Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Following
what was one of the best days of her life was one of her worst. Two days after
Sorin, Edith came by with a new bottle of blood for Ezra and a target for
Monday.
Benjamin
Harris-Thompson. 35 years old, worked at jewelry store at the mall, lives
alone, and Monday had to kill him. Going through his file, Monday saw that he
was convicted of raping a 9 year old but after the girl refused to come
forward, his defense had more money and a better lawyer. He looked like a nice
guy, his brown hair was cut short and he had bright blue eyes; nothing about
him said monster. Monday looked up at Edith who seemed to be waiting for a
reaction, “Are you sure I’m ready for this? I can’t even fly yet, but I’m
expected to go and kill a man.”
Ezra looked
over Mr. Harris-Thompson’s file while drinking a glass of blood; he shrugged
his shoulders “He's a little guy you can take him. We can work on flying later;
we need to get this done as soon as possible. The sooner you complete the hit,
the sooner you can have your own bottle. And besides, he lives in Mark village.
That part of town had one story houses, no real need to fly.”
Mr.
Harris-Thompson kept looking up at her, Monday felt the hairs on the back of
her neck stand up, “What if he really was innocent? What if you have the wrong
guy? I don’t want to kill someone who doesn’t deserve it.” I don’t want to kill
someone period Monday thought.
Edith
pulled another piece of paper out of her bag and handed it to Monday along with
a brown bag, “I thought you would say that. Here is the court transcript along
with the only picture of the little girl he ‘supposable’ raped. Her name
doesn’t appear in the transcript but the bag has some pretty damning evidence.
I have more deliveries to make, Ezra make sure she learns to fly soon.”
Edith left as Monday opened the brown bag, pulling out what
looked to be a rope of ribbon, each one different and with some hair still
caught on the knots. Monday unraveled the string as it hit the floor, there
were eight different ribbons; some were yellow with flowers or pink with lace.
The one that stood out the most was the second one, a plane green ribbon. When
Monday was 9, her mother had dressed her up for Easter in a green dress, while
her mother was busy looking for her shoes Dion had put a green ribbon in her
hair. It pulled at the curls and when Monday cried out, Dion had stroked her
face, “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”
Monday held
the green ribbon in her hand and looked up at Ezra, “Let’s get it over with.”
Night had
fallen when Ezra pulled into an ally way not far from Mr. Harris-Thompson. Clad
in their Nightling uniforms, they looked around to see if the cost was clear.
Monday followed Monday up to the roof for a better look; Mr. Harris-Thompson
live in an okay part of town. The houses were uniform in brick but no one’s
lawn was up kept, the street lights showed an empty ness to the street and
raised the hair on Monday’s arm. In a few hours the street would be filling
with uncertainty and horror as people wondered what tragedy had fallen on the
house 339 in Mark village.
They hid in
the shadows as Ezra pointed out the house to Monday, “He should be home soon,
but for now, just hide out inside. Make sure that he is inside and can’t escape
before you strike. The less bloody the kill the, the better. My advice is go
for the neck; I don’t think you can break it so try to aim at the back of the
head and neck. Any questions?”
Do I really
have to do this? Monday thought. “What if I can’t do it? Dion was bad enough.”
Ezra had a look of pity in his eyes. He reached in his pocket and handed her
the ribbon rope, “You have to do this. Just think of all the lives you can save
with this target. I’ll be on the lookout in case you need help. Good luck.”
Monday
didn’t want to break any windows but luckily, she found one that was unlocked.
Inside, the houses was a little messy There were some dirty dishes neck to the
couch in the living room and dirty clothes on the floor. She stead around the
house in the dark, afraid to turn on a light, when she heard a noise behind.
Monday jumped only to see an orange, tabby cat looking at her queerly. “Nice
kitty.” Monday said. The cat approached her leg and purred as it rubbed against
her, its bell ringing in the empty home. Monday reached down to pet it, when
she heard the key in the front door. Monday quickly looked around for a place
to hide when she saw the panty door. It was a tight spot and the door didn’t
close all the way, but right as Monday hid herself from view, the door opened.
“Annabelle,
I have some new treats for you,” Monday heard Mr. Harris-Thompson say in a soft
voice. Monday didn’t want to he is voice; it made him too real for her. She
heard the cat’s bell come into the kitchen and to Monday’s horror, scratched on
the door, “are you really that hungry? You know you don’t get fed till later to
night.”
