Chapter Text
Even if you could afford a therapist, you wouldn’t use one.
Doctor-patient confidentiality has to be a myth at a certain point, right?
Especially if you’ve seen a murder. And especially if you didn’t report it.
There are times where the memory of that night comes flooding back to you in a great tsunami-like waves. You aren’t doing anything special, maybe cutting vegetables, and then everything crashes into you and you find yourself hyperventilating and hiding in your closet.
Those are the good nights.
Other nights, you aren’t so lucky. You space off watching reruns of some shitty 90s sitcom and gradually you start to smell pennies. The smell is what overwhelms you first, sweet and cloying. You’ve gotten better at trying to fend it off. If you light a candle soon enough you can pretend the smell never existed. But the smell fills your nose and swims in your brain.
Then you feel your palms begin to itch, and then you can’t keep your legs still. Soon you’re pacing your apartment, checking the closets, and rechecking the deadbolt on your door. It’s never enough. Your breathing quickens, and you close your eyes to try and focus your attention.
But when you close your eyes, you can see them.
In another world you were a babysitter and a TA for your local university. You were helping to grade lab reports. You can always remember being frustrated grading these specific reports, your head in your hand and a red pen constantly circling and making revisions.
Bedtime was at eight p.m. and you already ushered the little kiddos into your room. When the Malory’s came home it was almost midnight. You were yawning when they came through the front door, hushing each other’s drunken giggles.
You packed your laptop up and made pleasant conversation with the parents and gave them the usual report. No problems. They ordered pizza. They brushed their teeth. They’ve been in bed since eight. Yes, you’re free for next weekend.
Mrs. Malory looked so happy with you. She always had such a nice smile when she paid you for the evening. Mr. Malory thanked you and patted you on the back, stumbling to the living room couch. They bid you a safe drive and you were in your car within five minutes.
Halfway home you were digging around in your bag, looking for your phone.
“Fuck,” you hissed. You made a U-turn at the light. “Shit, shit, shit,”
It was a far drive back to the Malory’s. They lived pretty far out in the country in a new development. They were the first family to move in, something Mrs. Malory both loved and hated. You slammed your hand against the steering wheel and groaned. You left your wallet on the kitchen room table. You know you did, because you remember putting it there after ordering the pizza.
Twenty minutes later you pulled back onto the gravel road where the development was. All the lights were still on, which made you hopeful they were still awake and not already in bed.
You kept the key in the ignition and put the car in park. Quickly you hopped out of the car and trotted up to the front door, hand about to knock when you stopped.
The door was already slightly open.
To be fair, you didn’t recall Mrs. Mallory actually shutting the door behind you, just walking you out.
You push the door open and peak your head in.
It’s quiet. You roll your eyes and curse yourself for not calling first. You really don’t want to wake them up but you also don’t want them thinking you’re a burglar. Whatever. You’ll be quick.
You carefully step in and tip toe across the hall. The kitchen is straight ahead behind a doorway. You crunch your nose and almost sneeze as a smell finds you. You peak your head around the doorway again and still see nothing.
“Mrs. Mallory?” You whisper-yell. “It’s me, I forgot my wallet.”
You cover your nose as the smell gets stronger. You take a step in.
Wait, you do see something.
You narrow your eyes and see a footprint on the white tile. You blink, and look around. Your wallet it still on the table, and you grab it. The charms jingle when you pick it up.
In movies it’s very cinematic. There’s a close up of arm hair standing on end, and the music either swells or quiets completely. The girl looks around the room, maybe she calls out again. An extreme close up of the heroine’s face shows her horror and disgust and she shrieks. And it’s so drawn out and slow.
But it doesn't happen like that.
You hear something thud to your left in the living room. You whip your head toward the sound but every fiber in your body freezes.
From the darkness, you see a face. No, it’s a mask. An elongated screaming mask.
