It was a murder scene.
I was a murderer.
The moon sat high in the sky, illuminating the well-manicured lawn. I used the gold candle holder that sat on their fancy fucking dining room table to smash the window. Glass skittered across the floor as I tried to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Which it was. I had used an unlocked door to gain entry, however, and I needed something a little more obvious. I cursed as the palm of my hand raked against a shard on the windowsill. Blood rose to the surface of my skin and as it dripped, it ran down my arm and blended with the blood on my t-shirt.
But the rest of the blood wasn’t mine.
I ripped a piece of fabric from my shirt and wrapped it around my hand, tying it as best I could to stop the bleeding while walking toward the bedroom.
The woman was dead, lying in a pool of her own blood in the bed. The man? Beside the bed, face down on the ground. It wasn't meant to end this way. They were supposed to give up their money and cherished possessions. They weren't supposed to fight. Shit, the man wasn't even supposed to be there. I watched the home until I thought I knew their schedule. I’m not sure how I got it so wrong. Could have been because of how incredibly fucked up I was.
It was neither here nor there, though, because it happened. I did what I had to do.
I rifled through their drawers and wallets, taking as much as I could carry. Money, jewelry, even credit cards. They wouldn't be able to report them missing. I memorized their birthdates from their licenses, knowing people like them probably used those special numbers for their pins, which was ill advised for this very reason.
I was a petty criminal—I usually ruined someone's day, not their life—but as I scratched at my arm, I remembered why I was there. Why I did what I did.
I needed more drugs. Meth, in particular. I'd been on a bad trip for nearly two days, caused by rank glass that made me angry and phobic. My mind was locked in a constant state of fear. That's why I went from petty to homicidal before I even knew what my hands were doing. Then it was too late. I was already stabbing them. First him, then the screaming wife.
I didn't look like your typical user, probably because I was still so new to being one. I looked at myself in the mirror as I scrubbed blood off my hands and tried not to get my makeshift bandage wet. The reflection staring back at me was familiar yet foreign. I still looked strong and muscled . . . albeit fraught with tension, which made my muscles flex. Drops of blood clung to my thick, dark hair. I put water in my hand and brushed it back, drawing the crimson away from my forehead. A drop of pink-tinged water dripped along my temple. Red, puffy skin encased my pale blue eyes, the telltale sign that I had been up for nearly two days without sleep.
I was too old for this shit. Who starts meth at thirty-five? Someone who went through a messy divorce. A man who lost everything he ever worked for. The drugs started as an escape and transformed into somewhere I wanted to live. I shook my head as I grabbed my baggy of white powder and poured some onto the marble countertop. I leaned over and snorted, inhaling the same garbage meth that sent me into a murderous delirium. What could go wrong?
I left, sneaking out the same door I came in. Sirens wailed in the distance the moment I stepped into the crisp night air. Darkness blanketed the earth around me. I tensed, my stomach clenching until I was certain I’d throw up on their lawn. I didn’t know if they were coming to the scene of the crime, but the paranoia in my mind made me certain they were after me.
I took off across the lawn, racing into the woods. My legs slowed to a jog as I reached the tree line and a mere walk once I got beyond the trees. Branches broke beneath my feet as I walked. The darkness disoriented me. Tree trunks rose from the earth like pillars, and branches snaked across the gaps between them, as if trying to grab me. Every time my shirt hung up on one, I panicked, tearing more pieces off like Hansel leaving breadcrumbs back to the crime scene.
Fucking meth.
I kept going, alternating between panic and confusion, until I saw a modern A-frame house tucked within a clearing. Boxwood shrubs stood below the windows. Trees surrounded the home like a perimeter fence, and a pale glow shone from a single window. I looked back at the depths of the forest behind me. I wasn't sure how long I'd been walking. Being high on that stuff turned the concept of time into a complex math problem. I could have been walking for five minutes or five hours.
I focused my attention ahead of me once more and stared at the quaint home tucked away from it all. Away from the sirens. The murders.
It was the perfect place to hide out.
I idly scratched at my arm as I crept behind a shed and watched the home. There was no car in the gravel driveway. I hoped no one was home, but the glowing light in the window made me suspect someone waited within.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the baggy of powder. I snorted another line off the snuffbox of my hand, inhaling deep, shaking my head at the burn slithering through my sinuses. As the amphetamine coursed through me, I tried to figure out my plan, A through Z. If no one was home, I might take a shower or a nap. I couldn’t recall the last time I slept. But if it turned out there was someone there or if they came home, I'd have to kill them. I'd have no choice. The thought of murdering again made me ill. Or maybe it was the drugs. Both, probably. I teetered on the tightrope between mania and sanity. My thoughts raced over each other, merging into one lengthy vomit of syllables in my mind.
