Paranormal Anthology With a TWIST Part 11

She took the old back elevator, once used for freight when the building had served another purpose. She didn't like the spooky, creaky, old beast of a machine for fear it would stop and she would be trapped one day, but sacrifices were a required part of the lifestyle. The elevator groaned to a stop and the doors opened slowly to reveal the dim parking garage. There were times she feared she would happen across the maintenance man who had a way of showing up in strange places at inopportune times. She crept to the wall and peered around the corner to check both ways before pulling her "laundry" to her vehicle. The vehicle was an Astro van that she kept for the dirtier duties she had to deal with. She slid the side door open and quickly transferred her load into the back end. She collapsed the laundry bin and stored that in the back with the bundle. Securing the side door, she looked around before getting into the driver's seat. Starting the van, she headed on her way. She hated driving the van, but the tinted windows and missing seats in the rear compartment provided her ample s.p.a.ce and anonymity to do what she did.

Traffic was tricky in some spots, but soon she was at her location-the first place she had called home in Atlanta. The old warehouse just off Martin Luther King Jr. Drive had been the perfect place for her works.p.a.ce because it was neatly hidden away from prying eyes. She purchased it the same day she looked at it, surprising the real estate agent with her cash payment. She loved the element of surprise.

She clicked the automatic garage door opener, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel as the door rose. She pulled in and, as soon as the rear b.u.mper cleared the threshold, she hit the b.u.t.ton to close the door. She had spared no expenses to make sure she had the best of everything. Her mind was singularly focused. One thing and one thing only held her attention-the man in the back of the van. She never noticed the semi-truck that now sat parked across from her true home.

The tinted windows glistened from the last of the sunlight and the neighborhood trembled as the engine thrummed to life. The sound built to a roar that became persistent and haunting.

She truly enjoyed the process of elimination when it came to problems. Her mother had taught her a few tricks, but her style was purely her own. Sadly, she would have to come back to finish this one. Time was becoming her nemesis. She was determined to meet Kevin on time. She did have a little time for some fun-time to see his face, to see his eyes looking into hers one more time. She knew her pharmaceuticals well and had learned the precise doses necessary to place someone into a deep sleep, or even a coma. She had found that occasionally time was not always on her side and she needed more to accomplish all that she desired. Dom was a big guy. She knew his weight and measurements. Men could be so vain and would gladly give that information when promised a gift. The crumpling sound of the tarp caught her attention and she knew the game was about to really start.

The s.p.a.ce was once an old warehouse filled with a decade's worth of detritus from the industrial era. Six months of cleaning out the trash and securing the building from the homeless rabble gave her a blank palette to transform. The original palace of pain was crude, but usable. It had rusty, machine-shop tables picked up at foreclosure sales, basic saws that she found at the local hardware store, a scavenged collection of surgical tools, garnered from hospitals, clinics, and even the dental college, construction drop cloths, barrels of varying size discreetly borrowed, and lots of bleach. Her first victims brought back both distasteful memories and vivid pictures of pleasure to her thoughts.

The years allowed her to evolve her talents-hone her skills and transform the crude into beautiful. Her palace of pain was a remarkable display in depravity. Stainless steel gleamed from every corner. Locked cabinets, when open, showed tools of the trade and were neatly organized for quick retrieval and use. An elaborate drainage system allowed for quick clean up. Industrial refrigerators and freezers stood starkly, waiting for the bi-products of torture to be stored for future use. Surgeons would envy her implement collection and butchers would covet her extensive knife and saw display. Automatic lighting that turned on whenever she entered the building, and went off when she left, was a sweet perk of the trade. The elaborate automated system that allowed her to control anything with a tiny remote control was one of her true design favorites. Grabbing her remote from her oak desk, she clicked into action. Industrial fans whirred, the ventilation system kicked in, video cameras started rolling, and the music of AC/DC flowed from the speaker system.

