasted weirdly metallic, but other than that, Tim couldn't really describe it; the taste of blood. It was a type of thing that had its own taste, and couldn't really compare it to anything else. Blood was blood.
"Ah, Christ."
Tim ducked his head over and pointed his nose over the sink, turning the water on. The blood was dripping from his right nostril, so he stuck a finger up his left nostril and blew the blood out, hard. Usually, it took a couple of seconds of blowing his nose to clear up the blood; it dried up pretty fast in his nose, sealing up whatever vein burst or something. Tim didn't really know much about nose bleeds besides that he had them frequently. It must've been an illness or something like that; something that causes frequent nose bleeds. It was strange, but it could've been due to the cold, dry weather. Even then though, Tim had them a lot.
They were annoying and a little embarrassing. Tim hated attention. So, whenever a nosebleed was to happen in the middle of class, he'd lift his chin a little and endure that weirdly metallic taste going down his throat.
Before leaving, he checked to see if anyone was around, leaning in close to the door to see if he could hear anything. No footsteps. No voices. Relief spread down his body. He was a little worried that he had been followed, after all, he screwed up in class.
Romeo and Juliet. It wasn't his favorite work of literature, but he had read it a long, long time ago. He had no particular reason to have read it, but he read it. He had the feeling that he had to read it based on how popular it was. Only read it to appreciate—no, pay tribute—to Shakespeare's work. He didn't enjoy it as much as he thought he would; big words in a forgotten tongue were a bad combination for a boy like Tim. But he got the general themes and basic plot from what he could read.
His teacher, Miss C—beuatiful young women for being a middle school teacher, usually they had that wise, old look that gave them the authority to teach you, the same look that you'd see in your grandpa or older uncle—had been introducing the class about the play: Romeo and Juliet. The girls were excited since the kids were going to be acting out the script; make things more engaging for the class. The boys played off a disinterested act; none of them really cared for it, most of them, in fact, found it stupid. Tim could've been mistaken into that category, but really, he didn't care what story they read. They could've been reading Webster's Dictionary for all he cared, still would've felt the same about it—nothing. As long as the bell system was working and Tim could see the hands of the clock ticking, he was fine in his little quiet corner of the room. So how could he have made such an idiotic failure?
It wasn't his fault really, though it kind of was. He could've played dumb and effectively dodged the question, but instead, he decided to put in a little effort.
Never again.
He didn't even remember what the question that was asked of him was. Only the mocking words of Joquin, a taller bastard that kid was. "Fucking sissy, you are." Those were the words Tim endured. He didn't know the particular reason why those words were used, maybe it was because his answer alluded to the fact that he had read Romeo and Juliet, hence why, in Joquin's eyes, he was a "sissy". Boys reading romance was a "sissy" trait after all, right?
The comment didn't affect Tim all that much; Joquin and his goonies had done much worse things to him. The latest thing that Tim could remember was the taste and smell of toilet water, and the blood trickling down his nose after Brandon, one of Joquin's goons, slammed a rubber ball in his face. Said it was an accident in front of a closeby adult, but he said it with a annoying-as-hell smile that pissed Tim off. "Whoops," he smirked, throwing the ball at Tim. "My bad!"
God damn them.
At least the nose bleeding stopped them. Blood always stopped them; the moment they saw that streak of bright red liquid, they ran. Blood, as much as it was an annoyance to Tim, was also his biggest defense. An unreliable defense, but it still protected him.
"Alright then, off to home."
***
The man got off the bus to Santa Ana and began his walk. He walked in a funny way, almost as if he were severely injured in his left knee: walked with a limp. It didn't matter, though, as long as he got to his destination. He looked around, seeing that there wasn't much waiting at the station, just two young ladies and an old lady with a cloth tied around her head.
Kids these days.
It was confusing how anyone could wear such scandalous attire out in public. Back in his day, women who dressed like that could've been considered as someone who was soliciting. Stupid young girls. Especially in such cold weather. Booty shorts and crop tops? It was silly and left the man dumbfounded. A little cheek was practically showing underneath those tight, tight shorts, and their breasts were basically exposed for every sleazy man to admire, relish the sight. Disgusting it was. And they were young, maybe still teens or in their early twenties.
