Draft of Chapter 1: First encounter
There were good days, there were bad days. Today was one of those where you woke up with a bad feeling.
Opening your eyes with much effort, sunlight burning tired pupils, you stare at the ceiling. Yellow and dirty, how did it get like that anyway? Sighing, warm hands pressing on your face, are you awake? Those hands of yours are rough, but clean, short fingernails.
Finally, you focus on the figure lying besides you, eyes deepened by black eyebags, old brownish scars covering his whole body.
You sat up, a headache creeping in.
What time is it? You groaned, feeling as if you slept in a bed made of rocks. Peering at the man again, he was freezed in the same position. How long has it been since you two met? You didn’t remember, after some time the days started merging one into another. But… you could recall your first encounter.
You weren’t bubbly, the light of the room or the type of person who’s so pure-hearted that their mere presence makes everyone else feel tranquil, but you always supported your few good friends. Hence, when Sam’s great-grandpa’ cousin’s friend died and he was dragged to their funeral, the group chat voted for you to go, and you obliged without complaint.
Like that, you both took a four hour drive to the small city where their family lived, but the day went as well as a vigil could possibly go. You gave your condolences for many weeping family members, and even engaged in some talks about the deceased adventures while alive. By daybreak, Sam had disappeared to god-knows-where and you were by yourself, most people were already long gone, so you decided to take a stroll in the churchyard.
It was beautiful, albeit a bit eerie, as are all cemeteries. You read the names of many people, noticing the dates, a life reduced to epitaphs.
Amongst the graves was where you first saw him - thinking about it now it’s pretty fitting. The shape of a man stood above a square sepulchre. You winced, stepping in somebody's final resting place was a bit too taboo, if you were one to judge. He was wearing a white hoodie and dark pants, a bit unfashionable, his face was covered by a mask.
You considered changing paths, but decided against it, he’s just a guy, maybe he’s here for a funeral himself, maybe he’s the janitor… Do graveyards even have janitors? Stepping forward, he was left behind, and you thought nothing of it, how many people did you cross by every day? He was no different. His image forgotten as soon as he disappeared from view.
Then, you saw a little tumblestone, it was a faded pink and had an intoxicating smell coming from it. Casually, you approached it, it was some child’s burial, her name was Annabel Lee. She for sure was loved, you figured, there were many new flowers: primroses, cammelias and red lilies. It sure was beautiful, would somebody remember you like that after you were gone?
“Your family?” the sudden voice came from behind you. Eyes widened, you scanned that same man from before, now standing only a few meters away.
“What.” Your voice sounded harsher than intended, heart pounding.
“Is that your family member?” He was nonchalant, hands in pockets, mask hiding his expressions.
“...” You kept staring at him, confused. Many times before your girlfriends had shared horror stories about encounters with weird men, some of them were straight up creepy, others seemed ‘just’ oblivious. You were never the type to be approached, for a reason or another, this was a first “No. I was just curious.”
“Curious about what?” he crooked his head, as if raising an eyebrow. It was then you noticed he had no eyebrows. This look was trendy nowadays, you supposed.
“Are you a cop?” you tried smirking, but it came out as a grimace.
He laughed, louder than appropriate for the shitty joke you made “Well, it’s disrespectful to stare down unknown people’s graves, y’know.”
“Hah… weren’t you, just now, standing on somebody's grave?”
“Were you watching me?”
“You were in my way, I just noticed” you shrugged.
“Very suspicious…” His tone was playful enough.
“You’re the one following me” you retorted. A joke sometimes reveals a deep thought too intimate to be said out loud.
“May-be” he joked?
Neither of you said anything for a while. His presence was off-putting and his intentions were unclear. Is this some type of flirting? Or is this guy really the janitor and he’s acting all weird because that’s his job?
“It’s a night-blooming jasmine” you spoke despite yourself, pointing at it “the smell, I mean. I suppose because it’s getting dark the smell is coming out”.
“Night-blooming jasmine?” He looked at the small plant half-bloomed right beside the grave.
“The odor is potent, very sweet too.”
“Ah. It reeks.”
You scoffed. He had no taste.
While thinking about what to say next, or whatever to say something or not, Sam’s voice echoed by the yard, breaking the semblance of solemnity brought by such a place.
“That’s my call” why did you explain it? “Good talk.”
“See you” at that point it sounded like a normal farewell, so you gave him a polite smile.
Later, you took Sam to his home and went to yours. It was a cozy little apartment, better than you could hope to afford with your salary. You showered, ate, watered your plants, drank some wine and watched TV, snoozing off on the sofa without a care in the world. Unfortunately, it would not be a long rest.
