8. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Leon Aldon
I should not have talked to her.
I should have walked, no ran, the other way when I saw her standing in front of the apple cider.
She's far too beautiful and far too pure for my world.
For me.
But the damage is done, and I don't know if I'll be able to leave her alone.
I knew it was game over as soon as I got too close. She smells heavenly, like fresh blueberries, warmth, and everything good in the world, and she's somehow even more stunning up close.
Fuck!
I really fucked this up.
I just couldn't stop myself when I saw her on her knees in the parking lot, picking up the remains of her things that sprawled out across the pavement.
I just had to step in. Right?
Right?
I'm telling myself I did. That any reasonable and sane person would help a stranger pick up their things.
I'm telling myself that I was just being a good guy and that it had nothing to do with Maeve being stunningly beautiful.
Don't worry; the irony is not lost on me that I'm debating if I'm a good man while driving home from buying an entire trunk full of bleach and some fucking apple cider.
I don't even like apple cider!
I put both gallons in what are now her reusable bags and hoped she didn't notice until it was too late to make me take them back.
Those were my nicest bags, too.
Again, not the point.
The point is that I have an entire trunk full of bleach and will be wasting the rest of my evening scrubbing my basement.
Sam Fredrick died after about four hours of fun.
I could have kept going; I wanted to, but he took the fun out of it by vomiting a few too many times.
Once he started to vomit blood and was no longer able to speak, I finally gave up and decided to pity him and suffocate him just as he did to Denise.
It felt good, and Denise deserved the little piece of justice she got.
Unfortunately, now my entire basement fucking stinks.
The rotten smell of blood, piss, shit, and vomit is trapped in that room. The air is so thick and putrid that the overwhelming bleach smell will be a welcomed distraction.
As for the body, I handed that.
I melted the meat and flesh off of his bones, dumped it all in a sewer drain, and ground up his bones for fertilizer.
A couple of years ago, I read that ground animal bones are perfect for flower beds.
While I don't have any flowers, I do have a corner of my shed dedicated to the potential of planting flowers. There's soil, seeds, a shovel, and a few necessities.
Basically, everything I need to give the appearance that I'm just dying to plant roses and haven't had the time.
Just enough to not be suspicious if the cops ever showed up and found a bag of ground bones.
I'm probably being paranoid. Despite doing this since I was 18, I've never even been considered a suspect, but I'd rather be paranoid than stupid.
Even here, even now, as I scrub every inch of this room with bleach. Even as my nose burns from the harsh smell and I'm dripping in sweat, my mind floats back to Maeve.
My mind is trapped with her blueberry scent and the gorgeous freckles on her face.
Maeve, that's such a beautiful and unique name for the siren who's kidnapped my mind.
Today, she had her hair pulled into another strange braid, displaying every shade of honey and brown between the twists of her hair and another music festival getup.
She had on some sort of romper, sage green with white lace, and a canvas bag slung across her chest.
She doesn't fit into this town, this decade, or my life, but she also fits perfectly in everything.
Somehow, despite our vastly different lives, she looks as if she's about to take special mushrooms and dance in the rain while I look as if I've never once seen happiness; she fits.
I can never have her; she's too good and too bright for the world that I live in. However, that doesn't stop me from wishing things were different.
It doesn't stop my mind from floating back to her every time I dump another bucket of bloody bleach water down the drain.
Every time my knees ache from sliding across the cold tile floor, my mind is stuck on the young woman who smiled at me as she spun around and told me her name.
My mind returns to the setting sun flowing in behind her like a halo that only dares to shine for her and her alone.
It's a welcomed distraction from my least favorite part of my hobby, cleaning up.
Getting my basement to an acceptable standard takes me the entire night. When I get upstairs, I see the rising sun blaring in from my windows and sigh in defeat that I will be exhausted all day.
I'm too damn old for this.
Thank fuck I don't have my first client until the afternoon; at least I can sleep in a little.
I scrub every inch of my body in the shower, scrubbing off layers of dried blood and the sticky feeling of sweat and bleach on my skin, figuring I'll worry about burning my bloody clothes tomorrow.
That's what they're for anyway; all of my playtime clothes are disposable in my eyes.
Another precaution to avoid being caught, they'll never find blood stains on my clothes or remnants in my washer if the clothes never make it that far.
Today, however, I'll just worry about getting some fucking sleep.
I think it's been at least 30 hours since I've gotten any and I'm too damn old for that.
It was easy staying up for days at a time when I was 18 and killing, but now at 34?
I struggle.
At 18, I could stay up all day, kill who I needed at night, clean it up, and still have the energy to make it to class on time.
Of course, then, I hadn't perfected my skill. I had no safe place to do it, so I usually did it at the victims' houses.
I always staged it like a robbery, stealing a few things, busting the door off the frame, and making the injuries look like they struggled.
That kind of shit.
I'm surprised I never got caught when I was young and ignorant, but I would always keep an eye on the investigations, not relaxing until I saw that the police had ruled it a robbery and left it alone.
As I have perfected my skill, I realized I needed a controlled environment.
I needed a stable and sterile place to do what I liked.
I need somewhere that won't stain with blood, somewhere soundproof and isolated.
My first official spot was a closed-down store on the outskirts of town. I'd drag them into the freezer, where nobody could hear them if they screamed.
It was the perfect setup then, but after a year or two of that, someone bought the building.
I didn't buy this house until I was 22 and exhausted every other option and location I could think of.
I live on a dead-end road, the last house on the road, and my closest neighbor is over a mile away. It's secluded and quiet—everything I could have asked for.
Of course, it came with a steep price tag. It also needed work done. The basement was unfinished, and the driveway was gravel.
Nothing I can't handle.
I don't know much about construction, but I figured it out. It took me over a year to get the basement built how I needed it, but now it's perfect.
When I first come down the main steps, it has a movie room, a large TV, far too many comfortable recliners, a stereo, and a fridge.
Everything you'd need to host a movie night with friends, but I've never actually invited anyone here.
All hookups are done at their house or a hotel.
This home, this sanctuary, is for me and, someday, for my wife.
No other woman will step foot in my home but my wife.
I wonder if Maeve would like my house?
Fuck, there I go again.
Shut up, Leon.
Maeve is not coming to our fucking house!
Sanctuary and solace, remember?
Plus, I don't think she'd appreciate my favorite part of the basement.
The little room all the way in the back, the one tucked in the corner and shielded by a thick and soundproof door.
My favorite little room with an autopsy table built into the wall, perfectly hidden when not in use.
Could Maeve ever learn to accept or even love my favorite room?