He wondered if they were really prostitutes, or if their parents really didn't care that much for their children. That was one of the problems with today's generation; people didn't seem to care. They should, they really should. No matter though. It wasn't like he was going to see them again; better to keep that gross display out of his mind. After all, he needed to do this quickly.
He walked around, trying to find somewhere nice, somewhere that wasn't too populated. He couldn't go back empty-handed again. He needed to do this; something within him was urging him to do this. It was like a burning desire to complete this task set out for him, and he'd do it even if it sickened him to his core. He didn't want to do it; if anything, he would've avoided it entirely if it weren't for the pain in his neck. It was almost like an addiction, like smoking. Once you've been smoking for some time, it'd be hard to quit. You want to quit, you don't like smoking, but you still do it.
That soreness in his neck was really bothering him: hurt like a bitch it did. The rest of his body was stiffer than a rusty bolt. It hurt to move; he was so stiff. He moved anyway though. He knew that failure to do this meant punishment.
This was the fourth time he had done this, and he had still not gotten used to it. He could never get used to it—never. However, the rewards he got from completing his task were always lovely. A gentle caress against his cheek and head, a nice strip tease, or even better, a nice rest in bed with his beloved.
It had only been a month since he had met her, but he knew that she was the one. He was a quiet man who enjoyed watching movies alone, of course. It wasn't like he had anyone else to go with. She was there too, and it was like she stole him away. She was beautiful, a little scrawny, but still beautiful.
He wondered if she'd praise him if he came home early. She had become angry with him after screwing up last time. It wasn't a major slip-up; it was enough for them to have to move to Orange County. He wasn't careful enough; got cocky, and now look what happened. This time, it was different. This time, he would complete his task and his beloved would smile at him with a warming embrace. Then he'd have her all to himself; her little body, all to himself. That's only if he came back home, though.
Someone bumped into him, causing him to drop his paper bag. "Sorry, sir," said a young boy.
"It's fine, it's fine."
The man rushed for the bag, not to reveal any of its contents. It would lead to questioning, then to suspicion, then maybe to needing to book it to the next home. He had a backup home in mind, in case Lake Forest didn't work out. The house was in Anaheim, near some Catholic school. The house was vacant, so he and his love could stay there for a while until someone found out.
He hurried on, his eyes scanning for a spot. Finally, he found it. It was a narrow street, but there were a bunch of little dark spots in between buildings: easy to hide in, and big enough to sit in. He stepped into the darkness of one of these alleyways and set his bag down on the wet floor. It was much tighter in here than he thought, but it would do. There weren't many people here as well, so for the time being, he didn't need to rush. The building looked occupied; they were apartment buildings after all, but it wasn't like anyone was going to come out to look in a dark passage. No one in their right mind would do that, or that's what he hoped.
He waited, his dark clothes lending him camouflage in the shadows. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
A girl and her mother came by. He didn't get much of their conversation, only bits and pieces.
"You think Daddy's…"
"...going to love…for him."
"Me too, Mum."
It was sweet seeing something so innocent. He pictured his beloved; she was so innocent as well. At least, she looked the part. So, so beautiful was she. He wanted to get this over with already.
Somebody, just some through. Please. Some drunk or junkie. Please.
***
Tim was not lucky enough to go home without the usual troubles. He found himself with a pair of arms tucked under his armpits, rendering him as helpless as a lost puppy. But even a puppy could run away from a pack of hungry, monstrous coyotes looking for a nice snack. The one holding him must've been Brandon, after all, he was the muscle head of the group. A rather stupid, stupid boy in the eyes of Tim, but with stupidity came a strength that left Tim cowering. It was the type of strength that told everyone that they'd be sorry if they messed with him; unstable, he was.
Then you had Shaun, a smug little redhead who stood behind Joquin, like the sorry little nothing he was. Of all the boys that Tim had to put up with, Shaun may have been the one who got under his skin the most. He was a cockroach that was just begging Tim to slam a magazine on, teasing and teasing with an irritatingly smug face. He was smarter than both Brandon—of course he was—and Joquin, didn't really partake in the physical activities, just stood there and laughed. What got to Tim the most was how he sucked up to the teachers, it made his blood boil seeing someone like Miss C smile warmly at Shaun. Too stupid to see who he really was. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"What's the dummy doing here all by himself?" Joquin smirked, pressing a finger on Tim's nose. "Can the big dummy explain?"