She slid her specially made rolling table over to the side of the van so she could get Dom and get to work. Her table allowed her to roll the tarp bundle onto it, secure it with st.u.r.dy straps, and then elevate it to the perfect working height. The table was her pride and joy. Designed by her, she had it crafted over a two-year stretch by multiple artisans. n.o.body who worked on it had a clue what they had made. She caressed her hands along the stainless steel with desire. Her bundle, now rocking, brought her back to the task at hand. She rolled into the work zone and started to elevate the table over the drainage grates. Rose was quite methodical. She expertly sliced the tarp away, and saw the frightened look on Dom's face as he realized the wicked predicament he found himself in. If only he knew how wicked it truly was.

Dominic Giovanni de Santiago looked into those hazel eyes, finally seeing them for what they were-the eyes of a witch. He knew this in his soul. He'd been seduced by the temptress and lost all because of those pools of pa.s.sion. He'd lived a good life though and had no regrets-well, there was that one regret. He would always regret the day he had climbed into the seat of that truck.

It was June 1970. He'd been hitchhiking to Canada, trying to dodge that d.a.m.n draft. Vietnam was not high on his list of places he wanted to visit. When the notice arrived, he threw what he could carry in a rucksack and hit the highway. He'd gotten to the border of Wisconsin without a problem. He spent a few days working just outside of Burlington. A farmer needed some hands to harvest corn and he needed money. When he hit the road, he stuck out his thumb, and in a flash, a semi-truck came to a slow stop in front of him. A gritty voice spoke from the open window, inviting him in. A shiver went down his spine, but his feet hurt. Rides were hard to come by, so pa.s.sing one up was pure stupidity. Who knew-maybe the driver would have some weed or whiskey to ease his hurts.

A scrawny old man sat in the driver's seat of the truck cab. Dom could have sworn the old man shimmered in and out of existence at times, and he knew he wasn't using anything when he climbed in that cab. "Name's Dom, sir, thanks for stopping," he said, holding his hand out.

The man never shook his hand, just mumbled his name, which Dom thought was Smitty. "You goin' north? I'd really like to get to Canada. You heading that way?" Dom rambled. The old man just nodded and the truck started rolling down the highway.

Dom blinked at the brightness of the lights, listening to the sounds around him. Was that really AC/DC playing h.e.l.ls Bells over a stereo? Rose wasn't even old enough to appreciate that music, he thought-a random thought in response to the absurdity of his situation. His body felt heavy and numb, but his mind was clearing. He'd been played the fool after all these years-by a broad. The irony of it all. He knew that Betty Lou was close. He could feel her essence pulsing through him and sensed her anger. He also knew that they would never see each other again. His time had come.

Rose knew Dominic couldn't feel what she was doing-the drugs hadn't fully worn off. She'd injected him with the EDTA, an anticoagulant, inserted the tube into his femoral artery, and watched as his blood flowed from his body. Her table allowed gravity to aid the process. She'd have to store the body until she could come back and have more fun-no time for a true torture session-but she knew what would torture him the most. She stood, walked up to his face, and brought her hand to his chin. She turned his head so he was facing her and looked him in the eyes. She fluttered those hazel eyes at him, knowing they had always been his weakness. He couldn't speak-she'd gagged his mouth-but he could see. She kissed him goodbye and laughed as she saw the spark of life fade from his pale green eyes.

A storm brewed outside the doors of the warehouse as a semi-truck roared with rage-the engine sending smoke billowing into the sky. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped as the neighborhood cowered in fear. The newspaper the next day claimed an earthquake had shaken the area.

Rose dealt with the storage and clean-up process methodically and quickly. Dominic was history in her book. She had hoped for more fun when this time came, but Kevin was waiting. She actually looked back at her palace and dreamed that she would never see it again. The little girl inside her, who occasionally slipped out, hoped she had found the man of her dreams. She drove out the back garage door in a Fiat. She wore a slinky red dress, her auburn hair coiffed to perfection, and her hazel eyes were complimented by her simple, yet sophisticated, application of makeup. She had one stop to make before she met Kevin at the airport-a manicure was a necessity.

