June 18th 2002, five days after my last kill. My targets had become so easy that I no longer have to plan how to kill them, I just show up and it was done. My targets left themselves wide open like a back door, it’s no wonder they’re dead with no witnesses.
My best friend, Emilia, immediately jumped up on our kitchen counter, in order to try and see out of our window, over the fence, and into his. On her knees on our draining board, craning her neck, she still couldn't see. Next thing I knew she was standing on our windowsill behind the kitchen sink. I'm pretty sure the amount of alcohol and weed she had taken in had made her feel like this was a good idea.
When we first viewed the house we now live in, next door was in such a state we assumed it was derelict. There were boards at the windows, you couldn't see the front door for overgrowth, and the local people had decided to use the front garden as a flytipping point.
The only sound that could be heard was the never ending chirping of crickets, the rustling of the too tall grass as it moved with the wind, and the whisper of the running water. The air was heavy with humidity and the night sky seemed higher without the pollution of the neighborhood lights. If Bryce Massett held his breath and kept still, he could swear he didn’t exist; there was nothing but the wind, Willow Creek, and the wildlife that always seemed to find him no matter how invisible he was.
“Stacey, I’m telling you, he was a total dick! I even offered to show the guy some of our high-end houses—though I know he couldn’t afford them—and he told me to go fuck myself! Can you believe that?”
I've been running with the headlights off for the last half mile but as I approach the bottom of the last hill I kill the engine and let the old Charger's momentum carry carry me up to the top. I step out of the vehicle and then hop on to the roof. My dad would have cringed to see my heavy boots on the roof of his car, but then he would not have thought so highly of the bullet holes she had gathered over the years either.
The wintery cold air blew from the North giving me a sneeze. I grabbed my coat as I shivered from the freezing weather. I looked up at the long line that seemed endless as more customers approached. Today was a pretty busy day. Lots of customers are in line and the conversations I heard grew gradually. It must be because a traditional holiday is near, sending tons of visitors and tourists crowded all over the town to pay a visit for their loved ones. Although today was filled with exhaustion from the unusual busy work, the customers at the neighborhood grocery were mostly nice and kind. It was nice to have someone to talk to on a day like this. Especially, the old women with the hair like the color of shredded paper and ageless worn cloth which you can find across 71st Ave. Oh, and also that young twelve-year-old girl named Amy who I just remembered. I had the longest conversation with Amy, whose hair was like fire red, her cloth was new and fancy made from her own mother’s talented little hands, whose shoes were as blue as the cold night sky, and her eyes were like the never-ending ocean over the horizon. Her smile was warmer than sunshine. Amy always cheered me up. It’s her personality that naturally does the job.