I snuck across the maintained lawn and shimmied along the siding of the house until I reached the front door. A single overhead light attracted waves of insects above it. I batted away bugs as I leaned over and tried the handle.
Locked.
I snuck around to a sliding glass door in the back of the house and peered through the darkness inside. Old, rustic furniture dotted the living room and attached dining room. The stove clock read 5:55, which meant I'd been walking for hours, not minutes.
The screen door was locked. I grabbed my pocketknife, switched the blade, and sliced along the mesh fabric. With that gone, I reached inside and found the sliding glass door unlocked. People did that all the time—latched the screen door but not the door that kept people like me out of their homes.
Mud coated my sneakers, so I slipped them off at the back door. I stepped inside with slow and cautious steps. I was fighting the panic, trying to whip back my mania.
I kept my ears open for the sound of paws padding along the floor or the jingling of a collar that would alert me to the presence of a dog. I hated dealing with dogs. Nothing hindered the basic B&E like a damn canine. Thankfully, only the buzz from the old refrigerator reached my ears, and no food bowls or squeaky toys were anywhere in sight. I eased the sliding door closed, my jaw ticking as the paranoia ramped up.
I saw red and blue lights and ran to the window, pressing myself flat against the wall beside it. I leaned over, spread the curtain with a shaking hand, and relaxed with a sigh. They weren't really there. They couldn't be. I was in the middle of nowhere.
Fucking meth.
I closed my eyes and tried to will the delusions away. My heart raced against my chest wall as I pulled the baggy out of my pocket and realized just how little was left. Panic set in and rattled my muscles more than the accidental murders had. A whole-body fear that came from knowing I needed the drug—physically needed it—and had no way to replenish my stash.
Fuck me.
I was hearing things, which probably wasn't from the meth but from insomnia psychosis, which I guess was from the meth. My ex-wife's voice whispered between my ears with the condescending tone that made my blood boil. Her words danced in the air around me.
“You're worthless. You're never home. You can't even please your wife.”
It shifted my high. The confidence—thinking I could get away with murder and live scot-free in this home—gave way to anger. I was pissed off. Maddened. I wanted to break things, like the globe light fixtures that dangled above the kitchen island, casting the glow I had seen through the window. Or the nice wooden rocking chair beside the fireplace in the living room. I imagined taking the fire poker and coming down on the arms of the chair or swinging it through the air and taking out the lights. I paced around the house, playing out violent scenes in my head and envisioning things I could break to leave a trail of destruction that felt more like the path of my life.
The sound of metal scraping against metal drew my attention to the front door. As manic as I was, I knew that was real. I stepped toward the front door, standing flush with the wall beside it. It opened inward, and a woman walked in. Her red hair bounced above her jacket as she hurried inside. When she closed the door, she saw me. I was struck by her for a moment, my tired blue eyes blown up in a stare that probably made me look crazy. I was beginning to feel like I was.
She screamed and ran for the stairs, dropping her purse on the hardwood floors. I shook off whatever froze me in place and chased after her. I caught her by the hood of her jacket and yanked her down the stairs. She screamed louder as she grabbed at my arms, kicking and flailing with unexpected strength.
But I was stronger.
“Shh,” I whispered through clenched teeth as I let go of her hood and wrapped my arms around her to stop her from thrashing. I groaned as her full hips moved against my lap in her terror-fueled frenzy, the warmth of her pressed against me. Fuck. “For the love of all things holy, stop wiggling!” I yelled over her screams. If she didn't stop, I’d get too worked up to halt the thoughts racing to the front of my insomnia-driven delusion.
My mind wandered. I had a thing for big, curvy women. And redheads. There was something about wrapping my hand in those fiery locks of hair that made me ache.
I heard my ex-wife’s voice again, echoing between my ears. “You’re a shitty husband.” I knew I was a bad person, but I wasn't half the shitbag back then as I was now. I had been a goddamn workhorse. And for what? So my wife could fuck the neighbor and run off with him? The thought alone filled me with white-hot rage.
“Please.” The woman clutched against me squeezed out the word. I didn't realize how tight I had drawn her against me, cutting off her breath beneath her ribcage.
I tugged off her jacket and found her clad in a pair of purple scrubs. A nurse? I turned her to face me and locked on to her hazel eyes. Dark makeup encased them and streamed in thick lines down her cheeks. She looked terrified, but at least she’d stopped screaming, even though I could still hear it between my ears.
“What do you want?” she asked, her quivering voice choking off the end of each word.