The semi-truck pulled into the Nickelback Truck Stop. Old Charlie blinked a few times-he swore that was Dominic's truck. The truck looked like it had been to h.e.l.l and back. Dents rippled across the usually gleaming cab, dirt clung heavily to the tires, and the windows were coated in filth. Charlie waited with apprehension for the driver's door to open. He didn't notice the young man who came around the front of the truck, until he was coming through the door.

"Sir, help me, sir," the young boy begged. Charlie looked at the boy and d.a.m.n near had a coronary then and there. He'd seen those eyes before-in 1954. He could even smell the old man's unique combination of Brylcreem and gasoline in the air. The clothes were worse; he'd seen them just the other morning, on his pal Dominic. The hair and body strongly resembled Dom. The voice that was filled with fear was unfamiliar.

"How?" Charlie asked incredulously.

"The truck, it's the truck," the stranger shrieked.

Amy came running from the kitchen at the noise. "What the h.e.l.l is going on..." she started to say.

What happened next, Chuck and Amy refuse to discuss with anyone. Betty Lou rolls in regularly to the Nickelback and they just prepare the meal. Nothing really ever changes on their end; they've just stopped looking at the face of the driver. Dominic's spirit was there that day-for a moment. He waved from the cab of the truck before it transformed back into a gleaming beauty. The young man who was ready to c.r.a.p his drawers, suddenly stood tall and walked to the bathroom area. Before he went into the shower room, he turned and simply said, "I'll have the usual, Chuck. Morning, Amy." They never asked his name, and he never offered. Old Charlie retired in 2010 because Amy had cancer of the thyroid and they wanted to live out her last days in peace. Their son took over the truck stop, as of December 2012, and Betty Lou still makes regular stops. The driver has changed again, but Smitty, Dom, and that other boy are still in there.

"Be careful when you're hitching a ride," was the sign that Charlie had made for the Nickelback, "Steer clear of the trucks."

The manicure was worth every cent. Rose felt like a brand new woman. She drove to Falcon Field to meet up with Kevin. She hoped that this was the start of a whole new life. Kevin was waiting for her at the gates of the airport, a dozen roses in his hand, a smile on his face. His Armani suit fit him perfectly. He stood tall and oozed masculinity from every pore. She smiled as she got out of the Fiat. A man came to her a.s.sistance and grabbed her luggage. She could get used to this. Yes, she could. Time was on her side. She was young and happy.

Kevin took her to the limo he had waiting. They shared champagne and enjoyed dinner at a quaint inn that Kevin said was his little secret. She was falling in love. He grabbed her hands in one of his, and took off the gla.s.ses he always wore. She looked into the most spectacular, silver-flecked blue eyes, and felt herself falling. She saw Kevin's lips moving, but heard nothing as her vision failed and she lost consciousness.

The light was blinding when she woke, the ketamine losing hold of her system. She tried to sit up, only to be pushed forcibly down. Her happiness was fading fast. Was this the price she would have to pay?

"Morning sunshine, lovely to see you again," Kevin drawled. "Welcome to my palace-I hope you like it. I followed your guidance to the letter." The last thing she remembered was the look of pure delight in those brutal blue eyes.

Little Tchotchkes.

Nicki Scalise.

Little Tchotchkes.

It was a dark and stormy night. Isn't that how all great vampire tales should begin? Well this one shall be no different. It was just that, a dark and stormy night in the city. It was after midnight and I had been hanging out at one of the larger Goth clubs-my preferred hunting grounds. The girls who frequent these establishments read far too much vampire fiction and are easily swayed into, what they believe, is a little bit of role playing. They romanticize the notion of vampires, each secretly hoping to find their Eric Northman or Damon Salvatore, tame him, receive the immortal kiss, and live happily ever after. Not a single one of them understands the true nature of a vampire. We're predators-we hunt and we kill. We don't profess our undying love to silly little girls who like to wear all black.

