And so she did
One worried, frantic woman rushed through the bathroom hallway of a bar. This woman was blessed, yet the pain of such light burned her very soul. Even at that very moment of determination, as she kicked down the empty woman's bathroom stalls one by one, chasing an apparition, she falters. How much pain will it take for her to learn? How many trials of karma must her soul endure for her to realize that the person she once loved is gone? Whoever this was, it wasn't her childhood friend. Whoever this was, it wasn't her love interest. Whoever this was, they weren't even human. No—It'd be safer to assume that whatever that thing was, it's below human. It was toying with her, using her humanity to satisfy its lack thereof. It wanted her to relinquish her heart, to relinquish her humanity, to relinquish her emotions—that way she won't suffer and it wins. Should she finally just give up to relieve the pain? No one loses, right? She would get left alone, and it does too. Yet the idea of letting something like win at all sickened her.
As she left the woman's bathroom dissatisfied and even more irritatingly worried, she thought to herself, "No. Not a chance."
It wouldn't let either of them go. A tie between them, a conjoined chain of the soul—the chain of chains, sprouted from ambition, its petals bloom the cause of causes:
The ego.
The human spirit.
Determination.
What's right.
Who's in said right.
These words and phrases are used to describe a never-ending war. A war for what? Justice? Revenge? Atonement? Settlement? Peace? All of the above? Or none of the below? It did not matter at the moment for her. She pushed these spiraling thoughts implanted into her by that withered thing out of her mind for the moment—just for the moment, as they reemerge like a weed.
"The men's bathroom..." she thought, a little hesitant. "It's the only place left... and the only one that'd make sense."
As she was walking in, another man walked by her, noticing what she was doing. The man was holding a beer bottle, clearly intoxicated beyond words. He stumbled around, even though he tried to steady himself as he prepared to speak, approaching her.
"Hey, lady!" the man says, slurring his words. "You can't go in there!"
The woman stopped, still facing away from him, only facing the direction of where she needed to go. She slowly looked at the man, not moving her head, projecting a look of emptiness, yet clear annoyance.
"I'm busy here, Bottle-Face. I'm an agent. So kindly mind your own fucking business," she said sternly, yet showing an eerie calmness.
The man sloppily walked closer to her, gesturing his words with his beer bottle. "Agent?! Bullshit! I don't care who you are, lady! The rules are the rules. Who the fuck do you think you are—"
The man was cut off by the woman inches away from him, grabbing his beer bottle, looking him directly in the eyes. Her gaze was an eerily still one, yet with undertones of rage. She knew the man as the bar's annoying, nosy number one patron. His pathetic sense of pride for being a bar's number one customer both sickened and annoyed her.
"I am who the fuck I am," she exclaimed, her grip on the bottle almost shattering it. "Either you act like you saw nothing, or I'll leave you seeing nothing . Do you want your 'Bottle-Face' nickname to be a literal one?!"
The man could hear an audible "crack" before he pulled away nervously, almost falling backwards from his stumbling.
"I... You-you crazy bitch...! I'll tell the barkeep about this!" he exclaimed as he sloppily "ran" away to the barkeep, almost slipping over the freshly cleaned floor.
"Loser..." she thought to herself, rolling her eyes.
She tossed the beer bottle in a neighboring trash bin. Wiping her hand on her jacket in disgust, she gives the bottle a look of disrespect.
Just then she remembered. "The bathroom...!"
She'd wasted precious time, time she could've better used to catch "him".
"Calm down," she thought, racing through the bathroom. "It's only been a couple of seconds."
She tried calming herself down, marching into the men's bathroom after a swift kick to the door with her right foot. She walks in, ready to knock out the first man that she sees if they say anything. However, as she raced through the bathroom, something caught her attention in the corner of her eye.
The mirrors.
Something them. Something that she recognized, but wished that she didn't; similar to the feeling that one might get when they meet a family member they cannot stand, but must accept, for they are family.
It was her.
