The Sweetest Kill: A Young Adult Paranormal (2 page)

The entire place isn’t much, but it’s something I call my own.

I start stripping off my winter gear and place it in a pile on top of the nearby desk, then I begin removing my work clothes. My black skinny jeans are stained and are in need of a good washing, but my dark purple Roast Rage Café work shirt could still be worn for a few days. Dropping them on the floor as I walk, I head for the bathroom in just my white long sleeve thermal and a pair of underwear.

As I wait for the water to warm up for my shower, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I reach up and pull my hair from its ponytail, letting my chin length bob fall around my face. I tilt my head as I take in the oval shaped face in front of me with apathy. Dull, almond shaped hazel eyes stare back at me. There are dark circles hanging underneath them, proof of the many sleepless nights I’ve been having lately. My lips are full but pale and chapped from all my nervous lip chewing. My skin, though naturally pale, looks washed out and even a bit waxy.

Of course, my face isn’t really the only problem I have with my physical appearance. There’s also my body. I don’t eat much, due to either my preference or lack of interest. I can’t be sure anymore. What I do know is that my irregular eating habits have made me so thin that some would say I look unhealthy. But then again, that isn’t even the worse part. My skin is the main attraction in this freak show.

Over the years, I’ve developed a habit that both my parents and my psychiatrist don’t approve of—self-harming. I’ve mainly focused this new hobby on my arms. The advantage of this is that I can easily hide the scars under my sleeves so no one will notice and ask prying questions. I decide to remove my shirt and admire my handiwork. The scars would probably look monstrous to anyone who saw them. My dad cried when he first saw the thick lines that formed on my arms as a result of the cutting and the circular marks that were from the time I experimented on burning myself. Mom, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. But then again, I didn’t really expect her to.

I slip off my bra and underwear before getting into the shower. Once inside, I let the water cascade down my scarred body and wash away the grime of the outside world. Right there in my tiny bathroom, I know I’m in a safe. I know I’m in a place where no one can see me and touch me, so I let it all out. Everything I’ve been holding in comes out in sobs, as I lower myself into the tub.

I don’t like crying in front of others. I never have and, most likely, never will. But when I’m in my sanctuary, I can let all my inhibitions go and just do whatever I want. I curl into a ball and I rock myself back and forth, until I literally can’t cry anymore. With the little hot water left, I wash myself before turning off the shower. I let all the emotion drain away with the excess water. I don’t need it anymore.

When I exit the bathroom, I hear my phone ringing. As a lifelong hater of cell phones, I only have a landline, and only four people ever call me on it. Glancing at the alarm clock on the windowsill by my bed, I deduce the caller is either my mother or someone who dialed my number by mistake.

I pick up the pale yellow phone and press it to my ear, as water droplets trickle down the stained carpet below. “Hello?”

“Annie?” my mother says in her heavily accented voice. “Are you there?”

“Yeah Mom, I’m here.”

“How are you feeling?”

I roll my eyes at the question and place the receiver against my shoulder. I sit down on my bed, wearing only a towel, “I’m fine, Mom. How are you?”

“I’ve been well. Your father wanted me to call you to invite you to Sunday dinner.”

“Why?” I ask with a frown at the reminder. “Is it at a different time or something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you calling me when we have Sunday dinner every week?”

She’s silent on the other end of the phone and this confirms the real reason why she’s calling. She just wanted to make sure I hadn’t killed or seriously injured myself. She does this out of worry, I know. But hell, I doubt if the woman herself will admit it. Her concern is always dressed up in some half-assed and barely reasonable excuse.

“So, are you coming?” she eventually asks.

I sigh as I dig my nails into my damp scalp. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“How was work today? Anything good happen?”

“I was able to leave.” I quip before I can stop myself.

“You have to be positive, Annie. You know what the doctor says. A positive mind and a positive outlook makes a positive life.”

“Yeah, well, Dr. Reynolds is full of shit.”

“Shoshanna!” she gasps through the phone. “What did I say about swearing? It makes you ugly.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She’s quiet for a minute before speaking again, and I know she’s digging for a topic to keep me on the phone. “Have you been taking your pills?”

I glance at the twin brown bottles on the windowsill and chew on my lower lip. “Yes, every morning.”

“Have they been helping?”

I could tell her the truth. I could say that I feel like I’m living in a haze. I could tell her that, more often than not, I cry myself to sleep. I could tell her that, after I take the anti-depressants, I have to bargain with myself so I don’t throw them up. I could tell her that the pills didn’t help or stop me from mutilating myself. I could tell her, but that wouldn’t do either of us any good. So what’s the point?

“Yeah, Mom. They’ve been helping.”

“You’ll get better this time. I’m sure of it.”

I know she can’t see me, but I give the phone a small reassuring smile. “Of course I will, Mom.”

“Well I have to go. Your father wants to go out for dinner.”

“Okay, Mom. Tell him I said ‘hi’, okay?”

“I will. You’ll call tomorrow?”

No. It’ll only worry you more than you already do.
That’s what I want to say but instead, I decide to lie. I’ll make hanging up easier for both of us.

“Yeah, I’ll call.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I hear the line get cut as I’m holding the phone against my shoulder and staring blankly at an odd stain on my carpet. I don’t know how long I sat like that, but Florence’s meow snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn to her and figured she wants me to put more catfood in her bowl. I replace the receiver and decide to feed both my cat and myself.

I get off the bed and make my way to the pseudo-kitchen with Florence on my heels, meowing incessantly for more food. As I grab the only pot I own off its place on the hot plate and begin filling it up with water, I feel my patience begin to wane. Suddenly, my phone begins to ring again but my hands are full, so I just leave it be. When Florence begins stretching up to dig her nails into the fabric of my towel, I lose my cool.