Slowly, it’s head tilts to the side. Almost like it’s confused. Your eyes dart down and you see something glimmering at his side. Your breath catches -
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
That's what triggers your body into motion. There isn’t more than a second that passes before you turn and sprint to the left, toward the dining room. You're huffing and taking gulps of air despite the fact it won't take you long to get to the car. The smell should’ve warned you. It was a warning, clear as day “go back the way you came”
But the lights are all on and that’s when you feel yourself scream. Scream and run.
Wall to ceiling there are Jackson Pollock splotches of blood. The carpet is wet and spongy when you run across it, somehow it's springy and sticky. The smell makes you almost gag and Mrs. Mallory.
Fortunately, your mind has censored most of the gruesome details about Mrs. Mallory. But she was a good victim. You do remember seeing her insides strung across the dining table like a sick garland, and her limbs separated in chunks. But the rest is just gore. Her mouth was open and lax. The image of a roasted pig what lodges itself into your head. The rest is nonsense in your brain, rotten mush that refuses to appear. You know that you really didn’t get a good look at her. You know it was only a flash, only a glimpse. But it sticks with you. And her face is the one you see whenever you close your eyes at night.
Footfalls crash behind you across the tile and you know whoever this is so much faster than you. You don’t have time to look behind, or to the side. You feel fingertips lightly graze your hair and you realize he’s going to try and yank your ponytail. Visions of you being pulled and blood spewing from your cut throat appear and disappear in milliseconds. Your throat feels raw from screeching, but the only thing you hear is your heartbeat.
Quickly, you topple a chair behind you and that’s all the fight you can put up with right now.
The chair sounds like it makes them stumble, and that’s enough for you to race out the door into the already running car.
You slam the door shut and gun it into reverse just in time to see the Ghostface Killer rocket out the front door and toward you, knife up. Tires squeal, and you shut your eyes but jumble out of the driveway and down the street. You see them in the review mirror, knife down. They stare at you, and keep staring until they shrink from view.
What follows is a blur. You knew you weren’t safe.
You kept your head down. No more college, campus was too risky. You didn’t even bother to resign from your job, just packed up and left that very night. Didn’t even take your car. It didn’t matter that you smelled like sweat and looked like shit, all that mattered was dumping your car at a McDonalds and getting an Uber to the airport.
The very next flight: Roseville Florida.
You’ve never heard of it, and that’s what makes it perfect.
Fragments of those next dozen nights – after the murders – still stick in your mind while others blur together. You do remember holding your cellphone between your ear and shoulder and calling the police, shoving t-shirts and shorts into your bags by the fistful.
“911 what’s your emergency?” The stern voice asked.
You hit call end like it was about to bite you.
Time skips ahead and you see yourself boarding the plane. Another time skip and you're signing a lease while a greasy mole-like man stares at you unenthused.
You can’t remember how you found the first motel you stayed at, and you can’t really remember how you found your shitty little apartment where you currently reside. The whole building smells like mildew, and you hate the way the building manager stares at you, but it’s a six month lease so you don’t complain.
You keep your head down.
About a week passes before you get the courage to look up your hometown, and you wish you hadn’t. Articles and all-caps headlines about a terrible murder of an entire family greet you. You remember closing your laptop and throwing up into the sink.
After two weeks of holing up in your new apartment you realize you need money. A job, really.
You’re torn between wanting to be alone and wanting to be surrounded by people at all times. While in your previous life you would’ve applied for gigs at coffee shops, craft stores, or even a cashier at a grocery store none of those places are close enough to get to without a car. You’re not in the best part of town.
Instead, you see an advertisement for a hardware store and apply.
Ben, the owner, doesn’t ask personal questions. He’s an older man with a baseball cap and permanent glare. He asks if you have experience, which you don’t. He asks if you’re in college, you’re not. He asks if you have a car, you tell him you live up the street. That alone seems to give him reason to hire you. He gruffly gives you a tour of the small store, vaguely gesturing where items are located.
You like it.
You have things to defend yourself here. You’ll be an opener, which means you’ll be gone before it gets dark. The person who relieves you is named Jeremy, and apparently he’s Ben’s nephew. Trustwrothy. You take inventory, you ring up customers, and you can read a book (no phones, Ben insists) if it’s slow.