That peaceful sleep was interrupted by a fiery pain shooting from your left shoulder to all your body, it traveled from its core point all over to your feet, making it tramble and tingle. Your eyes flashed open, heart heavy with blood, blurry and struggling to make sense of the situation.
Forcing your sigh, you were able to identify the same man from before, now kneeling above yourself, in his hands a long knife that perforated your member. His face, not hidden anymore, presented a carved smile spread from ear to ear that tried heeling many times unsuccessfully, a white skin stained with red blotches and nostrils where a nose should have been.
Gripping the knife, he slowly removed it, pressing and twisting it, replicating the burning felt before, it was as if he ignited it on fire. As soon as the object came out, blood started pouring out of the hole. It was warm, though it felt cold against your feverish skin, soaking your clothes and hair.
“Ah!” You tried making any sound, but the pain and terror blocked any sound from escaping.
“Shh… go to sleep” he whispered, knife sliding your stomach’s skin, leaving shallow cuts behind.
You closed your eyes, panic setting in. When looking up again, you watched him angle himself for another strike. Your hand quickly searched for something, anything, on the table next to the sofa, you needed to defend yourself, or you were going to die, you knew it.
The closest thing was the wine bottle you drank from earlier, not having time to think, you hit him with it. The shards and red liquid fell onto your face, fusing with the blood that tainted it. Thankfully, it was enough for him to be thrown slightly to the side, giving you the opportunity to throw yourself at the floor.
You groaned, back hurting from the awkward fall. But it only lasted so much, as soon as the man began moving once more you dragged your body as far as possible, gaining footing again. By this point he was standing over your pricy couch, boots leaving muddy footprints on its beige surface. You forced a sprint, still trembling, managing to stumble to your room, his footsteps growing louder behind you.
Locking your door, you searched frenetically for another weapon. It was god, you sometimes believed, or it was stupid luck, but your eyes settled on a small and filthy axe left there by one of your friends, you kept it because you were too lazy to get rid of it and it was a funny memento of when you two tried woodworking as a new hobby but figured it was way too expansive. As you held it tightly against your chest flashes of those days came before you, was that how you were going to die?
Blood kept flowing all the way to your socks, it was extremely hot, feeling like the shower scene in Carrie. It soiled the carpet, you shivered. That axe was rusty, would it be too dull? What happens when you hit somebody with a dull blade? Does it-
Thoughts interrupted by the door being broken down. Damn! You hurried to its side, he would bolt in with the door, if you stayed by the walls he would not notice quickly enough to be able to dodge when you attacked him.
With a thunderous sound, it flew open, barely avoiding your curled figure. As he marched forward you took your opportunity. With a sharp motion you striked him, axe piercing his lower back. Answering your questions from before, the blade became stuck inside of him, not a clean cut like the first stab wound he gave you.
Both of you cried, he, of course, from pain, a pitiful but muffled, yours with a tone of horror, distress making your hands and feet feel cold. Where did this will to survive come from? Where did this strength come from? You didn’t know, perhaps it was adrenaline, pure human instinct. You supposed it was natural, one never knows how much they can handle until hardships arrive, and it’s your inclination to clasp tightly to that mundane life you worked so hard for.
This does not matter, you think you know. Where that comes is irrelevant, what was and still is important is that you were able to strike him deeply right in his loins. His expression went from deranged, with a maniac smile, to surprised to pained to deranged again, fresh blood soaking his hoodie.
The staring contest lasted less than ten seconds, the weapon stuck in him. Should you run, or would his legs fail him after such a heavy bleeding? His loud shrill laugh broke you out of your mind. Before you could think he bolted in your direction like a bull, having time only to throw yourself at the floor, you watched as he disappeared inside your apartment, unsure where he went.
Trembling and with a darkened vision from the blood loss, you feebly grabed a table nearby to help your frail body up, hands almost lacking strength to do the task your brain commanded. Walking like a cat, you searched your small house, hand in shoulder trying to slow down your death. Then, you noticed the red trail he left, leading you to the door. “He escaped… Bitch” you knew, and, god knows, you felt victorious.
You recalled all that had happened as you called the police, hand trembling while dialing. You practiced what to say, “help me, I was stabbed?”, you felt almost shy, what if they thought it was a joke, and if they didn’t, would they come with their loud sirens, doctors and police, then you would become the building's main subject…
“Help…” you managed to welp, teary voice as the woman on the other end asked what was wrong. You didn’t realize how weak your body had become “I’m dying…”.
Then, the world became black. Your friends later on told you the ambulance arrived soon, the police soon after, just to find what they believed to be your cadaver, given the amount of blood and your pale state.
The next days were spent between the hospital and the police station, the doctors said she was lucky, he missed her artery and lungs. You were never religious, but the same day you were discharged you left a small offering at a local shrine, thinking if the killer had the same luck as yourself. This question was answered before long.
