5. Melody
Melody
F or the second day in a row, my head is killing me. The pain feels like an ice pick lodged in my skull, and the rest of me isn't faring any better. Rubbing my face, I roll over in bed and feel a depression in the mattress.
Like someone was lying there. Still warm.
Wait, what? My eyes pop wide open, and I snake a hand to the dent in the sheets. It's definitely still warm. Could it have been me? Did I toss and turn through the night?
My lungs burn for air, but I didn't even notice I'd stopped breathing. Gasping, I slowly sit up. Someone was in here. Charlie's family? Why would they lie in my bed? Why wouldn't they just kill me in my sleep?
Maybe they're trying to terrorize me before the kill, a tiny voice echoes in the back of my mind.
Fuck. That has to be it. I close my eyes and try to think.
Did I dream anything strange? Everything from the past, oh, however many hours is a black void.
Pressing my hands into my forehead, I strain my thoughts.
A man. I think I dreamed of a man, tall, in a dark suit. Someone I've seen before, but I can't place him. Black hair. Piercing eyes. Haunting tattoos peeking from the collar of his dress shirt. Faces. So many faces. Warped and blurred, like someone smeared their hand through an oil painting.
The man who's going to kill me. A prickling sensation washes over me, as if I'm being watched right now .
I yank the covers up around me and panic. Fuck. Fuck. I knew I wouldn't get away with it forever, but I didn't think they'd catch me this soon! Shit. My hands are sweating, and I can't grip anything tight enough. I think I have a knife in the kitchen. I just have to get there.
"One, two, three!" I count to myself and leap out of bed, sprinting down the tiny hall, frantically searching for the knife. But what I see on the kitchen counter stops me in my tracks.
Another goddamn rose. As if it's a bomb, I scurry backwards and keep myself pressed up to the walls, sidling along to my front door. It's locked.
It's fucking locked. Someone was in here, and they have a key. Charlie's family has a key to my apartment. The one shitty building I could find that didn't do a background check, that didn't demand payment via bank transfer, that allowed me to live out my life in obscurity.
And it's no longer safe.
Steeling myself, I begin my search to see if anything is missing. I don't have much money, and I definitely don't have that many possessions. But I can't afford to lose what I do have.
Taking care not to disturb the rose, I open all of the kitchen cabinets.
Nothing is missing. In fact, the opposite is true: there are five boxes of assorted energy bars from my favorite brand.
In my fridge, I find a gallon of milk, expensive-looking cheese, whole wheat bread, and a slab of salmon wrapped in butcher paper.
Fresh-cut herbs sit in small jars of water, looking as healthy as if they were still on the plant.
"What the fuck?" I whisper. What kind of game is Charlie's family playing? They're… feeding me?
Charlie's voice echoes through my mind. "Fat cunt. You shouldn't be eating that. You could stand to go hungry once in a while." I shudder and slam shut the cabinet doors. This has to be some kind of mind game they're playing. It's probably poisoned.
I won't touch a single thing.
Making my way back down the hall, I check the bathroom. Nothing looks out of place, but a new unopened bottle of my shampoo rests in the shower caddy. A chill runs down my spine.
They've been watching me. They know what I like. They know what I buy. And they're lulling me into some kind of false sense of security, leaving gifts for me. It has to be some kind of fucked-up ploy to keep me complacent. Let my guard down, and then they strike.
Fuck that.
Back in my bedroom, I turn the place upside down, searching for anything either missing or new. Tears bubble up behind my eyes, but I won't let them fall. They're probably watching me, even now, and I won't give them the satisfaction of breaking me.
I sift through my clothes. Shirts, fine.
Pants, fine. Socks, fine. I take the time to fold them nicely so that if—god forbid—this happens again, it'll be immediately apparent.
The tears threaten to fall again as I work.
I can't afford to move again. I can't afford to pay a security deposit.
And I seriously doubt I could find another place like this—pure anonymity.