“Can’t pay you much,” Ben warns. He slides over a packet of papers your way and tosses a pen over. It bounces and rolls toward you and you sign the dotted line. “But you’ll get life skills working here, promise you that.”
You’re finished with your paperwork. “I could use some survival skills,” you try joking.
That quirks an eyebrow from him. He nods and purses his lips and you know the joke didn’t land. “Welp, there’s a camping section here if you’re ever curious. There’s a discount on all items in the store after 30 days employment.”
When you do fall asleep that night, it’s the best sleep you’ve gotten in weeks.
The nightmares are still there. A cloaked figure chasing you and swiping at the back of your neck. Some nights he catches you and skewers you twenty times. Other nights you make it to your car but the engine stalls and he breaks a window. The worst nights are when you trip and he presses a boot to your head and stomps.
Each night you wake up just before the killing blow, chest heaving and on the brink of tears. It’s miserable, and it takes hours to fall back asleep after them. If you can fall back asleep that is.
But that night you fall asleep and escape the killer. Your car starts and you rip out of the gravel driveway just like you did all those weeks ago. You check your review mirror and see the screaming mask staring back at you, getting further and further away until you can’t see it anymore.
And, for a time, life is good.
How you wish it could stay that way.
XXX
Florida is never cold, not really, but today there’s almost a chill as you step out of your complex. The hardware store isn’t more than four blocks away from you, but you find yourself scurrying to the nearby coffeeshop.
A year ago you would’ve rolled your eyes at how you're behaving. But you don’t like being alone outside anymore, and even though you can’t see your breath you could swear you do. You hustle inside the empty coffee shop and huddle toward the front counter.
The girl who takes your order is petite and never says much to you. Just nods and presses her lips into a fine line. You order a dark roast for yourself and the latest pumpkin-flavored concoction for Ben. He never says anything about them but you can tell he likes them because he never complains and always finishes them.
She’s the only worker in the store –that's how quiet this place is. Quickly she gets to work on the more complicated of the two orders.
Your days have been easy recently. Ben was right, it’s not a really difficult job. There aren’t too many customers, and the ones that do come are mostly regulars. You’ve gotten to know some of them, even faintly recalling their names when you see them. It’s a lot of stocking and inventory work until a customer comes to the front counter. But it’s simple and you like it, and you like your coworkers.
Ben is quiet and aloof, but never rude. He explains things to you patiently and never gets upset if you don’t know something. You learn that he used to teach a shop class at the local high school a long time ago. He likes teaching, but he’ll never say it. Jeremy is lazy, but kind. He’s almost always fifteen minutes late, but the store is spotless in the morning when you come back to it.
Ben’s always the first one in the building and the last one to leave. About a month ago you started bringing in coffees for the two of you. At first you only brought him black coffees, but one day you mixed up your two drinks and got him a sugary sweet one.
He downed the whole thing and you’ve never looked back since.
On cue, the little barista sets down the pumpkin flavored drink shortly followed by your own coffee. You pick up both and smile, thanking her and turning away.
You ram into something firm and stumble backwards to the count, hot coffee sloshing and splashing from its cup. There’s a loud hiss from the person who you hit and you cringe.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” You say immediately, noticing the coffee splotch on a pristine navy blazer. You gasp and grab napkins and begin to pat away immediately.
The person- man, you realize- backs away from your touch and grabs his own napkins. You feel very stupid for trying to do it yourself, especially when you look up and really look at the person.
“Can I have a chai latte?” He asks, brow furrowed and clearly annoyed. He looks down at you and you both freeze.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat quietly. He’s got a strong jaw that relaxes when he hears you apologize and beautiful eyes. They dart away from you and your thankful for it.
He doesn’t say anything as he hands his card to the barista.
“Two coffees? Really?” He asks suddenly, smirking down at you. At least he’s not angry anymore, you think.