"Yeah!" That annoying add-on obviously came from Shaun. It really, really made Tim's blood boil, made his skin itch.
"Are you going to answer, dummy?"
Tim didn't open his mouth to speak; he only closed his eyes, hoping for someone to see. No one ever did though. He really should cooperate; he would get home a lot quicker. "Bathroom," he said.
Joquin didn't pay any interest in Tim's answer, just smirked.
"I want you to scream. Like a little girl. Close your eyes and scream."
That was all? Tim thought that this was going to be way worse. Usually, they had to do something more humiliating, like getting on all fours and having him bark like a dog; little pet dummy they called him. Screaming was easy compared to that.
He closed his eyes, hearing their light snickers, and he felt Brandon—that stupid oaf—let go of him. There was a silence for a while, and Tim prepared himself. He didn't want to scream too loud, just enough so his abusers were satisfied. He took in a breath and let out a loud shriek, quick and fast.
"Just what the hell are you doing, young man!?"
Tim opened his eyes and saw that Joquin and his goons had gone off to God knows where; in their place was a male teacher from a nearby classroom. He had been tricked, made a fool of himself. He apologized after a stern lecture and finally went on his way home.
He balled up his fist. Why couldn't he have just run away or faced them? He was sick of it; anyone would've been sick of this kind of treatment. There was something he could do, tell a teacher, for instance, but in hindsight, they wouldn't really do much. With all much they sucked up to the adults at this school, they wouldn't take a quiet boy like Tim seriously. Why'd they have to prey on him, of all the people in their classes, why him? Was it because he was that quiet kid who couldn't do anything? Might as well for the sake of it, and you get such pleasure out of it as well; the feeling of control, of being a predator, being in power. They could do anything to him, and no one would listen to him, because he was too quiet to tell anyone of his troubles. Tim could've told someone, his mom for instance, but that would've been more trouble that wouldn't have resolved anything in the end. How about the other kids? No, no. The kids didn't care, and the few boys who actually talked to Tim were too afraid that they'd be next if they helped. He really was in this purgatory of helplessness.
He'd go to the store and treat himself, a small reward for such a crappy day, relief some of the frustration.
There was a gas station down the road. Had to pass the left turn to his neighborhood in order to get to it, but it wasn't a far walk. Maybe a fifth of a mile down Los Alisos Boulevard, cross the street, then take a left into the gas station. The owner was an old man, well into his seventies or eighties, had that look in his weary eyes that he was over with living. He was tired and ready for our Lord to lift him up, or drag him down; Tim didn't know what kind of man he was, but he seemed nice enough for Heaven. Even then, did a place like Heaven even exist? He hoped so, but at the same time, he wished it didn't. If he lived out to be a good person, he'd have a place to reside in, but if he lived out to be a horrible, nasty man…well…if there wasn't a heaven, there wasn't a hell either—black nothingness and eternal sleep maybe. He wasn't sure what to believe. He had been raised Christian, no particular denomination or anything, just knew that Jesus died for our sins, Mary was his mother, the concepts of Heaven and Hell, blah, blah, blah, etc, etc…
Most of the time, he was lukewarm, a lukewarm Christian. But in times when Joquin and his buddies really got to him, sometimes he prayed. He knew that nothing would happen, but the thought that God was listening was everything he needed for some comfort—someone to just listen to you when you're down. He hoped and prayed that they'd get what was coming to them, a rage in his heart. But for now, he was on a mission, a top-secret mission. His stomach was deeply in need of some kind of snack/sweet, and he needed to complete and deliver the goods so that the cells of his body could live to see another day.
He snatched some candies from the cashier's counter: one Hershey, one Kit-Kat bar, and a bag of Trolli. He thought about stuffing them down his pants and just walk out unnoticed, but he decided not to. There wasn't much of a point in going through the effort to steal such little candy. If you were going to risk it, might as well go for something bigger, more valuable. The candy he had gotten was just under eight bucks.
The old man forced a smile and scanned the items, putting them in a thin plastic bag before handing it over to Tim. The old man's eyes were suspicious. "Have a good one, kid."