Five feet, eight inches. Slightly muscular build. Tangerine-Colored hair that starts a tad spiky at the top, but flows smoothly into puffy curls at the shoulders, forming a 'weird spiral', she thought. Her hair was growing too long, now reaching slightly below her shoulders, annoying her with its roughness that'd poke at her neck. Her attention then focused to her face. Unlike the person she once found fondest, she unfortunately knows herself all too well. The same sharp jawline, yet soft facial structure. The same thin, yet sharp eyebrows... The same emerald green eyes that welcomed none. The same empty look on her face hiding a maelstrom of emotions. She'd had enough of herself, she thought as she turned away from her own gaze, making her way to the public bathroom's window with a rushed walk.
The window was shut, yet unlocked. She was almost prepared to break it in order to save time, but she refrained.
'Marthy'd kill me if I did that...'
She knew Marthy, another nosy person, as the bar keep, but she also saw her as a motherly figure. She respected her, so she instead opened the window hastily. A loud thud echoed through the bathroom.
"Damn!" she said under her breath. "Not so fucking hard..."
After jumping out of the window and landing soundly on her feet, she remained crouched for a second, waiting to listen for any potential movement.
Nothing.
To any outside observer, her behavior and path taken would seem rather strange, random—or even deranged. Yet, to her, it made perfect sense. She was following one thing that led right to who she was chasing. An intangible footprint that no one else could see.
It was dark and eerily quiet.
'Now that I think about it...it's a Saturday. There should be more people hangin' out around here...' she thought.
When she was sure that there was no one around, she stood up, ready to march forwards towards the smell of gore. However, something stopped her: a vibration in her right pants pocket followed by a loud guitar power-chord sounding and echoing throughout the parking lot.
It was her phone's notification.
"Dammit," she exclaimed out loud. "Shut up, Tom!"
She looked at her phone, gripping it tightly in anger. On the lock screen, there were more than five messages that all said the same thing.
"Don't go to the Sovereign Sake, tonight. The suspect is there. I'm sorry, I know that you're off duty. He's never gone there before, but you frequent. Remember: you're not allowed within 300 yards of the suspect without my presence. Wait outside of the coffee shop for me. I'll send this message until you reply back. I don't care if it's through words or an emoji, I need to know that you'll listen to me this time. For once."
Quickly muting her phone and stuffing it back in her pocket, she walked as quickly as possible towards the smell. To where it lead, she didn't know, and little did she care. As long as it lead to , it'd be worth it.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
So she walked, walked and walked—all the while having memories of him. Memories that where both comforting and discomforting at the same time. Her mind went back to who he once was—who she once knew. It liked to go back to the good times they once had. It almost made her want to forget everything else in favor of only remembering those times.
But that'd be selfish.
She had to do it. No other way around it. She spare him, letting her heart decide—but that'd be selfish. Change...she promised them she will. So she was stuck and forced to act, forced to clean up her mess. Life is messy, and the more sloppily you eat from it, the more painful it's going to be to clean up the mess later. In her mind there was nothing that she could do but act. For her there were no victors in war. For that ... It was about who breathed last. All that she had to do was simply not care like him. Equal it in savagery. This was a duty, no emotions must be felt, no unnecessary thoughts conjured—simply do as you must. All that she had to do was clean up her plate; the flies had started to spread.
Easier said than done when using your childhood friend as its gloves. She once again pushed these spiraling thoughts out of her head for the time being. Speeding up, she neared a building.
"Okay...it's not him. It isn't anymore. He's gone. Don't let it win again. This time to be the last time. Put an end to it, dammit! Clear your mind," she exclaimed before stopping in front of an old fence. "When you see his face, pretend it's not him! You don't know him! He's just the prime suspect! A killer!"
Beyond the fence stood an old abandoned factory. Windows broken, walls vandalized, dust blowing in the wind... It was something out of a horror movie. It didn't help that the sun was setting, casting forth a red, bloody hue over the surrounding area.
She did not care.
Vaulting over the fence effortlessly, she makes her way to the front door. Strangely enough, the door was left ajar. She smirked nervously, both excited anticipation and dread filled her soul.
"Bingo." she said quietly.
She stepped inside, pushing open the surprisingly light door with a shove.
It was dark, which she expected. Holding up her phone, ignoring the now twenty-five plus messages from Tom, she casts the phone's flashlight into the darkness with a press of the flashlight button. The cold temperature, darkness and smell of rust in the air could not compare not the intense smell of blood contaminating it. It was the only thing that she could concentrate on.