She was a tiny little thing wearing a tight, purple corset, which shoved her b.r.e.a.s.t.s nearly to her throat. Her dark black hair was pulled up into high pigtails, exposing the pulsing life in her neck. Her black skirt flowed around her legs as we moved rhythmically to the beats of Nick Cave and the Bad Seed's Red Right Hand. She was my chosen victim for the evening and she was going to be all too easy. It only took a few drinks, a little bit of charm, and a tiny bit of attention to snare her in my web. It's not difficult to do when you look the part and tonight-I was on top of my game. My black patent-leather pants hugged me in all the right places, while the tight, black fishnet shirt highlighted my pectorals and showcased my nipple rings... which, for some odd reason, made all the little Siouxsie Sioux wanna-bes swoon.

As the song ended I took her by the hand and led her off the dance floor. I had been "romancing' this girl for over two hours and I was getting hungry and impatient. I led her to a dark corner where we found a seat, but there was another couple sitting nearby. The woman was wearing a long, black, flowing dress and straddling the man's lap. It was too dark to really make out either of their features but not too dark to see they were having a good time, too good to be appropriate in public. My girl giggled at their wicked behavior and I snuggled into her, laying a few gentle kisses along her jaw. She grabbed my face and brought my mouth to hers. I played along, letting her believe she was the one in control. She then asked with a gentle whisper into my ear the one thing I had been waiting to hear, "Want to get out of here and go back to my place?" I only nodded in response.

She took me by the hand and led me towards the door marked with a blinking red exit sign, making a brief stop at the coat check to get her black velvet and burgundy satin cloak. As I watched her tie it around her neck and pull the hood up over her head, I couldn't help but wonder if this particular way of hunting was getting stagnate. Maybe there wasn't enough challenge in it anymore. I was still going to drain her dry, make no mistake, a good vampire will never pa.s.s up a free meal, but it had me thinking that maybe I needed to shake things up a bit next time.

The other couple brushed pa.s.sed us in a hurry on the way out the door and the woman winked at me, not with embarra.s.sment, but with what appeared to be pride. As she breezed out the door, her long black dress flowing behind her, I could hear Witchy Woman playing in my mind. Although I was intrigued by her and had a slight regret that I hadn't found her for my victim first, something in my gut told me I was better off, even if the region a little further south was firmly disagreeing.

The rain had let up significantly but there was a light, yet ominous, mist hanging in the air. The chill was making my girl shiver as we walked to her apartment, yet didn't bother me in the slightest. She didn't live far from the club and we made it to her door quickly. She reached down the front of her corset with her skinny fingers and produced a shiny silver key that had been hanging on a black satin cord around her neck. I watched as her crimson fingertips took the key to the lock. She smiled seductively before opening the door. I followed her in and closed the door behind me. Her living quarters were small, little more than a studio apartment really. I watched as she untied the cloak, folded it in half, and tossed it on the sofa.

"Do you have any roommates?" I asked and she shook her head. Good, that means I can take my time with you. I glanced around the s.p.a.ce. It felt all too familiar, similar to the countless others I had been in lately. All black furniture, yards of red lace fabric draped over lamps, H.R. Giger prints on the walls. Jesus Christ on a cupcake with sprinkles, if you've seen one goth girl's apartment, you've seen them all.

She took a few tiny strides towards me-her black Mary Janes clicking on the wood floors-until we were toe to toe. She was so pet.i.te in stature that I could have rested my chin on the top of her head when she came to a stop. "So what's your name?" she asked in a sultry voice.

I shook my head. "No, no real names"

"What shall I call you then?"

"What name would you like to call me?"

She pondered the question for a few moments. "Shall I call you Lestat?"

I had to use all of my power not to roll my eyes at her. "As you wish," I replied, disguising my lack of enthusiasm. Does originality count for anything these days? I was going to enjoy killing her all the more-if only for her lack of imagination. Just once, it would be nice to hear one of these girls not want to call me Dracula, Lestat, or G.o.d forbid, Spike. It's amazing how many rabid Buffy fans are still roaming around wanting me to pretend to be Blondie Bear. At least she didn't want to call me Edward. Had that been the case, I would have happily foregone my meal to just snap her neck.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lestat. Follow me." She interlaced her fingers with mine and led me to the bedroom, where the decor was more of the same-black linens on her queen-sized bed, more lace thrown over lamps, and a journal on her bedside table that no doubt contained poetry that versed about how life was pain. She dropped my hand at the entryway to the room as I brushed past her and stood near the bed. She eyed me l.u.s.tfully before strutting towards me and shoving me forcefully back. She wasn't very strong given her demure size but I had to keep up the facade that she was still in control, so I fell dramatically onto the bed.