Tim couldn't blame him, but he could be annoyed. He hadn't been caught stealing, but somehow, he had the feeling that the old man knew he had been shoplifting lately (stuffed loads of candy from the back aisle in his pants and jacket; at least fifteen pieces). It made Tim anxious sometimes, seeing those hawk eyes staring down at him. Was it really worth the candy for that judgmental stare? Tim didn't know why, but stealing those sweets made him feel good. It gave a small rush, made him feel confident, and he always had a massive sweet tooth. Two birds for one stone, and the only downside was a creepy stare from some old geezer. So, in a way, it was worth it. Besides, what was the worst that old fool could do, call the police? There weren't even security cameras in the store; Tim knew for sure. The police would have to rely on the memory of a senile, babbling fool, and all to sternly scold some kid. Not worth the trouble, or the gas.
He walked up Los Alisos Boulevard and took a right into his neighborhood; now he was safe. There wasn't going to be any humiliation or ridiculing beyond Brussels Ave. The people in this neighborhood were quiet, but they had no tolerance for noisy kids doing idiotic things; old men and women liked walking down the sidewalks in this area, and they could give a kid a good earful. Besides, Joquin and his friends didn't even live near Tim's area. From what he heard, that rat bastard lived near the Oxford prep academy near Blackfoot Drive, a good three or five miles away from Tim's school, which was basically right next to his area—the school field was fenced off between several backyards and some trees to keep the distance.
He took a left, going down Brasilia Street, and then took a right on Patterson Street. His house was one of five that were being built along the roundabout that looped back into Brasilia Street, a small circular garden in the middle of the roundabout. Home sweet home. He always felt at peace whenever he paused at the doorstep, always remembering that the house key was underneath the welcome mat. He got the key after lifting the mat and unlocking the door, breathing in that cool home smell. It was lovely, really lovely.
***
The man was still, and the sun was starting to set. He wished to check the time on his watch, but was he also too afraid that the rustling might reveal him. All he knew was that he needed to hurry. Had he chosen the wrong space? This area was secluded, and that was good, but…he needed someone to pass by. He didn't want to go back empty-handed; his beloved would be furious with him.
No…furious isn't the right word.
Disappointed, yes, that was the correct word. But that was more painful than anger. He had the image vividly in his head, her furrowed brow with her slanted eyes and distant stare; it was all too painful. At least when she was angry, it was quick and over with; she wasn't one to hold a grudge.
He sighed, quietly, of course. Then he heard a voice, a male voice. He tensed up and grabbed something from his paper back, with caution so the bag would not crackle. He didn't know what it was he grabbed, but it would help nevertheless; the bag was full of tools. Then he heard the plastic rolling; a stroller.
"Daddy! I'm hungry!"
"Okay, okay! I bet Mommy's cooked up something real tasty."
"Ice cream with the wed chewries?"
"No, that's dessert, sweetie."
The child, no older than six, pouted a little.
The man remained in the shadows; his muscles relaxed a little. "Dear God," he rubbed his face. He was going to be sick. He really almost did that in front of a child—a son. He cursed at himself.
The man envied the father; he always wanted to have a child of his own. He had a plan and everything: the name, the home, the food he'd make, what schools they'd go to, and how he'd raise them. He didn't think his beloved was interested in children though. He didn't even think she could've produced a child. When he brought the idea up, she just stared at him, then at her stomach, giving it a gentle rub. That was her answer.
A month was really all it took for his life to turn upside down. It wasn't in a bad way; in fact, his life had turned for the better. He was happy, or at least he thought he was happy. There were downsides and disappointments to his newly found relationship and strange situation, but he was grateful for his beloved, for saving him from what could have been. Was she happy though? He wondered. Did she love him the same way he loved her? Yes, she smiled. She went along with his antics. She complied with his desires, and she even comforted him when he wished. But he felt that she did these things at…a distance.
A lone voice was coming by.
No, no, no! He shook his head. I'll just talk to her when I get back…yeah… then I'll know. For sure.
It sounded like a high schooler, a young woman. From what he could hear, she was distracted on the phone; those new things. He didn't think he'd be able to do this the usual way, her not being able to hear him and all. He detested this particular way of doing things—against his nature—but what other choice did he have? He wouldn't have an opportunity like this again; someone walking alone. He'd strike now!