The mailboxes in the lobby don't even have names affixed, just apartment numbers. It's perfect.
Just as I finish up my folding, I can't find my favorite pair of panties. Black cotton with little white skulls, cheeky boyshorts, with lace around the hems.
No, they wouldn't… would they? Why would Charlie's family take my underwear? They want to kill me, not fuck me. Right?
My skin is slick with cold sweat, and my heart hasn't stopped pounding. I triple-checked the bathroom laundry pile as well, but no dice. I think I have to call the cops.
I'm not under any delusions that they'll be helpful, but if I get a paper trail going, maybe Charlie's fucked-up family will see some time behind bars.
A giggle forces its way out of my throat.
I killed him, and I want his family to do jail time.
His sleazy nephew always looked at me like I was a rat, something to crush under his shoe.
Phil. I think he had some tattoos, and his hair was definitely dark.
Phil is following me. Phil broke into my home. Phil stole my panties. It has to be him.
But why would he put food in my kitchen? It doesn't make sense.
With a shuddering sigh, I grab my phone and call 911.
Bored cops mill about in my apartment, casually taking photos of the rose and food.
A tall woman, not in uniform, looks down her nose at me.
She'd introduced herself as Detective Ella.
Nervously, I focus on the blond hair she's slicked back into a low bun.
There isn't a hair out of place. She doesn't have a single flyaway, which is grounds for jealousy, in my opinion.
"So, uh—" She checks her notepad. "—Melody. They only took a pair of underwear? And left you… food? And personal care items?"
My cheeks burn red. "Yes, but they broke in! Someone was in my home, I think it's Phil—"
"Phil who?" Detective Ella interrupts me.
"Phil Pinelli, he's my… step-cousin? He's hated me for years . I thought he lived in Chicago, but he's here!" I know I sound hysterical, but they're not taking me seriously. The same tears I held back for so long spill out against my will.
"Right… Chicago. He hates you, and you think he's here in Philadelphia, to… give you food, flowers, and soap?" She cocks an eyebrow and scribbles something in her notepad.
"No signs of forced entry. Some paint chips on the windowsill, but it's a fourth-floor walkup. No one broke in through the window unless they had a big-ass ladder," one of the uniformed cops interrupts. I fix my watery glare at him, and he just shrugs.
"Thanks, Dan. We're done here." Detective Ella snaps her notepad shut and digs out a business card from her pocket. "If you see anything else weird, call this number."
I take the card. Detective Rafaella Angelo forces a tight smile at me.
"Wait, seriously? You're just leaving? Someone broke into my apartment and stole from me!" I protest through my tears.
"We'll have a police report for you in a few days, if you want to submit it to your renter's insurance company. But there's really nothing else we can do. Call us back if it happens again, though." Rafaella motions at her cop buddies to follow her, and they leave, slamming my door behind them.
I slump down onto my boot-marked floor. They didn't do anything.
They took pictures and ridiculed me. No dusting for prints, nothing.
I crumple up the business card and throw it into the corner.
Fuck these cops. Fuck this whole situation.
I knew they wouldn't help me in the short term, but I had a tiny sliver of hope.
Honestly, I wouldn't put it past them to dump my report in the precinct trash and forget about me. Forget about this . Swiping away my tears, I vow to myself that I'll take care of it. If Phil is really here, and he's really watching me, he'll fucking regret it.
I've killed a man before. I can do it again.
With my hours cut at work, I have some newfound free time. And it seems that I'll need to break into my meager savings for some home defense implements. My raggedy car shakes and sputters as I pull into the superstore parking lot.
"Don't quit on me now," I mumble under my breath and gather my purse. I can only afford a few things, but at the top of my list is a good chef knife. If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do this the right way.
Charlie's corpse flashes through my mind again.
The sound of his screams fill my ears, and I lean back in my seat, ecstasy washing over me.
It felt so good to ruin him. After all those years of snide comments, shoving me against walls, slamming my head into the floor. I got mine, Charlie. Rot in piss.
