Chapter 17 Sera
Sera
Morning light filters through the bedroom window, turning the insides of my eyelids a warm orange. I wake slowly, savoring the delicious ache between my legs, the soreness in muscles I rarely use. My body feels used, marked, claimed in the best possible way.
I stretch, wincing at the twinge in my lower back, and smile at the ceiling.
The ceiling that has new bloody footprints marching across it.
I freeze mid-stretch, my breath catching. The prints start at the far wall, walking up from the floor, defying gravity as they stride confidently across the white plaster overhead. Perfect, rusty-brown footprints. Small and feminine, just like mine.
Whatever walks these walls at night, whatever leaves these crimson messages, it’s trying to tell me something. But what?
“I’m listening now,” I whisper to the empty room.
In the bathroom, the water runs clear since I showered right when I got home early this morning.
Blood from my hair, from under my nails, from the creases of my skin had seeped down the drain.
But even now, during my second shower, there’s still dried blood under my right thumbnail.
I leave it there, a tiny memento of the night before, of Rick’s systematic disassembly on the gas station bathroom floor.
If I should be icked out by fucking in someone’s blood, I’m not.
It was hot and sinful and even more of a “fuck you” to Rick while he lay there dying.
Besides, many diseases in blood die on contact with air almost instantly.
For those that didn’t… Well, I needed to get a refill of my birth control prescription anyway, so I might as well get tested.
Steam billows around me as I towel off, wiping condensation from the mirror to study my reflection.
There’s a dark bruise on my hip in the perfect shape of James’s thumb.
Another on my shoulder. My lips are still slightly swollen.
I look…different, not just the marks, but something in my eyes. Something settled. Focused.
James took the trash bags with him in his van to dispose of them, not in “a boggin’ bin,” or a dumpster as I eventually translated that to mean, but in large bodies of water.
Since Wichita, Kansas, doesn’t have too many of those, he offered to make a drive.
I didn’t ask where. Some things are better left unknown.
Boggin’ bins, according to him, are out of the question due to a recent upswing in content creation of the bin-diving variety.
If I’d known I could’ve made a living filming myself dumpster-diving and making a killing on YouTube and TikTok, I would’ve seriously reconsidered getting my master’s degree in library science.
A lot of good that degree is doing me now. After the trial, after the not-guilty verdict, the director of the library I worked at, a male, must’ve thought I’d “falsely” accuse him next and therefore scrambled for a reason to fire me.
“Budget cuts,” he’d said, which was such utter bullshit because I’d seen the budget reports with my own eyes.
So not only had he ruined my body, my heart, my trust, my soul, he’d also destroyed my livelihood, my passion, my reputation, and my ability to live.
Everything…gone.
That was why I’d turned to writing and publishing smut—to keep myself alive and plan my revenge in the dark confines of my home.
I pull on a fresh gas station uniform shirt, the ugly polyester fabric rough against my skin. At my vanity, I apply lipstick. Bloodred, of course, like war paint.
The sound of Rick’s skull separating from his spine plays in my mind, a wet, final crack that should disturb me but doesn’t. Instead, dark joy rises in my chest. No more Rick. No more wandering hands, no more leering glances, no more “accidental” brushes against my ass when I’m stocking shelves.
The gas station is mine now.
I tuck a knife into my boot anyway. Just in case.
***
My shift is so quiet. Normally Rick would be here by now, yapping and bothering me. The absence of his cheap cologne is like fresh air after a storm. I hum to myself as I stock cups by the coffee counter, glancing occasionally at the bathroom door.
Clean and spotless, not a speck of blood or bone fragment to be found. James and I were thorough. Horny and made hornier by playing and fucking in Rick’s blood, but thorough.
James fucked me with Rick’s blood on his cock, and all the dark parts of me lit up like a Christmas tree. I should’ve known I’d get off on murder. I’m just like my characters in my books.
Late that afternoon, the store phone rings, and I pick it up, my voice professionally pleasant.
“Gas N’ Go. This is Sera speaking.”
“Where the fuck is Rick?” The voice on the other end is harsh, irritated.
Mr. Dempsey, the regional manager. I’ve only talked to him once before, and I wasn’t impressed.
“I’ve been calling his cell all morning,” he continued. “We’ve got inventory reports due, and the beer distributor needs signing.”
“I haven’t seen him today, sir,” I say, injecting just the right amount of confusion into my voice. “I figured he was running late.”
“Fucking useless,” Dempsey spits. “This is the third time this month he just disappeared on me. I swear to God, I’m going to fire his useless ass.”
I make a sympathetic noise, hiding my smile even though he can’t see me. “That’s a shame. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
“Well, until he bothers to show his face, you’re in charge. Got it? I need those inventory numbers by seven o’clock tonight, and someone’s gotta deal with the beer guy when he comes.”
I hesitate for dramatic effect. “Me? But I don’t have any managerial training—“
“You’ve worked there, what, two weeks? You know where the damn paperwork is. Just do it, okay? Consider it a trial run. Rick’s been slipping lately anyway, and you seem to have your head on your shoulders.”
I bite back a snort, even as the opportunity dangles before me like a ripe fruit.
I reach for it, my voice carefully measured. “Well, if you’re sure…I’ll give it a try.”
“Good. Keys to the office are in the register drawer. Call me when you’ve got those numbers.”
The line goes dead. I replace the receiver slowly, savoring the moment. From the ashes of Rick’s dismembered corpse, a promotion rises. Poetic justice at its finest.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of mundane tasks elevated by my new authority.
I help customers, stock shelves, and spend an hour in Rick’s tiny office sorting through the mess of paperwork he left behind.
The beer distributor comes and goes, clearly relieved to deal with someone who isn’t perpetually unorganized.
I sign for the delivery with a flourish, enjoying the weight of the pen in my hand.
Power, even in this small, grubby way, tastes sweet.
During a lull in the evening, I pull out my phone and search for nearby dog parks.
I save the locations to my phone, a little thrill running through me.
It’s time to turn up the heat on him with a little gift, not of the severed hand variety, though.
Maybe later. Not of the severed dog part either because eww.
I love dogs, so much so that I’d once considered vet school, but the idea of steeping myself in the smell of books decided my future for me.
Still, though, the doggy smiles on the Google search results make me smile.
The bell over the door chimes, and I glance up, sliding my phone away. A male customer needs help finding the bathroom. I point him in the right direction, my smile growing teeth. Obviously I don’t mention that less than twenty-four hours ago, a man was being dismembered on that very floor.
At close to midnight, I begin closing procedures, each task performed with meticulous care. This is my domain now. My perfect little stage set for the next act of my revenge.
I lock the front door and flip the sign to Closed. The keys jingle pleasantly in my hand as I make my final rounds. My keys, my responsibility. I run my fingers along the shelves, straightening products that don’t need straightening, like a queen surveying her new kingdom.
It’s not much of a kingdom with its fluorescent lights, linoleum floors, and the perpetual smell of hot dogs rotating on the warmer. But it’s mine. A foothold. A step closer to him.
I check the bathroom one last time. No hint of the violence that transpired here. No whisper of Rick’s final moments. Just the sharp smell of industrial cleaner and the gleam of freshly scrubbed tiles.
I turn off the lights and head for the exit, locking the door behind me. The night air is cool against my skin as I walk to my car, my keys clutched in my fist. Other than my boarded-up basement, now I have keys to yet another crime scene.
Progress.