“Huh? Oh,” You look down and carefully place Ben’s coffee on the counter. Your stomach does a flip. “I get coffee for me and my boss sometimes? Most times, actually,”
Your laugh is forced and weirdly high pitched, but the stranger inclines his head and smiles politely anyway. You pick up more napkins and hand them to him as he tries to work out the small stain on his jacket. “Ah, how sweet,”
You begin to ramble. “He has this ancient coffee pot from the 60s that he still uses? Yeah, it tastes like sludge and I know he doesn’t even like it but he has this thing against coffee shops for some reason though, I don’t know.” You scratch your nose and there is no reply. You turn to the barista. “No offense, Maggie,”
“Whatever,” she says under her breath.
You shift your weight and your heels and watch him. The first thing you notice about him is that he’s taller than you by a significant amount. He’s wearing a suit, now splotched with dark roast, that’s tailored to be a tight fit. He’s got floppy blond hair that falls slightly in front of his eyes, and his eyes are blue. Really blue. He’s cute, and you are mortified.
The man eventually sighs and balls up the napkins, those eyes finding yours again. You swallow. “I guess no jacket for me today,” he hums.
“I’m really so sorry, I didn’t see you standing-"
“I was a little close to you,” He interrupts, holding up a hand. “It’s not a problem,”
“You were so quiet, I didn’t hear you at all,” You breathe out a laugh.
He smiles some more. “I can be pretty quiet. Here, why don’t you let me reorder your drink?”
Before you can protest he walks to the counter and orders for you. You stand in place and feel like an idiot, wondering if you should just leave. Instead, you scramble into your purse and take some bills out. When he turns to look at you, he screws his eyebrows together.
“That’s really too much money for coffee,”
You shove it at his chest anyway. “For dry cleaning then!”
The barista begins to pour your coffee, taking her sweet time. The two of you settle into an awkward silence. He takes a sip of his coffee.
You almost take a sip of Ben’s.
You both say something at the same time and laugh. He gestures to you and moves to take off his jacket. You look away, feeling a warmth grow up your neck. “Hopefully you didn’t need your jacket?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll be in the office today.”
“That’s good,”
“Like I said, don’t worry about it.” He throws his jacket over his shoulder.
The barista is really taking too long. “What do you do?” You ask.
“I’m a journalist for the Roseville Gazette. What about you?”
“I work around here,”
There’s only one hardware store in the area, and you don’t really want to tell him what you do. He seems really nice, you rationalize, but still. Better safe than sorry.
He lets out a low whistle. “Really not a great part of town,” he teases.
You awkwardly smile and try and come up with a response. She’s pouring your drink into your cup right now, then you can forget this whole thing happened. “Haha, yeah,”
“Do you come here a lot?”
Your attention settles back on him and he’s peering at you from over his coffee again. God, his eyes are blue. Your throat goes dry and your mouth opens and closes. “U-Um,”
You could swear you see his mouth twitch up.
“Order for Jed!” The barista calls out despite you two being the only ones in here. It snaps Jed out of whatever was happening and his expression is nothing but pleasant when he turns to the girl. He reaches over and plucks the drink with his thumb and middle finger and raises his eyebrows.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“Now you know my name,” Jed gasps as if scandalized. He places the coffee in your hands gently. It’s warm. “But I don’t know yours.”
You fight a small laugh, but can’t help notice a small feeling prick the back of your brain. An unpleasant feeling.
You hesitate, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. You clear your throat and give him your name and he tries it out.
It sounds good coming from him. Again, you awkwardly shift your feet. “Well, it was nice meeting you Jed.”
He nods and walks beside you as you turn toward the door. “Nice meeting you too.”
He thankfully passes you and turns the opposite way out of the shop. You’re grateful that you don’t have to make embarrassing conversation with him or walk past Ben’s. You just don’t want anyone knowing where you work, really. Not just Jed.
Jed seems...
He’s cute and he seems friendly and you’ll probably never see him again and that’s that. You sip your drink and savor the taste.
You shake off the funny feeling rattling in your head. Funny. You don’t remember him being in the store when you ordered.
How’d he know your drink?