I bounced on my back once before she quickly climbed on top of me and shoved her tongue in my mouth. She tasted of clove cigarettes. She was an aggressive little one but I figured I'd let her have a little fun of her own before I had mine, especially since my fun ended with her dead. Some nights, I would have a roll between the sheets with my chosen meal, but it was not to be tonight. I had waited too long between feedings and my l.u.s.t for blood, not flesh, was driving me on.

While she was kissing me and pawing urgently at my fly, I could hear her rhythmic heartbeat in my ears. It was singing to me and I could focus on nothing else. Deciding I had waited long enough, I grabbed her skinny waist and, with a swift, forceful motion, flipped her on her back so I was on top. She giggled, probably just taking me for an aggressive lover.

I kissed her neck lightly as she tipped her head back, enjoying the feel of my lips on her silky, milk-white skin. Little did she know she was just further exposing the juicy vein I was after. I allowed my full weight to settle on her, pinning her down. She let a slight moan escape her lips and I felt my fangs distend. I laid one last, gentle kiss on her carotid artery, pausing for a brief moment before sinking my teeth in.

I bit down hard into the meat of her neck and felt her flesh pop beneath my teeth. At first she let out just a little squeal of pain, most likely a.s.suming I was still role-playing, but I clenched my teeth harder and felt the blood start to flow into my mouth. That was when she began to struggle. She tried bucking me off but it was no use. She was far too tiny and frail-and I had vampire strength on my side. She began to scream and I clamped my hand down hard over her mouth.

Even though she struggled more than I would have liked, I was pleased that I had chosen her. Her blood was divine, like sweet honey sliding down my throat. She was punching me hard in the back but her hits were weakening and her screams were becoming mere murmurs. Her final punch landed in the middle of my back before her arm went limp and fell to her side. I continued to drink until her blood stopped flowing. When I was done, I licked my lips and my eyes rolled back as I enjoyed the ecstasy of the moment. I relaxed on top of her, laying my head on her chest, breathing a deep sigh, while taking in her perfumed aroma-the gentle scent of burning leaves on a cool fall day. I remained there for a while just savoring my meal and her scent before it was time to get up.

I propped myself up on my hands and peered down into her vacant eyes. Even in death I had to admit she was a very beautiful woman. She reminded me of a grownup version of Wynona Ryder's character, Lydia Deets from Beetlejuice. The comparison made her a little endearing to me since it was one of my favorite movies. I shrugged my shoulders, oh well. I rolled off her, leaned on one elbow, and stroked her cheek. I brought my face down to hers, placing a small kiss on her now blue and bruised lips. "The name's not Lestat; It is Marcus Keary and the pleasure has been all mine."

I flicked on the light in "Lydia's" tiny bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Yes, vampires have reflections and mine was ghastly. I had been a slob during my meal, causing the blood to crust on my mouth and chin.

I dug through a small linen closet until I found a washcloth. Running the faucet until the water was warm; I scrubbed my face with her facial cleanser that smelled pleasantly of roses and rain. I pulled off my fishnet shirt and wiped down my chest. I'm usually not a sloppy eater but this time I should have worn a bib. When I was done cleaning up, I wrung out the washcloth and hung it on the towel bar to drip dry.

Feeling refreshed and invigorated, partly from my meal and apparently from her facial cleanser's promises of such things, I wandered around the apartment a bit. I didn't find anything too interesting-a few bills waiting to be paid, a mostly empty refrigerator, a bookcase loaded with vampire fiction (not a huge surprise there), and a little plant, the type one would grow from an avocado pit, sitting on the sill of her tiny kitchen window.