"Where the hell are you...?" she thought to herself, the smell of blood ever intensifying in certain directions. She could barely think straight.
"No footprints..." she observed while crouching, inspecting the dust-coated floor.
"Could he have taken a different path? No...it wouldn't make sense for the door to be opened like that if that was the case."
As she got up, she kicked away the ground's dust in annoyance, gritting her teeth. She kept looking around while shinning the light.
"What if that door was always opened?" she thought, approaching a staircase leading to the second level.
"No," she thought, grabbing on to the staircase's railing. "There's usually a lot of wind in Bowie this time of year. That door's not that heavy...it sways. It would've either been closed or left opened completely..."
She started walking up the stairs after inspecting the lower level completely, following the smell of blood. She continued her deduction, attempting to ignore the staircase's slightly worrying metallic creaks.
"All of that...yet it was left partially opened... No, he definitely came through here specifically."
She reaches the third floor—the last floor. Peering over the end of the internal balcony, she made sure that there was no movement in the lower level. After she was sure there wasn't any, nor in the second level—which she could see clearly from this height—she made her way to the roof via an access ladder, it's structural soundness questionable.
She proceeded nonetheless.
Emerging from the top of the ladder, she cautiously grounded herself to the roof. A floor of gravel, the roof spanned quite a distance and was quite flat. By all accounts, it was a very sound roof visually speaking. However, thoughts of it caving in and her falling to her death plagued her mind.
She was deathly afraid of heights, evident by her legs that slowly started to shake. She looked down at them, clenching her fists.
"Come on...move...! You've got to. It's just some height... I need to reach him—" She's cut off by a voice behind her. A rather deep, yet soft voice.
"Reach who?"
She froze in fear. A unique fear that made all other fears disappear. She dared not move, like a deer in headlights. No—like a man in the jungle frozen in place, unsure of what to do after discovering that a panther was lurking just above, eyeing him. The soft wind whispered through the silence, caressing her unease...until finally...
The voice broke the silence.
"Jeez...you always were a buzzkill," the voice says with a sigh. "Fine...I guess I'll start."
She felt cold hands place themselves on her shoulders, squeezing them. Along with the voice came a horrifically evil and frenzied presence pressing itself against her neck, the sound of the wind completely stopping behind her from the mass that was now towering over her.
"You found me—good on you! Running from you..." it paused, its voice now directly next to her left ear, its breath as cold as corpse's, "is nearly impossible with that nose of yours, hound."
She starts breathing heavily, gritting her teeth as she squeezes her eyes shut. She was ready to turn around and pull out the gun she was concealing in her jacket's left pocket.
She felt that it knows.
"No, no, no..."
She felt it tighten its grip on her shoulders.
"You're not supposed to look at the devil..." it said, its breath even colder than before.
She shakily stammered words. "S...spare me the embar-embarrasment-ent. You were always cringe like-like-like...that."
It spoke once more, it's timbre sounding like it was smiling. "Try that again but with some more guts—"
The woman escaped its grasp, stumbling for her gun. The woman fell to the ground slightly, catching herself with her right hand, bent over.
She shakily reached towards her gun with her left, screaming, "Fuck!"
She grabbed the gun, aiming it at where the voice came from from below her chest, the world seeming upside down from where her head was positioned.
The barrel of the gun rests comfortably on...
Nothing but the air.
There was nothing there.
She flipped herself over on her back, holding herself up with her right arm, ready to jump on her feet despite her fear of the collapsing floor. The gun rested itself on her hip, its mechanisms sounding loudly from the shivering hand that held it. Looking around, she realized that there was really no one there. Did this really happen? Or was this another episode? She lowered her head in shame and ever-growing sorrow. She was so close. She heard him, right? She felt him, right? She could've talked to him. Maybe come to some sort of agreement. With her vision facing the ground, her legs semi-crossed, her body slumped in surrender...
Too weak, she once again failed her mission.
She closed her eyes....
"It...really was nothing. I got carried away again..." She paused, sighing, putting the gun back in her pocket, eyes still closed. "I really thought that he was here... You were right, Tom..." she said, relieved, yet disappointed.
There was silence for a while...
Then another voice broke the silence.
"I here, Rosa," a familiar voice sounded, it's tone cheery and innocent, yet familiarly deep.