The sounds of the ripping fabric under her claws, the meowing, the ringing phone, and the running water become all too much. I feel my heart beat faster in my chest, and I swear, I can hear the deafening thump in my ears. A sweat breaks over my forehead. I throw the pot into the sink, feeling my body go into hyper drive. 

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, you know it’s stupid, and I’m pretty sure even Florence knows it’s stupid, but it’s happening. I am having a damn anxiety attack over a hungry cat and a ringing phone. I don’t know how to stop it or why it’s happening. Leaning on the sink, I try to calm my breathing and collect the shreds of my sanity to make something close to patience. My heart eventually calms down and the urge to vomit subsides, as Florence leaves me alone to sit on the bed.       

The phone stops ringing and I exhale, trying to gain some equilibrium. Once I’m a bit more stable, I calmly grab the handle of the pot and place it on the hotplate before switching it on. I continue to tell myself to stay calm as I grab Florence’s bag of food from the large cabinet drawer. I pour her food into her bowl and watch as she cautiously comes towards it, before beginning to eat.

Then the phone starts ringing again. I place the bag of catfood beside Florence’s bowl and stomp over to the phone. Yanking the receiver off the cradle, I say in an annoyed voice, “Yes?”

“Uh, is Jessica there?”

I scowl at the phone, “Wrong number.”

“Oh, sorry.”

The line goes dead and I slowly hang it up. Sitting on the edge of my bed again, I run my fingers through my hair and pull at some strands. When a chill goes through my body, I realize I’m still in my towel. I should probably get dressed now. I slip on a pair of underwear and an oversized t-shirt, which I got from the Goodwill store down the road, an decide to watch a little TV while waiting for the water to boil. Using my towel to dry my hair, I sit on the edge of my bed and watch the news as it comes on with a special report about a traffic accident

Two dead and three injured. The cars are mangled clumps of metal behind the reporter while he talks about the details. They were about to release the names when I hear the water boil on the hot plate and I reluctantly get up to turn down the heat and add the noodles. When I come back to my original spot on the bed, the report is no longer about the car accident. Instead, it’s about something much more gruesome.

“Here’s Christina Collins with more,” the overly tanned male news anchor says, before the camera switches to a grim looking young brunette.

“Thank you, Tim. This is a case that has shortly become a riddle to not only the police department, but also to the citizens of this fair city. The discovery of twenty-year-old university student, Kimberly Moss, has been met with devastation and shock this morning. Her death is the third similarly executed murder in the city, leading some to believe that this is the work of a serial killer.”

My attention is immediately grabbed by the term ‘serial killer’. This city has had its fair share of crime, but a serial killer? It seems too Law & Order. It’s seems too reminiscent of movie and television series plots to actually be happening here. When I realize my Ramen is done, I stand and get it while keeping my eyes on the TV.

“The first confirmed victim, discovered just a month ago, was Karen Hyland, a single mother on her way home from work. She was found two days after being reported missing by her boyfriend. Her remains were found in a dumpster.”

A picture of a cheery looking brunette with a toddler in her lap comes on the screen. She looks happy in the picture and I wonder why she had to die. When the news reporter speaks again, the picture changes to another brunette. This woman looks less clean cut as the first one. Instead, she is pouting flirtatiously at the camera in the same way I’ve seen girls do at the café.

“The second confirmed victim was identified as Julie Schaffer, another young university student who was found in the bathroom of a nightclub downtown. Both women’s throats were slit, but with no evidence of a sexual assault. The police have yet to find a motive for these crimes.”

“Thrill killer?” I think out loud. “That would explain the lack of sexual assault and quick deaths.”

“As the body count continues to rise, the police are urging young women to stay in groups when going out at night. All three women were seen walking with a white male, sometime before their disappearance. There are no suspects at this time.” Christina Collins says gravely before her image on the screen is replaced with the picture of a bright-eyed blonde with a huge smile. The caption,
“In memory of Kimberly Moss”
, flashes below the photo. Christina comes back on the screen and says, “Please stay safe on the streets. Back to you, Tim.”

I tune out the rest of the report as they change the subject back to something less troubling. I switch the channel to reruns of The Simpsons and pick at the ramen in my bow, thinking that those women didn’t want to die. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then my thoughts go a bit south.

What if it were me? What if I was the woman this guy went after? All those women had so much to live for, so wouldn’t it mean that the next victim would as well? What if instead of her, it was me he took interest in? What if a person with nothing to live for was the one who had their picture on the news? What if that person was, in fact, me?

The idea seems insane, but it also seems like the perfect way out for me. After my last attempt at ending my life, I made a promise to my parents. I told them I wouldn’t try again. It was a promise I quickly regretted making, but one I made all the same. Now, there’s this perfect loophole placed right in front of me on a silver platter. I could end all this and not hurt anyone with the knowledge that it was, in fact, my desire to die like this.     

Emptying the other uneaten half of my ramen into the small trashcan in the kitchen, I place the dirty bowl in the sink. Could I actually do that? Even if I was able to track down this killer and put myself in his way, what are the chances he would take me? I glance down at myself and feel my stomach drop. My chances aren’t good if his previous victims are any clue. He apparently has a liking for prettier women, and I am nowhere near desirable.

After turning off my TV, I set my alarm and get into bed. I stare at the darkened ceiling above me and try to think of some way that my plan could work. It’s a fucked up idea, but one that I can’t help but let my mind linger on. What if I could do it? What if I could find him and let him put me out of my misery? I let out a heavy sigh and turn onto my side as I push the ridiculous idea aside. It would never work and even if it did, it probably wouldn’t stop him from killing again. Psychos like that never stop.