I didn't know how to answer her. I wanted the opposite of everything my life embodied at that moment. I didn't want to be divorced. A drug addict. A murderer. On the lam and in her fucking house. But I could only think about how she'd feel.
I felt the devil whispering in my ear, his hot breath caressing my neck as he spoke. I heard his demands. I pulled her to the island, her flailing body fighting me with every step. My hand brushed the swell of her breasts before I removed her scrub top and threw it to the ground. Her scrub pants followed them, leaving her nearly bare and sobbing, pleading for me to stop as I pushed her chest to the granite countertop. She pleaded harder as I drew her panties down and worked off the buckle of my belt, begging for me to stop as I pulled myself out and forced my way inside her with hard and greedy thrusts that made the island rattle. She screamed out through sobs as I drew my hips back and ripped through her again and again. The more she begged, the harder my balls tightened, aching to fill her up.
What do you want? that voice asked again, but it was from somewhere far away. I shook my head and looked at her as she stood in front of me by the stairs, fully clothed. That sick but somewhat delicious fantasy was merely that. A fantasy.
Fucking. Meth.
“I need a place to stay,” I told her.
“What . . . wait . . . why?” she stammered as I dragged her around the kitchen, still dodging her flailing limbs as I searched for tape. Or rope. Anything I could tie her up with.
“Where's the tape?” I asked, dodging her question.
“I'm not telling you,” she whispered.
I stopped us both, holding her arm in a sure grasp. She winced as I tightened my grip and shook her. “Tell me where to find the goddamn tape, or I'll make my fantasy a fucking reality.”
She looked at me with a cocked head, her forehead frowning with confusion, as if she was trying to understand what I meant. She didn't want to know what I meant. She just needed to know that I was manic, desperate, and fucking lonely. And I needed goddamn tape!
She motioned to a cabinet against the wall by the door, and I dragged her to it. I ripped open the door and found a roll of duct tape on a shelf beside her boots. I turned her around and pulled her arms behind her back. The sound of the tape ripping away from its spool echoed in the open room as I wrapped it around her wrists. I pulled out my pocketknife, and fear ripped through her at the sound of my blade, making her fight harder against me.
“Stop!” I yelled. I shook her arm and she stilled. I cut through the excess of the sticky silver, ripping it away from the roll. Only once her hands were secured behind her back did I let her go.
She sank against the wall with panicked, heaving breaths. “Take anything you want, just don't hurt me,” she begged, flashing her desperate eyes at me. That look drew another fantasy from the darkest depths of my mind.
I pushed her down on her knees, keeping that soul-searching hazel gaze locked on me as she fell. Having her hands pinned behind her back accentuated her chest. She pleaded, begging me not to take her mouth, but it only made me work my pants off faster.
“Don't bite me,” I snarled as I fisted her hair and forced her onto my dick. She pulled back, trying to get me out of her mouth, but she was exactly where I wanted her. I buried myself to the hilt inside her until I felt snot from her nose as she panicked and choked on my dick.
“I have money.” Her voice broke through my fantasy.
I squeezed my eyes closed. When I wiped my hand down my face and opened them again, she was still standing there with her hands taped behind her back. Her eyes had dropped to my erection, which pressed painfully against my zipper. She panicked—truly panicked—writhing and straining against her restraints as she realized it wasn't money I wanted.
I walked away from her, taking enough steps to free myself from her scent. Like strawberries, sweat, and fear. I drew deep breaths into my lungs, reminding myself that I was a lot of things, but a rapist wasn't one of them. Well, I was also not a murderer until the devil on my shoulder told me to be one. And he was screaming for her.
“Drugs?” she asked, pulling me out of my mania. The devilish thoughts fell to a whisper.
Even though I was, in fact, on drugs, I took offense to her accusation. I walked over to her and fisted her hair in a rough grasp. “You don't know me,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I know you're in a state of delirium,” she whispered against the tension on her scalp. “Your pupils are blown. And you have nystagmus.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Your pupils are quivering. Vibrating. Meth? Are you on meth?” she asked.
Her analysis did nothing but piss me off. Fuck her. What did she know? Had she ever gone from having it all to living in a bedbug-infested motel? Did she know what it was like to hurt until drugs were the only escape from the hell burning around her? Doubtful. She was fucking beautiful, living in a nice house away from it all. I tugged at the ID on the pocket of her scrub top. She even had a great job. Vanessa Welch, RN.
“I can help you,” she said.
“No one can help me,” I said with a sneer. And it was true. Soon enough, I'd be hurting. Really fucking hurting. Once the drugs ran out, the devil on my shoulder would start to suffocate, and I’d crash like a motherfucker.