19. Chapter 19
The Jester’s threats trailed after me like a persistent exhaust long after my shift ended. They followed me all the way into the harsh, flickering fluorescent hum of a dingy gas station, where I bought another cheap pair of earbuds.
I felt entirely numb as I counted out the crumpled cash, throwing a chocolate candy bar onto the counter as an afterthought.
On the walk back to my apartment, I chewed mechanically, not really tasting the synthetic chocolate.
I plopped down onto my mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling, swallowed by an encroaching dread.
What the hell was I supposed to do?
Did everyone else in Blackthorne harbor the same anger and resentment as that man did? Were they all watching me, tracking my movements with silent condemnation because I breathed the same air as the Jester and did nothing to stop him?
But I wasn’t a killer. I couldn't fashion a shiv from a toothbrush and plunge it into someone’s throat—not even if they deserved it.
Seeking an escape from my own head, I grabbed a water bottle, took a heavy swig, and retreated to the bathroom.
I twisted the knob until the pipes groaned, letting the water scald to its absolute hottest setting before stepping under the spray.
In the suffocating, steamy silence, my thoughts violently looped back to the exact moment the Jester’s eyes caught the collar of my shirt. The moment he saw my neck.
The raw, predatory fury that had flashed in his eyes.
Why had he reacted like that? Why did he care if I was bruised? What could a person like him possibly want with a nobody like me?
It has to be nothing, I told myself, the mantra a desperate shield. He was the Jester. And I was just Elara Hart, a girl who wiped down blood and bleach for a living.
I bit down on my lower lip, trying to crush the thought of him, biting so viciously that the sharp tang of copper flooded my mouth. A single drop of blood escaped, tracing a slow, hot path down my chin.
In the heat of the shower, the pain morphed into a dangerous, intoxicating spark. For the first time all day, I let myself actually feel. It was a terrifying, tantalizing realization.
I had his undivided attention.
In a world that treated me like a ghost, a mass murderer looked at me and actually saw me. Not as a project to be fixed, and not as a nameless face in a uniform, but as something he wanted to possess.
The heat of the water blended with a sudden, desperate ache.
My hand slipped down my stomach, wandering between my thighs.
My knee clipped a shelf, sending a shampoo bottle clattering into the tub, but the noise was muffled by the roar of the water and the sudden, violent rush of blood in my ears.
I closed my eyes and surrendered to it, letting volatile, dark images of him cloud my mind until the tension broke, leaving me breathless in the steam.
The rhythmic drumming of the water gradually reclaimed the room as the initial shockwave of pleasure receded, leaving my muscles trembling and heavy. I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the slick, warm tile of the shower wall, letting the smooth ceramic anchor me back to reality.
In. Out.
I forced my lungs to expand, waiting for my frantic heart to stop hammering against my ribs. The volatile images of the Jester slowly dissolved into the steam, leaving behind a hollow, lingering ache and a profound wave of exhaustion and shame.
With a sigh, I finally turned off the tap.
The sudden silence in the bathroom was deafening.
I dragged myself out of the stall, dried off with a towel that had seen better days, and grudgingly pulled on a pair of oversized sweatpants and a faded t-shirt.
The apartment felt freezing now, the dampness in my hair only making the draft worse.
My stomach gave a growl, reminding me that a mechanically chewed chocolate bar didn't count as dinner.
I shuffled into the cramped kitchenette and grabbed a packet of instant ramen—chicken flavor, the cheap kind that was basically sodium and yellow dye.
I dumped the brick of noodles into a bowl of water and shoved it into the microwave, setting the timer and leaning against the counter as the machine started its dull, rhythmic hum.
To pass the time, I pulled my cellphone from my pocket and unlocked the cracked screen. My thumb hovered over the browser before I finally typed it into the search bar: Online Therapy.
The events of the day—the inmate's venomous stare, the Jester's suffocating intensity—were piling up in my chest like a collapsing building.
I needed to talk to someone. Anyone who wasn't trapped inside those concrete prison walls.
A sleek, brightly colored ad popped up promising "affordable, confidential care from the comfort of your couch.
" I clicked it, scrolling down past the smiling stock photos of therapists to the actual pricing tier.
My eyes hit the numbers, and a groan escaped my throat.
Monthly Subscription: $95.00 (Billed monthly and 10% discount if you pay once annually)
"Are you kidding me?" I muttered to the empty kitchen.
Nearly a hundred dollars a month. That was a hefty chunk of my rent.
I stared at the screen in bleak disbelief, already knowing the answer before the thought even fully formed.
There was absolutely no way my low-tier prison employee insurance would cover a luxury like this—especially not for a virtual startup.
If it didn't involve a physical doctor handing me a generic prescription, my provider pretty much pretended it didn't exist.
The microwave beeped, a sharp, metallic sound that signaled my dinner was ready.
I closed the tab, shoved the phone back into my pocket, and grabbed an oven mitt to retrieve the steaming bowl, wondering if there was a helpline out there for people who were losing their minds over a deranged serial killer.
Maybe I should just quit, I mused, staring down into the curling steam of the bowl.
I plunged a fork into the tangled mass of ramen and shoved a hasty bite into my mouth, only to wince as the boiling broth scalded my tongue.
"Fuck." I hissed, fanning my mouth, the sharp sting a bitter punctuation to my thoughts.
There were other ways to pay rent. I could sling coffee at a diner, or scrub down rooms at some generic highway hotel.
The world was full of ordinary, mind-numbing jobs that didn't involve breathing in the scent of bleach and blood.
Tomorrow was my day off. I could get a jump start on a new life—pound the pavement, walk the city blocks, and plaster my resume onto the counter of every business with a 'Help Wanted' sign in the window.
It wasn't just my sanity hanging by a fraying thread anymore; it was my actual life.
I wasn't naive enough to mistake the Jester’s fixation for something soft.
For some inexplicable, terrifying reason, the Jester had turned his spotlight onto me.
But spotlight beams were fickle things, and I knew exactly what kind of monster he was.
To the Jester, people weren't human beings—they were playthings, tools, instruments to be tuned and used for his own amusement.
Dread settled in my stomach. The math was simple, and the conclusion was brutal. The second the novelty wore off, the second I bored him and ceased to be of any use…
I would be as good as dead.