Monday
heard him get a bowl out of the dishwasher and as he talked to his cat some
more, Monday was fixated on the back of his neck. She could see it and was in
reach. All she had to do was reach out. The stupid cat scratched on the door
again and Mr. Harris-Thompson turned around, for a moment, Monday had thought
their eyes had met. Monday stayed still but she heard the footsteps approach.
Monday felt the ribbon in her pocket: it as now or never.
Monday
slammed the door opened to jump out at him but the door hit him instead. Mr.
Harris-Thompson cried out as Monday stumbled. She got up, but not before he had
composed himself and looked at her, the color drained from his face. He looked
like he was about to scream but Monday jumped at him. The fell into the living
room and Monday tried to reach for his neck, be he throw her off. He reached
for the phone but Monday grabbed the ribbon from her pocket and wrapped it
around his neck to hold him off, maybe I could kill him like this she thought
to herself. The cat had seen the string dangling from Monday’s hand and tried
to play with it, Monday shooed her away but the ribbon broke. Monday and Mr.
Harris-Thompson fell apart, with him holding his throat, trying to catch his
breath. With one final try, Monday used her claws to stab as neck, but he
turned before she hit the back, instead she swiped the front of his neck.
He looked
out in horror as he started to bleed out. Monday backed away from him, as he
tried to reach for the phone again, but it was too late, he slumped forward in
a creepy thud. The house was quite again but for the cat does bell as she
clawed at the pantry door again, still want food.
Ezra called
out her name and when Monday didn’t answer, he took silence as the dream was
done. He climbed through the window as Monday lend against the cabinet, with
the bloody cat in her lap, “You kill its owner and it somehow likes you.”
Monday
nodded but then started to sob; she clamped her hand to her mouth, tasted the
blood and cried harder. Ezra crouched down next to her, called Lenny, and then
let her cry into his shoulder. Ezra held her and stroked her hair until Lenny
pulled up. Ezra opened the garage for him: when Lenny came in, he looked at Mr.
Harris-Thompson then at Monday, “Not as bloody as I thought it would be.”
Monday sat
back as they moved Mr. Harris-Thompson out into the car. This was different
then Dion. When she had killed Dion, Monday felt relief, but with Mr.
Harris-Thompson, she felt nothing. Monday kept crying but she couldn’t figure
out why, there was no sadness in his death. There was not emotion. Ezra and
Lenny came back in to the house, Lenny looked down at the blood stain and back
to them, “I think a towel might clean that up. No one is outside so I think the
coast is clear for you to leave.”
“What about
the house? Who’s going to take care of it and the cat?”
Lenny
shrugged, “Not my problem, I just remove the bodies.” When he left, Monday
started to shake, how was this going to go unnoticed. Ezra came back with a
towel and mopped up the little puddle of blood, with a few whips, it was like
the murder never happened. Ezra handed Monday his hand to pull her up and she
heard the cat pawing at the pantry door. Monday felt bad for the defenseless
creature, lost and hungry without its owner.
Monday
reached down and picked the cat up, “Annabelle is coming with us. I don’t want
her to starve because of me.” Monday expected him to refuse, but instead gave
her a sad smile. With the cat under her arm, Monday followed Ezra out into the
night.
“Honey, why
do we own a cat?” Michael asked. He had just come back from a two week trip; a
lot had changed in that time. Monday saw Ezra whisper something in his ear,
Michael gave an overly cheerful smile, “I’ve always liked cats. She seems
nice.”
Monday
didn’t respond, instead she picked the broom back up and kept sweeping even
though the dust was all gone. Days had gone by and all she felt was numb. Every
time she thought of Mr. Harris-Thompson’s face, she couldn’t find an emotion to
feel. There was fear and anger with Dion, nothing for her new victim. Ezra gave
her words of encouragement, but the rolled off her shoulder.
“You okay?”
Michael asked. Monday realized that she had stopped sweeping. She put the broom
down and headed to the door, “I’m going out. I want to get Annabelle some
treats.”
“Are you
sure?” Ezra asked hesitantly, Monday shrugged, grabbing the leftover birthday
money, “It’s the least I can do for her. I did kill her owner.” Ezra put down
his rolling pin, “we need to talk about. You have to accept what happened; this
is just part of who you are now.”
“A serial
killer?” Monday slammed the bakery door and ran, hoping to get a head start on
him. After reaching the end of the street, Monday slowed down when she saw he
didn’t follow. Monday kept walking; it wasn’t a far walk where she was going,
but Monday felt dread the further she walked.