My eyes roll back in my head, and I pant out my breaths.
Fuck, yes. I adored the way the knife split his skin, spilling out the beautiful crimson.
The death rattle when he inhaled. The unadulterated fear in his eyes as I removed his hands.
They simply… popped away from his arms, like they were never meant to be there.
One slip of a knife, and he could never touch anyone again.
Heat builds in my core and I let out a whine, writhing in my seat. Bliss builds in the back of my mind—I'm at a precipice—and I fucking jump . Wave after wave of pleasure rocks my body, and I groan loudly. Not a care in the world.
"Fuck you, Charlie," I moan out. "Fuck you."
I remember his last gurgling breath as sweat breaks across my brow, and I come back to my senses. I'm in my car. In the parking lot of a superstore.
Did I just come? From thinking about murder?
I'm afraid I'm seriously fucked in the head, but life goes on. I breathe in for four seconds, out for seven. My heart rate returns to normal. The sweat dries on my forehead. I blink until my eyes return to focus.
Go time.
Stepping out of the car, I furtively peek around the lot. It's surprisingly empty, but I suppose it is the middle of a weekday. An elderly woman looks in my direction and smiles politely. I return it and wave to her, striding over to the cart corral. Knife time.
There really should be a study about the effects of fluorescent lights and their correlation with serial killers.
My eyes are burning, and I need to get out of this suburban hellhole.
Bored teenagers walk the aisles aimlessly—shouldn't they be in school?
Upon second look, they're probably college-aged kids. Adults. Whatever.
I just hope none of them interrupt me while I peruse the kitchenware section.
Kitschy mugs line the shelves. Plastic dinnerware boasts prices below a dollar.
Eyeing them, I do some calculations in my head.
I'm one person, and I do have all of that food in the house now.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I scoop a plate and bowl into my cart.
The knives hang in plastic sheaths. None of them are really professional- looking. There's even a package of rainbow-colored steak knives. Cute, but useless for my purposes.
After inspecting the other knives, I finally find something worthwhile. A German brand, eight inches, and lethally sharp. "A sharp knife is a safe knife," I whisper to myself with a smile.
The thirty-dollar expense is necessary. And it's not like thirty dollars is a make-or-break amount for my international travel plans. After peeking around for a clerk, I crack open the plastic sheath and slide the knife out.
It feels good in my hand. Cold. Heavy. Substantial. I test the edge and hiss in pain as it easily splits my thumb.
It's perfect.
The drive back home is a glorious blur. I'm no longer unarmed. Phil can break in here all he goddamn wants—I'm ready now. And I'll cut him up just like I did his uncle. Fuck that whole family. I'm glad he's dead. I'm overjoyed that they're in shambles.
My mom, on the other hand…. I know she had a life insurance policy on that shit stain.
And she stopped trying to find me after a month.
No more tear-filled press conferences begging the unknown attackers—I snort—to give me back.
Based on the news articles I stopped reading months ago, she cashed the life insurance check and moved out of town. Back to Oregon. She started a new life.
Good for her. I've done the same. All I really had to do was use my absentee dad's last name, and I'm a whole new person. Once I flee to Mexico, I'll use another name.
With thoughts of my international travel floating through my mind, I practically skip up the stairs to my apartment. The door is still locked, which is lovely. I peer around the living room and kitchen. Everything is just how I left it. No new roses. No new "gifts."
Maybe calling the cops scared Phil off for good. But, even if it didn't, that doesn't matter. I've got my own safety in my hands. I take a few practice stabs with the knife, slashing through empty air. It feels good . It feels right.
"Fuck you, Phil!" I yell. A neighbor pounds on the wall next to me, and I about jump out of my skin.
A muffled "shut up," accompanied by another bang, wipes the grin from my face.
He can steal my joy, but he can't steal my confidence.
I roll my shoulders back and narrow my eyes at the yellowed paint.
Maybe the next time I get some urges, I could pay Mister 403 a visit.