4. Waiting
Waiting
I finished writing the last of my notes, then jotted down the annotation. The book itself had seen better days; the paper thinned and had a musty smell to it. It was almost too dry to the touch, as though the material was flaking off. Or maybe it was just a lot of dust.
I closed it and began putting away some of my belongings before slowing my pace.
No one had shown up yet, and part of me―an insane part―hoped the killer would.
But maybe he didn’t want to be seen, and having been here most of the evening, he hadn’t had the chance to approach me.
I glanced around; a few other students busied themselves with work at their own little cubicles.
Leaving things unattended wasn’t out of the ordinary when needing to use the washroom quickly, but I was always a bit nervous about it.
Still, I needed to leave something behind so he’d know I was coming back.
I grabbed my messenger bag but left the rest. Drinks, empty wrappers, a few books, and some notes; a message to anyone seeing the desk that whoever was using it wasn’t done with it yet.
As I left the quiet room, chills ran along my skin at the sudden blast of air conditioner; apparently, someone wanted to pretend they lived in the Arctic in this particular corridor. That or the thing was busted.
The washroom was tiny, only two stalls. But with one on every floor, they didn’t need to be much bigger.
Not as though people spent hours in here usually.
I picked the one against the wall and sat on the toilet, trying not to think of the germs I could be getting.
Hovering wasn’t an option; I’d likely lose my balance and fall face-first on the floor.
Not a position I wanted paramedics to find me in.
And if I covered the seat with toilet paper, it would likely stick to my sweaty thighs more than anything.
The door to the washroom opened, and I stiffened. Heavy boots stepped forward, the sound of the metal on the sides clicking against the zippers. My heart hammered in my chest as I held my breath, waiting for the stall door to suddenly break down and have a maniac brandishing a knife at me.
Instead, the door opened again, and someone else walked in.
“So are we going to Dominion’s tonight or not?” a woman asked in a hushed tone.
There was a scoff. “Of course. Where else can we get wasted at those prices?”
My shoulders relaxed, and I pressed my hand against my mouth to keep from snickering out loud.
Here I was, assuming a serial killer had actually taken the bait and came to find me in the women’s washroom, of all places.
There were people around, and the man had eluded being found out for years; he wasn’t stupid enough to show up here and murder someone without having done some research first.
I waited a bit, but when both women didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon, I flushed and left the stall. I glanced at the one next to mine and noticed the clogged toilet; that’s why they’d been waiting for me to finish.
The one with the steel-toed boots gave me a quick nod before sliding in after me, while the other woman with the short dress crossed her arms and waited by the wall.
The air conditioning didn’t work as well inside this area, and sweat had formed along my upper lip. I quickly wiped it away before turning on the tap and washing my hands. The cool water was nice for a second before it went warm.
The woman waiting for her turn rubbed the back of her neck and let out a sigh. “Are you sure we should go? I mean, we have to go by that shady area...”
“That’s why it’s cheap,” the other one chimed from inside the stall. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
I finished washing my hands, then grabbed some paper towels to dry them; although, in this humidity, I wasn’t sure it was possible.
I stared at the woman, unsure if I wanted to say anything.
Part of me wanted to warn her about what to expect at Dominion’s since she looked a bit.
.. innocent, was the only word that came to mind.
But it wasn’t my place, so I gave the girl a smile and then left. Again, the arctic air blasted me in the face, instantly making my sweat turn cold against my skin. I rubbed my arms a few times, trying to dry off, but I just shivered and picked up the pace.
Back in the quiet study area, I approached my desk, pulse throbbing in my ears as my gaze swept along the surface.
Nothing.
I let out a breath and grinned; of course there wouldn’t be anything.
I’d hoped there would be. Maybe a note or something to show he’d been here, looking for me.
But that was stupid. And a dangerous hope to have, anyway.
With a small shake of my head, I grabbed the rest of my stuff and headed out into the cold recycled air, then outside into the scorching heat.
This kind of sudden change in temperatures couldn’t be healthy, but with the way I was heading, there were deadlier things that would end up killing me.
As my footsteps echoed against the hot sidewalk, my mind wandered off to where it always went whenever someone mentioned the name Dominion’s.
In my first years of university, I’d gone to the club often, always looking for someone who might show interest in me.
High school had been lonely since I’d shut myself away, and by the time I found any kind of self-confidence, I was too awkward for normal human interaction.
Still, I’d made some friends―including Martin―but I’d found something else too.
A drug dealer by the nickname Lee. He’d given me a free sample of opioids, and soon enough, all the pain I’d felt in my life had vanished away with just half of a small pill.
And despite knowing how the drug worked―or didn’t―I was hooked.
I’d given myself excuse after excuse to continue taking some.
It was rare at first. Always half, even if it didn’t work as well after a while.
Then I had to start paying for the full dose.
It wasn’t cheap, and I didn’t have the disposable income.
But Lee was generous. He accepted a lower amount of cash as long as I gave him blowjobs too.
A few times, I had no money at all and desperately needed another dose faster than expected, and for that, he was as generous as ever.
All I needed to do was perform the same on his friends.
That night I was passed around was the last time I went to the nightclub.
Not because of the shame but because one of those new friends I’d made, Ginette, overdosed.
Someone else died. Next to me. Because of me.
I’d gotten her hooked just talking about the relief I’d felt when taking it.
It was all my fault. Again. Death followed me everywhere as though I owed it my life.
It was that next morning I admitted to my social worker I had a problem.
With her help, I was able to see a doctor and, from there, a psychiatrist who prescribed me small doses to eventually wean me off completely.
I never went to the psychologist, though; bad experiences with them in the past. Didn’t trust them after I saw one at thirteen, and he didn’t believe what I told him.
I tightened my grip on the messenger bag as I approached Waller Street; if I turned down that road, it would bring me to Dominion’s. To that wonderful high that took away all my anguish.
But I turned around and took the next street. Toward home instead. If I fell into drugs again, I wouldn’t be able to write my report. Nothing was more important. Except maybe meeting the man I was writing it about.