The
graveyard was empty of people and snow. Monday had missed spring but could see
some leftover over flowers here and there from the rare mourners. And mourners
were still rare, the leaves had fallen on the fallen, bring Monday down even
more. Past the cascading lilacs to the newer grave, Monday found her friend.
Alyson’s grave now lacked the pilled of dirt completely and the marker felt
unpolished. Monday had come on a whim and didn’t bring a rag with her. She took
off her orange jacket and used it; bring back a January memory that seemed so
far ago.
Monday sat
in front of the stone, wondering what Alyson would think of her now. Alyson had
died when she failed to give Monday a better life. With Dion gone and Monday
safe, she felt that Alyson would have been happy, but this wasn’t a life to
live. Monday was destroyed by Alyson’s death with grief and remorse, Dion’s had
filled her with regret and anger, but Mr. Harris-Thompson’s had left her with
nothing. Monday was a pitiful excuse of a person to die for.
“Hey
stranger.” Aw crap, not him Monday thought. In her moment of reflection, Monday
had wanted to be alone, but as her luck would turn out. She turned around to
see Sorin standing there, in his blue turtle neck and holding more blue
flowers, “Sorry I haven’t been around much. Just finished up my finals, first
time I’ve been out here in a while.”
“What are
the odds,” Monday said, trying to be cheerful but she could tell he knew it was
fake. Monday brushed the dirt of her dress as she stood up, “Don’t you ever get
hot wearing turtle necks?”
“Not
really, I’m a cold person. You’re one to talk; all I’ve ever seen you in is
dresses.” Monday had worn a cream colored, sleeveless dress with white buttons
in the top; she saw him glance at the scars on her arms from Bo and quickly
look away. “You do look nice today.”
“Thanks,”
Monday muttered, “How’s school?”
“Finished
up last week. Just visiting my brother before I leave. You okay? You seem
down?”
“Well I am
sitting down here while you’re standing up there.” Sorin held out a hand to
help her up. Monday grabbed her jacket and started to walk away to leave, “just
having a bad week.”
“You want
to go get some coffee and talk about it?
He was
trying to help but Monday wasn’t having it. Monday just wanted to be alone and
he just happened to show up, “No. I don’t want to go out and talk about it. I
don’t want to go out for coffee or anything. I don’t want to do anything.
Anything I do just distracts me from want I want.”
“What’s
that?” Sorin asked, stepping back from her.
“To feel!
To feel something.” Monday could see that he was uncomfortable, he couldn’t
help her. “I have to go.”
He tried to
reach out for her but Monday pushed him away, it wasn’t until she had stormed
out of the cemetery did she realize what he had said; he was leaving where?
Monday brooded home; everything seemed to be falling apart. She was snapping at
everyone and couldn’t even care. She couldn’t find an emotion for what she was
feeling, it wasn’t anger or sadness. It was nothing.
Back at the
bakery, the sun was starting to go down. She skipped going in the bakery and
instead headed upstairs. In the living room and out the window to the fire
escape, Monday found herself sitting on the roof. After taking her pills, the
pain of the transformation was gone through Monday regretted it; pain was at
least an emotion. As she watch the sun set over the buildings, Ezra came on the
roof to join her. Monday stared ahead, not looking at him, “Dusk is a lovely
site, too bad it’s tarnished by this whole Nightling thing. Most people who watch
the sunset don’t have to worry about turning into blood thirsty monsters.”
Ezra
sighed, “What’s wrong? Like, what’s really wrong?”
“I can’t
feel anything. Ever since I killed Mr. Harris-Thompson, I haven’t felt a single
emotion, I just feeling like I’m going through the motions. It visited my
friend’s grave, felt nothing. Got into a fight with Sorin, who is leaving
somewhere that I don’t know, I feel nothing. The only emotion I’ve felt in the
last few days was when I killed him. I remember a flash of satisfaction, then
thrust.” She turned to Ezra who had concern in his black eyes, “What the hell
is wrong with me?”
“Nothing
out of the ordinary, for a Nightling, it’s the hardest part of the
transformation,” He said then paused”, you’re rejecting your humanity.”
It was an
answer, but not the one she wanted.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comments:
Glad you're through last week and back to writing. Your story is building tension and momentum. Is pain really an emotion?
Post a Comment