That little plant seemed sad to me, and a glaring metaphor for Lydia's life. She was at the club solo and came home with a stranger. There were no photos around her apartment of family or friends and I didn't see any photo alb.u.ms either. She died essentially alone and now her little plant would do the same. That was just too depressing. Picking it up, I asked, "Would you like to come home with me?" I fear I've become sentimental in my old age; I've taken to collecting small keepsakes from my victims. Can't know where you're going if you can't remember where you've been and all that jazz.

I walked back into the bedroom. Lydia still lay motionless on the bed and a large pool of blood had collected beneath her. I hadn't drained her as dry as I would have liked and I was a little disappointed in myself. I licked my lips at the memory of her sweet flavor. The aroma in the air was still enticing but she had been dead too long to go back for seconds. Dead blood gets a funk to it and you can't get that taste out of your mouth for days. I would just have to savor the memory and move on.

I stood above her. Her blank brown eyes continued to stare at the ceiling. I ran the back of my hand down her smooth cheek one last time, found the satin cord around her neck, and yanked until it snapped. I let the cord dangle between my fingers while I committed her face to memory. "I gotta go. It's been fun, Lydia. I'll lock up on my way out."

The rain had started again at some point. About halfway home, I realized I should have gone back for her cloak. I seriously contemplated it for a while but thought better of it and tossed the key to her apartment down a storm drain. I arrived back at my own apartment, soaking wet and shivering. Once inside, I set my new plant down on the coffee table before I rushed into the bathroom, tossed the soaked fishnet shirt on the floor, and dried myself with a towel. I wrapped the towel around my shoulders and walked back to the living room to retrieve the little plant.

I took it to my bedroom and placed it down next to my other keepsakes, twelve of them in total, each representing a different victim from the past few months. I looked over my collection; a pair of black lace gloves, a hand carved hair stick, a small panda charm incrusted with black diamonds on a silver chain, and an AA chip I took from my very first male victim. I had been trolling a new club where none of the girls were having any of my c.r.a.p, but there had been a young man giving me bedroom eyes all night, so I figured-what the h.e.l.l? He was the kind of man that was the epitome of a beautiful gothic youth; tall, lean, shiny black hair, and eyes darkened with coal. In a hundred and seventy years, I had never fed from a man before, but he had been worth breaking the streak. That chip held a special place in my heart and had been my favorite keepsake-up until the little plant.

I scrubbed the towel over my black hair and tossed it over my shoulder onto my bed. I stripped off my buckle boots and leather pants before pulling on a pair of black pajama bottoms. Finding a warm black sweatshirt in the closet, I pulled it over my head. The sweatshirt was a gift from an ex-girlfriend, which read Meat is Murder in huge white letters. The ex was a strict vegetarian and had no idea I was a vampire. The irony of the sweatshirt always made me laugh whenever I wore it.

I made my way to my spa.r.s.ely furnished living room and flopped down in the green reclining chair. Contrary to popular belief, becoming a vampire doesn't automatically give a man style and decorating sense. My apartment looked like a bachelor pad, which it is. Granted, the bachelor was one hundred and seventy years old-but the standard still rings true. I grabbed the remote and turned on the fifty-inch, flat-screen television, one of my most prized possessions. As a man who was around to witness the invention of electricity, a big screen TV is pretty d.a.m.n cool. I flipped through the channels for a while, landing on nothing in particular before I fell asleep in the chair. I had haunting dreams of a beautiful, young woman with short brown hair-she was covered in blood. She seemed so distantly familiar.

I woke in the warm golden sunlight the next morning, unsettled from sleep and with one h.e.l.l of a crick in my neck. Pop culture dictates vampires shy away from the sun and it's nothing but a fabricated lie. I, myself, rather enjoy it. I stretched my arms high above my head and out in front of myself, just like a cat. I yawned wide, leaned back in the recliner, and rolled on my side. Gazing out the window, I watched the clouds drift lazily in the blue sky and felt the warm sun on my face.

