Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“Of course you can.” She fumbles around to get the tray set up. Her anxious energy bounces off my skin like a ping-pong ball on a loosening thread.
If it were anyone else, they’d feel some form of sympathy or try to alleviate the situation, but I just stand there, letting her flounder in her own mental blood.
It’s fascinating how her cheeks turn red as she fumbles over her word diarrhea that I effectively filter out. Even Carson seems annoyed in the discreet reflection of the glass, judging by the way he keeps bringing his finger to his mouth and then letting it fall back down.
Three times now.
Five if we count the two times he did it in class this morning.
His bad habits are pouring out like a damn fucking waterfall. It’s euphoric.
And I find myself riveted, fully absorbed in what else I can squeeze out of that perturbed mind of his.
I buy the strongest-smelling bag of coffee beans, and as I pay, Carson inches away. He’s methodical and could apply for a position as a professional stalker if he weren’t already a rich kid with his entire blood-filled future set at birth.
To make his session worthwhile, I take a tour around the town center. And because small talk and typical human interactions seem to suck the soul out of him, I indulge in lengthy conversations about fuck knows what.
I want to see a pen snapping again, metaphorically, in his head.
Snub as many neurons as possible. Even if the whole ordeal bores me to tears.
By the end of the day, I feel like I’ve drained him enough. Like a kid, he’ll retreat to his bed, probably fantasizing about killing me in the most painful way possible.
I smile as I walk to the large building where I’m renting an apartment.
Gareth stops near the oak tree across the street like he always does, and I pull out my phone while walking into the building.
Jethro
This is child’s play.
Me
I know.
And you’re enjoying this?
Surprisingly, yes. What do you think he’ll do next?
Hire someone to kill you or do the honors himself.
Don’t get my hopes up.
This is fucking crazy, man.
I prefer entertaining.
This entire thing is a waste of time. Just get back to the States.
Not yet.
I’m still staring at my exchange with Jethro when my phone rings.
Grant, my brother, is calling. Three times today.
He’s annoyingly clingy and staggeringly persistent. I’ll give him that.
I click Ignore and walk into the apartment.
The space is huge but sparse, deliberately so, with clean lines and a minimalist design that leaves no room for profiling. The floors are dark hardwood, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the cold, clinical light from the overhead fixtures. The walls are painted in muted grays and blacks, devoid of decoration, save for a few abstract pieces of art that came with the house.
A single leather sofa sits in the center of the living area, its sharp angles matching the rest of the decor, too perfect to be comfortable.
The only trace of warmth is the scent of lavender. It presses on my chest like a fucking weight and I inhale it into my lungs before spitting it back out.
Turning on my vinyl record player, I wait until Bruckner’s Symphony No. 7’s mellow notes fill the space before I head to the kitchen.
I methodically grind the beans and then take my time brewing the coffee. The strong fragrance overpowers the lavender, smothering it, and I just stand there.
Watching the coffee dripping into the cup in synch with the music.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Like blood.
It’s soothing—or disturbing, depending on your school of thought.
After a sip of the over-roasted coffee, I empty it down the drain and throw away the full bag of beans. I pour myself a glass of whiskey on ice instead and then stare out the window.
Carson is gone.
He’s so anticlimactic.
I’ve been waiting for him to act on his promise, but he seems content to watch from the shadows.
Though content isn’t the right word. I believe he likes to know all the information before he takes action, but it’s getting tedious.
Dull, too.
Might have to take things into my own hands after all.
Situations just don’t work as well without my interference.
In my thirty-three years of life, I’ve never met anyone as efficient as I am.
What a nuisance.
I down my drink, take a shower, reply to some work emails, then turn off the music and lie down on the bed.
The smell of lavender fills my nostrils and I close my eyes, drifting off to sleep.
Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
The noise keeps repeating on a loop and I open my eyes. The faint sound of weeping protrudes through the walls like a spirit.
“No…” Mom wails, her screams bouncing off my skin. “Please, no. Nooo—”
But her voice is drowned by a shot.
Shadows crawl across the ceiling, twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes. Their hollow eyes gleam with a twisted hunger, and their mouths crack open, releasing a low, grating screech that claws at my eardrums, sinking deep into my skull.