KNIFE: CHECK. I push all my books off the old, faded suitcase they sit on. After unzipping it, I pull out the sole item it holds: a black stiletto knife. Depressing the button on its front snaps out a long, thin, ridiculously sharp blade. I had bought it in a moment of weakness—or rather, four hours of weakness—in which I had meticulously researched different knives and switchblades, looking for the most effective and efficient killing tool. My fantasies center mostly on death by blade. Knives result in more blood, more suffering by the victim, and a slower death if you stab the right places and avoid main arteries. Not that I was going to restrict myself on this mission. I stuff the knife in my sweatshirt’s pocket.
Gun: Check. When I moved out of my grandparents’ house, a pawnshop was one of my first stops. I applied for a permit and now own a Smith & Wesson 317. I carry my desk chair over to the fridge and stand on it, reaching back till I feel the space between the wall and the appliance. My fingers brush the edge of duct tape, gritty and peeling at the edges. I reach farther, gripping the cloth bag that the tape holds to the fridge. Yanking on the cloth, I rip off the duct tape and pull the bag over the edge, then cradle it to my chest and step carefully off the chair. When I first got this gun, I made cleaning it a full-time job. I loved the feel and weight of it in my hand, loved examining the mechanisms that made it deadly. Back then, I visited the gun range two or three times a week, my fantasies having a field day with the targets in my scope. If anyone at the range found it strange that I used lifelike target cutouts, they didn’t say anything to me about it. I haven’t cleaned or touched the gun in over two years. It is a bittersweet reunion.
Car: No check. I need a vehicle. I log online, trying to find the closest rental company. Enterprise’s site indicates that they will pick me up, so I call them first. It is almost five o’clock. The rep who answers the phone says that they won’t be able to get me until the morning. I start looking up taxi companies.
A knock sounds on the door—two quick raps.
Jeremy.
He holds flowers, a ridiculous gesture now that he thinks about it. He sweats in front of her door, the wilted daisies looking sad after sitting all day in his hot truck. This is his last stop of the day. He pushed her to the end of his route, hoping that she reconsidered his note and that today will be the day she will let him in.
The door swings open, startling him in its unexpected movement, and she stands there, smaller than he remembers, dressed in black. She reaches forward, grabs his shirt, and pulls him inside.
His fantasies pop their heads up, ready for a reunion of orgasmic proportions, maybe a deep kiss leading to ripping of clothing and a fuckfest right here on the worn-out floor. She leaves him standing in the middle of her apartment, in between the two bedroom areas, the stupid flowers weighing down his arms. His fantasies wilt slightly, his cock taking a detour toward soft. She paces to a desk, leans over the computer, and types furiously into it, tossing words over her shoulder at him. “Do you have a car?”
“A car?”
“Yes. A car.”
“Yeah—but I’m driving the delivery truck right now. I brought you flowers.”
“Toss them. Trash can is in the kitchen.” She finishes typing, then reaches behind the laptop and unplugs it, coiling the cord around her hand in a quick, hurried motion. “Thank you,” she says suddenly, turning to meet his eyes, the words an afterthought. “Trash. Kitchen.”
“Right.” He walks over to the kitchen and pushes the rejected daisies into the trash, squashing TV dinner boxes in the process. So much for that gesture. Come to think of it, maybe she isn’t a hearts-and-flowers kind of girl. He turns to watch her, her feet moving quickly as she opens a black backpack and slides her laptop inside, the cord along with it.
“Are you done with your route?”
“Yes. Are you allergic to flowers?”
“Where is your car?”
“It’s a truck. It’s at the distribution center.”
“How far is that from here?”
“Umm…like ten minutes. Are you going somewhere?” It is a ridiculous question to ask her, but she seems to be going through the normal activities of someone who would actually step outside. Leave the apartment. She even has shoes on.
“We.”
“We what?”
She stops, turning to him, an irritated expression on her face. “We are going somewhere. I need a car. Take me to yours, and I will pay for you to take a taxi home. I’ll bring your car back to you in the morning.” She turns back to her bag, shoving in a thick black object and a bound stack of cash. His eyes follow the cash, his mind questioning his vision even as it focuses on the cash’s wrapper: $10,000?
“Uh…no.”
“No?” She turns, her eyes flashing at him—dark and confident. Wherever the crazy, I’ll-stab-you-to-death persona was, it has taken a break and is sipping coffee somewhere else in this girl’s mind. “We’ll talk in your truck. Let’s go.” She grabs a ring of keys, shrugs into the backpack, and heads for the door. With no clear option in sight, Jeremy follows.
She avoids the elevator, hesitating briefly before banging open the stairwell door at the end of the hall and jogging down the steps. She takes the six flights of stairs quickly, time seeming to be a valuable commodity. He follows closely, trying to figure out what is going on and if he should toss his box cutters into the closest trash can. At the bottom she pauses, takes a deep breath, and presses open the exit door, stepping into the light.
Vampire. His niece’s diagnosis pops into Jeremy’s mind when he sees her reaction to the sun. She sways briefly, her legs glued to the ground, and squints into the sun—seeming to notice and avoid everything in one brief moment. Looking around urgently, her eyes lock on his truck, and she moves toward it, her feet stumbling slightly.