The nightmare was at the forefront of my mind and it left me feeling lonely and terribly sad. There was a slight nagging tickle in my mind; I felt like I was forgetting something but I couldn't place my finger on it. Who was this woman? Was she a victim of mine? After a long while I decided I wasn't going to remember, therefore she must not have been that important.

I took a quick shower and hastily pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black pair of Vans sneakers. I was in need of some caffeine-guess I shouldn't say need-it was more that I wanted some caffeine. I'm addicted to those whipped-up coffee milkshake drinks, not the manliest of drinks but yet another brilliant invention of the twentieth century, if you ask me. So I grabbed a lightweight hoodie and trotted out the door to the coffee shop on the corner.

I stepped out onto the street and shivered as the cool breeze caught me. Fall had been making its presence known the past few days but I was all right with that. I was very much over the sweltering summer heat; give me jacket weather any day. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans, dropped my head down against the wind, and plowed towards my destination.

I made it there quickly enough. That's the benefit, and some might even argue the downfall, of living in the big city-there are coffee shops on every corner. You can't spit without hitting one. I do my best to frequent the locally owned places though, avoiding the franchise corporate giants at all costs. I pushed the door open and was practically blown inside by a strong gust of wind. The little bell above the door jingled violently as I shoved hard back against it to close it again.

My hood had blown up over my head. I shoved it back down and blew my hair out of my face, adjusting my hoodie as I turned towards the counter. The place was really empty, not all that surprising considering it was midmorning on a weekday. There was only one other customer, a young woman standing at the counter frantically digging through her purse as the bored "barista" popped her gum behind the register.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h-f.u.c.k! Where are you?" she exclaimed to her handbag as I walked up and stood in line behind her. She continued her fruitless search before letting out a very heavy sigh. She looked frustrated and embarra.s.sed.

"Is everything all right?" I inquired.

"My wallet is gone. I must have left it at home. I don't have time to go home to get it and I'm going to die without a caffeine fix."

"Allow me," I offered, pulling a trifold wallet from the back pocket of my jeans and handing a few wadded-up bills to the impatient teenager behind the counter.

"Really? That's so sweet of you. Here..." She reached back into her bag, producing a blue ball-point pen and a crumpled piece of paper, which turned out to be a receipt, shoving them into my hand. "Write down your name and address and I'll send you the money." I started to decline and tell her it wasn't necessary when she got a very stern look on her face that told me this girl wasn't going to take no for an answer. I did as I was told, writing my address down in my sprawling chicken scratch and handed it back to her.

"Awesome. I'll send the money as soon as I get back home this afternoon." She patted me on the back, slinging her handbag over her shoulder as she grabbed her coffee and ran out the door. Before she was completely gone though, she called back over her shoulder, "Thanks again, you're a lifesaver!"

Quite the opposite, actually.

On the way back to my apartment I stopped to pick up a sandwich from the deli. When I arrived home I plopped down on the green tweed sofa, unwrapped my turkey on rye, popped open a bag salty kettle chips, and flipped on the television. The lunch-hour news was on and a balding, chubby weatherman was giving details of an impending storm. I watched with vague interest while I munched on my food.

The weatherman had just 'thrown it back' to the perky anchor in the studio as I took a large slurp of my blended coffee drink, when a familiar face appeared on the screen. I swallowed slowly, picking up the remote and turning up the volume, listening as the newscaster told the story.

"The body of a young woman was discovered early this morning in her apartment at the corner of sixth and Charles Street. The woman, identified as Katherine Waits, lived alone and was discovered by her boyfriend. The boyfriend has since been questioned and released. Police gave no details of the scene but we spoke with a neighbor who claims to have seen the body and said the scene was extremely gruesome. Another neighbor described Miss Waits as a college student who was always polite, quiet, and kept to herself. We will bring you further details as they are made available."

The news anchor was leading into the next story about another body, that of a young man, which had been found a few blocks away. He was bound at the hands and feet in his bed and stabbed through the heart. I turned the volume back down to a respectable level, abandoned my lunch, and walked into my bedroom. There on my bedside table was the little plant. It looked a little droopy so I carried it to the kitchen to get it a drink of water. After it had been sufficiently watered, I returned it to its spot in the bedroom, gently stroking the leaves.