***
His mother wasn't home, as usual. The feeling of disappointment that Tim had gotten used to at this point was starting to pour into his chest. Was never home these days, his mother. Off to work to pay for the pills. Tim was grateful for it, yes, he was grateful. But he still disliked this feeling of being in an empty home, being completely by his lonesome. However, home was much better than school. Yes, he was alone at school as well, but it felt more alone than at home. Somehow, that feeling of loneliness was more potent at school. Other kids were playing and talking with their friends while the lone Tim was surviving Joquin's pack of wolves; it felt judging, humiliating. At home, though, because of its emptiness, no one could see him, no one could mistreat him. He only had himself here.
He went to the dining table, unused aside from the notes that Mom left in the morning. He tossed the plastic bag full of candy on the table and picked up the note.
I'll be home late again.
Have a great day at school and work hard!
There's some Wendy's in the fridge if you want.
–Love Mom
If only she knew. It wasn't as if Tim's mother was a bad mother; Tim loved his mother very much. He wished she were here more, here with him. He wished that she would listen to his troubles and caress his cheek or head, things that moms did with their sons. Maybe if his dad were still around, Mom wouldn't need to work so much.
He didn't know his father too well; he died when he was three. But his mother spoke fondly of him—big, hulking figure with a lively smile. They visited his grave every year on the day of his death, although Tim always found himself appreciating the time he had with Mom. Sometimes he heard her crying at the dining table or in her bedroom, and when he would go to check on her instead of sleeping, sometimes he'd find her still crying with a cheap bottle of wine.
He never bothered her when she was intoxicated; it was like going near a ticking time bomb of emotions. She never got mad; she wasn't the type to get angry. One time when Tim was eight or seven, he approached the bomb, and was only met with a sea of tears. The sobs were a loud and uncontrollable ocean, and Tim felt more awkward, worse than before. It was better to let her be when she was drunk. Most of the time, when she was sober, she was better to approach. It was sad, recently, the tender embraces that Tim felt from his mother were wherever she was crying. He could've told her his troubles, but he feared that would only kick up the waterworks again. He had to be strong for her. She was already going so much for him.
He pushed the note aside and opened the fridge, seeing the paper bag of Wendy's. He took the bag and saw that it had a burger and waffle fries—he smiled warmly. He'd warm up the food in the microwave and have the candy on the side.
…His room was clean for a twelve-year-old boy; no posters, no decorations of the sort, just a bed, a desk, a small bookshelf, a closet for his jackets and sweaters, and a clothing drawer. He sat by his desk, his homework laid out. It was mostly finished though; only had a few—may have been finished if it weren't for a mild interruption—math problems. Work was all Tim really had. While the girls talked, he did his English homework; while the boys played soccer, he finished the first half of his math homework; and while everybody sat beside each other for lunch in the cafeteria, Tim stuffed a tissue up his bleeding nose and finished the lab report in the bathroom stall. He didn't enjoy it, but he didn't hate it either. The letter beside each class on his transcript gave him some sense of pride, but at what cost? Was it really better to do so well in school without anyone besides him? It was a cold mountain, and nobody was there to help warm him.
He chewed on a waffle fry, scribbling on in his notebook while he stared at the problem, a word problem to finish it off. He didn't feel like doing it; it just seemed like busy work. It reminded him of school (no duh) and what happened at school. He popped another fry in his mouth, looking out his window, seeing the cold, winter air carrying dead leaves in his backyard. He thought about tomorrow and became depressed. I don't want to go to school…I really don't.
He thought about it, thought hard. The idea of not going to school sounded pleasant; a break from the constant torture and mental warfare he had to endure. Why should he go to school? His grades were good enough, winter break was going to start in two weeks, and all the work was in the book. He smiled, feeling a giddy, excited feeling in his stomach. Skipping school. He felt the rush, the adrenaline, just think about it; he liked this feeling. It was similar to the feeling he got when swiping candy. Doing something naughty.
Just a couple of days wouldn't hurt. It wouldn't really. Just a short break from it all. His mother didn't need to know, and if she found out, he'd just say that he felt ill or something along those lines. He'd show back up on Friday. Then it would be the weekend—more peace. Sweet, sweet peace.
***
The man emerged from the shadows and went up to the high school girl. He hesitated for a moment, seeing just how young the girl really was; she could've been thirteen or fourteen years old, but she sounded so much older. He stuttered as the young lady stopped, looking up at the looming shadow before her. She was still, her heart beating, and her hands trembling.
