Chapter 12 Droplets
Droplets
Unknown
It was too easy to follow them.
The way they tried to slink amongst the shadows as if they could hide and cloak their wrong doings was laughable. Nonetheless, you sought them out, delighting in the chase.
People were creatures of habit, following their routines—clinging to them as if their life depended on it, and maybe they did—but it made stalking that much easier.
Somewhere nearby, water dropped steadily, a timekeeper of its own as you lurked in the inky corners of a warehouse.
A city as large as Portland made it easy to come and go as you pleased within the industrial districts.
Long haul trucks continuously came in to pick up their wares before leaving.
Trains stopped with ear piercing screeches, but never stayed long enough to memorize your face.
The constant buzz of activity dimmed at this hour, but even still, those who lingered had jobs to complete, other worries lining their faces. They wouldn’t notice a few weird occurrences in the area.
Or screaming.
The freight trains desensitized even the most skeptical.
It’d been too easy, following the man now dead before you, leaking blood onto the dirty concrete floor. One bright hole in the center of his forehead told the story of his death, a slowing stream of crimson pooling beneath him the closing remarks to his life.
Men like him portrayed themselves as powerful, untouchable, but in the end, they all died the same. Some of them even begged, which never made a difference. If anything it made your black heart swell.
A train’s horn blared nearby, its harsh sound covering anything else, which had been in your favor earlier. The man’s incessant babbles forever seared into your head.
I don’t think that’s necessary.
Please, d-don’t do this.
I already paid what was owed.
I don’t have what you want.
On and on he went, talking through the motions of you screwing a silencer onto the end of your gun until the bullets quieted him, permanently. It had been in beautiful harmony with the clamor of the factory plots all around.
A poetic ending for a vile man.
But your work was far from over. While he may have paid his money, he still owed you a great deal. He was a pawn in a larger game—his death serving an end goal. A smile stretched across your shadow darkened features. This man’s death was accomplishing more than his life ever had.
Creeping closer, eyes flicking back and forth from the body to the shadows, you made sure you were still alone. Although you’d done your research, knowing this warehouse was between tenants, being caught this early wouldn’t do any good. The plans you’d made for yourself would abruptly end.
No. No, you couldn’t have that.
Besides, the right people would eventually hear of you. Word of mouth spread differently in these hellish circles, where even the dead had things to say when their mouths no longer could.
And so, placing your gun back in its ankle holster and slipping a knife free from another, its blade glinting, you went to work. There was much to be done after all.
Closing the eyes of the deceased was a practice of respect, but that emotion had long left your body. You longed for the opposite effect. He deserved worse; he earned the right to have his eyes wide open, baiting whoever stumbled across his corpse to know what it felt like to suffer.
Sharp steel met the tissue of his eye, slicing through like butter with a stomach turning squelch.
* * *
A LITTLE WHILE later, his cool skin seeped through your gloved fingers, the dead body a perfect host for your next clue.
Deftly, your hands slipped the key fob from a clear plastic bag to its final resting place.
An idea you’d decided on long ago, your mind feeling a bit devious.
A small incision in the man’s stomach—made by your own hand—barely leaked any crimson since his heart was still.
Steady fingers probed the handmade wound, prying it open wide enough for you to push the key fob in.
A faint sucking noise told you it’d reached the inner layers of muscle and fat.
A gentle pat on Ivan’s stomach calmed the inner racing of your heart. Everything was coming to fruition, like you wanted.
Now, the dull sawing of thread feeding itself through flesh kept you company.
Stitch after stitch.
Suture after suture.