"Your mom's name was Katherine, huh?" I asked.

It didn't respond.

"She didn't look like a Katherine. I'm still going to call her Lydia if that's alright with you." Still no response but I knew in my heart, if the little plant could talk, it would agree.

Later that evening I was sitting in the living room reading a book when there was a knock on the door. I slid a bookmark into the spine of the thick paperback, setting it down on the arm of the sofa. As I rose and crossed the room I looked at the clock-it was after eight. I don't know why I checked. I never have visitors regardless of the time of day. I stuck my eye to the peephole and was surprised to see the woman from the coffee shop on the other side of the door. I unhooked the chain and opened the door.

She smiled a huge grin. "Hi! Remember me?"

"Sure."

"I thought I'd bring you a coffee instead of just sending you money. That seemed too impersonal after such a sweet gesture. I hope you don't mind."

Did I mind? I wasn't sure what to say. I was pondering the quandary silently in my head, unknowingly causing an uncomfortable silence as she stood in the hall holding up the two paper coffee cups. While waiting for my response, the smile slowly began to dim on her face. I swiftly recovered my manners and finally answered, "Come on in."

I opened the door wide to allow her to enter. As she pa.s.sed I couldn't help but wonder why women trusted me when, in reality, I should be the last person to trust. This woman knew nothing of me, except that I had purchased her a cup of coffee, and yet she entered my apartment with no hesitation. Don't get me wrong, it definitely works out to my advantage, but it always strikes me as more than a little odd.

She turned back to face me and I took note of her. She was young. If I had to wager a guess, I'd say early-twenties. She had long blonde hair that she parted down the middle in a very typical hippie fashion. She wore baggy blue jeans, a blue t-shirt, a grey men's cardigan sweater, and converse sneakers. She had the appearance of a typical college student, especially with the khaki-green messenger bag she had slung across herself. Her baggy clothes were leaving a lot to the imagination and I allowed mine to run wild for a few moments.

I observed her as she glanced around my apartment. She let out a slow whistle. "Nice pad." I wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic or forthcoming but when she turned, her blue eyes resonated honesty. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Had I seen her around the coffee shop before our previous meeting? That had to be it, but my brain didn't seem totally satisfied with that answer. I realized I was staring at her and diverted my eyes. "I didn't know what you would like so I winged it and gotcha a Mocha. Hope that's cool."

"Works for me, but you didn't need to repay me."

"Seriously it was the least I could do. What you did today was so cool." She handed me the cup and I gestured for her to take a seat. She plopped down in the recliner with the grace of a gorilla, yanked the messenger bag up over her head, and unceremoniously tossed it on the floor beside her. Picking up the book I had been reading, she started flipping through it. She was bending the spine rather hard as the pages slid quickly though her fingers. The bookmark fell to the floor and I gently s.n.a.t.c.hed the book away from her. Yes, she brought me coffee-but that didn't mean she could just waltz into my home and disrespect my books. I laid the novel back down with care on the coffee table. I had a sneaky suspicion she was someone who dog-eared pages, which meant we could never truly be friends. However, I realized I was being rude and should probably remedy the situation.

"I'm Marcus by the way." I reached out my hand.

She extended hers in return and shook mine firmly. "Jules."

"How come you were in such a hurry this afternoon, Jules?"

"I was late for cla.s.s."

"A student, huh? What are you majoring in?" Up until this point she had been leaning back in the recliner. She moved forward and leaned her elbows on her knees. She had a very stern look on her face, like she was about to discuss some serious business.

"Honestly?' I nodded before she continued, "I haven't picked a major yet. I'm just mostly wasting my parents' money and getting drunk." She leaned back again in the recliner, pulled the lever releasing the footrest, and then arrogantly crossed her feet one over the other, placing her shoes unapologetically on my furniture. If I had nicer things I might have been offended, but as it turned out I found her lack of inhibition interesting. I watched her as she chewed on the straw to her drink.