"...Uh…" She was scared.
"D-do you have a ten?"
"...no…I don't." The girl checked her pockets when she said that, looking down at her shoes.
The man pounced on her, and before she could shriek or cry, he placed a hand over her mouth and dragged her into the darkness. She kicked and flailed her mouth, muffled screams vibrating on the man's hand as her spit stuck to his palm. He had his other hand against her forehead. It would be quick. It would be painless, maybe. He felt sick; he didn't want to do this. However, he had already committed; he had to see this job done. What if the girl went to the police? They would arrest him, and his beloved would be vulnerable without him. No…that would not happen.
The girl's tears streamed down the man's backhand, and he could feel her words as well as barely hear them.
"Help me…please let me go…I won't tell anyone, just please let me go…please, oh please…I beg of you…please, please, please…don't hurt me…"
The man closed his eyes as his two hands grew tight on her skull, his upper hand on the top of her head, and the lower hand just barely gripping her chin.
Just do it. Quick and easy. Bam! Like that!
He pushed against her chin and pulled on her head in one quick, fluid motion. One snap. A clean break. The girl stopped fighting, and she lay still on the ground. He checked her pulse, then her chest, to see if it was rising and descending. Nothing. The girl was dead, just like that.
The man paused, setting the poor, lifeless head on the wet concrete floor. He focused on the sounds: footsteps, talking, cars, dogs. Nothing. Nobody was going to stop him. He went to his bag and took out a large syringe, then a funnel, then a plastic tube, and then an empty milk cartridge, those gallon-per-jug ones you find in the coolers of a grocery store. He hurried, his shaking hands connecting the syringe and the tube. Then he set the lifeless body up on the wall behind a garbage bin. The body was still fresh, but the heart wasn't working anymore. Gravity would work for him, and he knew some basic anatomy.
He took the girl's leg and pulled down her high, thin sock, exposing her naked calf. So smooth and clear; beautiful this girl was. He took the syringe and pushed it into her calf, pushing deep so that he would puncture the artery: the peroneal artery. He dug further, twisting and turning the syringe until—there it was, there was the money shot. The blood sprang up from the dead girl's leg and pushed its way through the tube. The man hurried and took the funnel and jug; the blood smoothly flowed in.
Five minutes until the jug was fully filled up, but if he squeezed her thigh or calf, it would maybe decrease it to three minutes. He wasn't that sick though. So, he waited, avoiding the girl's dead eyes, staring off into the distance.
The girl twitched, her chest and hips jumping upwards.
The man jumped back, but was relieved that the girl was still dead. Something in her body must've triggered a nerve, maybe a portion of her spinal cord had been pushing on a cluster of nerves and found its way out. Or maybe…no, that was ridiculous.
He had read that even if the head had been cut off, the brain could've still been active for around a minute or so. He glanced at her eyes again, a chill going up his hands. Was that twitch a last-ditch effort, a gathering of all her willpower and strength to try and take her revenge? It was a stupid thought, but it wasn't entirely out of the question. But if she wasn't dead then, but was certainly dead now, being drained of all her blood after all.
He checked the jug again; it had some weight to it now. He pulled the syringe out by the tube and quickly shoved both of them into the paper bag, then came the goods. He screwed on a plastic lid onto the jug and carefully placed it in the paper bag. Now there was only the body. He thought for a moment as he stood up, his heart pounding against his ribcage, trying to punch its way out. Leave her here? The body would stink, but the trash may conceal it. The man sighed, setting the paper bag on the wet ground. He lifted the girl's body by her torso after opening the garbage bin.
"I'm sorry…I'm so, so sorry."
He pushed the body into the bin, and the lid dropped shut. That would conceal her for a time, and if a garbage truck were to come here—home free. He lifted the paper bag by its bottom and quickly hurried out of the alleyway. It was getting late, and he needed to get home.
***
"Why haven't you arrived home?"
"..."
"Hello? Thomas, are you there? Answer me, please."
"..."
"Why can't I hear you? Thomas, I'm hurting."
No answer.
Something had happened, something terrible had happened. There usually wasn't a need to communicate like this, but the pain was getting worse. If he wasn't answering even like this…
Terribly wrong, something terribly wrong.