She looked in front of her suddenly, gasping. She was met by a young man's face staring at her inches away from her face. The man had a sharp jawline contrasted by a surprisingly feminine face. The hair, the eyes, the build...and most intensely of all: the smell. The smell of a familiar cologne. Everything in front of her eyes screamed familiarity. familiar. He was sitting cross legged across from her, their faces nearly touching. His dark-brown, sharp hair covered his eyes with its two sharp bangs. The same freckles decorated his cheeks, and so did the same ashy black sweater, white pants and red boots decorate the rest of his body.
"It's been so long," he says softly.
There was silence as both of them stared at each other, her face's unsureness and surprise captured perfectly via reflection on his sky-blue spheres. She was unsure what to believe. Was this really him? Or
"V," she began. "V...V—"
She couldn't finish her sentence; the man spoke for her.
"Yes! Me!" he said joyously. "I missed you too!"
She was stunned. She was about to get up to run away, when suddenly the man reached into his pocket. She prepared herself to quick-draw, hoping for no hesitation on her part this time.
"Still don't be believe me?" the man asked. "I've got something that'll remove those doubts!"
The man pulled out a charm that resembled a pseudo crucifix, dangling it in front of her face. Its shiny, metallic body reflecting both of their faces in halves.
"See?" he asked.
Upon seeing it, the woman burst into tears, her gaze still fixated on the charm. A stream of pent up feelings—of longing so intense... A broken dam that's been holding back a reservoir for years. It's finally been broken. The man smiled, putting the charm on her.
Suddenly and without warning, she hugged him.
"What kept you so long, dum-dum?" he asked, a bit of a giggle to his words as he hugged her back.
There was a genuine warmth to his hold as apposed to the cold, withered hands that'd pressed themselves on her shoulders not moments ago.
"Hey, hey, hey! Relax! It's okay! Jeez, no need to shower me! I already did that earlier! Didn't sting my eyes this time, by the way..." he adds, squeezing her comfortingly, swaying a bit to calm her down.
"It's-it's..." She paused, snorting snot. "It's really you..." she whispered with a quiver, her voice silent and calm for a change, more genuine than it ever had been in her life.
The man pulled back from the hug, holding her shoulders, smiling warmly. "Yeah, it's me."
They peer into each other, the woman wiping her tears and snot with her jacket's sleeves, smiling. She sighs, saying, "Let's go take you to the police station. We've got to—"
As she tried to get up, she realized something that made her heart sink like a vessel in the ocean.
She couldn't move her body at all, save for her eyes.
She was immobilized.
"What are you doing? What's going on?" she asked, trying to move.
She could not. Panic started welling up inside of her in response.
"Hey! Stop! Why can't I move?!"
The man did not answer. He simply looked at her, smiling warmly, immobile himself.
"Vincent! Say something! What's going on?!" She was almost screaming at this point, realizing that she was truly paralyzed.
She started hyperventilating, looking around frantically with her eyes, tearing up once again.
"Stop! Let go of me!"
The man finally spoke. A sad, reluctant tone behind his words.
"I'm sorry, Rosaline."
She looked at him, a feeling of betrayal and pure despair piercing her very soul.
"Rosaline?" she thought. "He only calls me that when he's mad or plotting something...!"
"What's going to happen?!" she screamed pleadingly.
The man only smiled.
"Who are you? Because I don't remember you, yet I can feel you. Who am I? I seem to recall, yet I can't feel. In diversity there is divinity, in unity lies the trinity."
"What are you talking about?!" she cried imploringly.
He simply maintained eye contact to comfort her. "Let's try again..."
As they both fell down, time seemed to slow down. Their sitting positions unchanging as if they were frozen in place. She wanted to scream—she was about to die... but she couldn't. It was beyond strange to her. It was almost as if her mind knew to accept. She soon felt no fear, instead, the fear was replaced with acceptance and pure, longing sorrow—the feeling of distance becoming an emotion. The feeling of exhaustion from seeking a conclusion.
"Will I see you again?" she asked rather calmly, looking into his eyes.
The man chuckled a bit, smiling lovingly. "Always."
Mere feet away from the floor, the man said one final thing to his friend before the end.
"Blink."
How are you feeling with this introduction?