Pink Ink

Chapter 1 Reyna

REYNA

I’ve always been fascinated by death.

I thought my life would flash before my eyes as I lie there dying. I’d see my mother taking me to my art lessons. I’d see the day my father gifted me my first camera, right before disappearing for the rest of the year again. I thought I would relive each moment like it was yesterday.

I was wrong.

There’s a certain serenity that overcomes me whenever I’m killed; it washes off the burdens of my day, and for one peaceful second, I’m free.

I have a part to play in all this that makes the sweet call of death feel more like acceptance than fear, because to die is to know what it means to have lived.

Warm liquid oozes from a single, vertical slash above my still-beating heart.

He trails the back of his latex-covered fingers down my cheek, smearing the wetness with a lover’s caress.

I blink up at him against the hazy yellow light, meeting his deep-brown eyes.

His gaze pierces through me, as if we’ve found love moments before the grave catches us.

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve sat in this chair, focusing on the weapon in his hand and the heat emanating from his touch. I’ve stopped struggling against the ropes tying my wrists together as I surrender to the inevitable. Death is death, no matter what way it comes.

The tip of the kitchen knife brushes along the column of my throat, like an artist tracing a figure in pencil before permanently marking it with ink. He cups my cheek as he stands behind me to face the darkness together.

In a single swipe, the blade slides along my throat, and I choke on air.

He undoes the rope around one of my wrists, then lowers my bound body onto the cold tile floor. My lungs burn with my shortening breaths, but I don’t cry or pray.

This is how it has to be.

“Hold.”

The thick pink liquid gurgles from my neck, pooling around my twitching body.

It seeps into my hair and sticks to my skin.

I lie still, unblinking, as footsteps sound around me.

A beady black eye appears before my blurry vision.

The shutter of a camera fills the silence to capture the moment I meet the grim reaper.

He kneels beside my head and moves my arm to point a single finger toward the lens as if I were reaching for God like in The Creation of Adam.

Then he rises to his feet and leaves me on the floor.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

“And cut,” Nicole calls.

I slump against the tile and stare at the ceiling. Two seconds is all I give myself before untying my wrists.

I’m exhausted to the bone.

Everyone in the room starts murmuring, and someone in my periphery slaps my dickhead of a co-star’s back as if he were the one who had to pretend to die. That takes some serious skill, and I’m not the theater major here. I should be the one behind the camera.

“Hold up.”

I freeze. Please, for the love of God, no more.

We’ve been filming for thirteen hours, and this is the fifth time we’ve had to redo this scene. My back hurts, I have a rope burn, and I think I’m developing an allergic reaction to one of the products the SFX artist used. To top it off, there wasn’t enough pizza for me to have a slice.

If I have to sit through another round of hair and makeup to reshoot the scene, I’m going to nose-dive straight into hysterics.

I need food, solitude, and sleep. Immediately.

“Wait, nope. We’re good,” Nicole says, reviewing the tape even though it’s meant to be my job since this is for my assignment. We take turns being on the other side of the camera whenever we have a project due for this class.

Biting back a yawn, I attempt to untie myself, silently cursing Chad and the SFX artist he’s chatting up. Was he a Boy Scout or something? We aren’t actually trying to hold me hostage here. The least this dimwit could do is give me a hand.

Look, I get it. It’s been a long day, and my call sheet hasn’t exactly been followed to a T. But the sooner I say the holy W word, the sooner we can get home, and I can wash the goddamn glitter out of my hair.

I regret letting Kimi sprinkle glitter into the fake pink blood to take pictures for her portfolio.

It went everywhere. That’s poor planning on my part because I’ve spent the whole day sparkling in certain lights—which could’ve ruined my tapes.

If any of it shows up in my footage, I’ll have to claim it’s an Edward Cullen moment.

When I’m less tired, I’ll come up with a metaphor that will make Professor Bradford raise a single bushy brow, hum, and then go back to pretending I don’t exist.

Or I could spend an unholy number of hours editing it out in post.

Right now, I prefer the sound of the former.

Kimi rushes to my side with a towel in hand and easily undoes the rope. “They’re talking about going out after this, but the only shot I’m planning on taking is a diazepam,” my roommate whispers, glaring at Chad, who’s still flirting with the beautician I’d rather not lose.

I snort, rubbing the towel into my hair to absorb as much of the pink blood as possible. “Lucky for some. I have a hot date with hours’ worth of film.” And an essay I’ve procrastinated on for far too long.

Plus another online quiz, and a wedding video I still need to deliver.

Nicole yawns, swaying slightly as she rewatches the A-roll. If you had told me thirteen hours ago that she’d stay the whole time, I’d have called you a liar. Yet here she is, spending her entire day assisting on a project she won’t receive any credits for.

Fair’s fair. She had me waist-deep in a lake three weeks ago when I was helping her with her assignment that Professor Bradford hailed as a masterpiece, proving that he is capable of giving out A’s. Just not to me.

This entire day has been a collaborative effort that theoretically benefits everyone.

Chad can use the video for auditions, Lindsay can use it for her social media, and the pictures Kimi took will be for her portfolio—even if her art degree is just an excuse to attend university to get out of her mother’s hold.

Three short films down. Four more to go.

It hurts that thirteen hours of filming will only amount to a seven-minute film.

I wish I could vent to Mom about all of this.

Kimi helps me to my feet, and I snatch the knife covered in pink goo off the floor so no one injures themselves, then watch the most recent scene with Nicole.

I hit pause when the camera pans to my fallen frame on the floor, and pull up the crime-scene images on my phone, careful to angle it away from Nicole, and triple-check the pose is the same.

No one here needs to know they’re helping me re-create real-life murder scenes—a side effect of my unhealthy obsession with true-crime podcasts and dream to direct horror movies.

This whole thing we’re doing is a byproduct of having a “friend” who likes to play show-and-tell with the juicy murders that come through his precinct.

Like this particular one.

I frown, scrutinizing the composition of the corpse. According to my guy on the police force, the subject was a hotshot lobbyist who fell from grace after doing something he shouldn’t have.

Lawrence never gives me any details about the investigation or the victims’ names, so usually I make them up, except the late Mr. Hogarth has been all over the news for embezzlement.

For the sake of art, I improvised and guessed he was a lonely man with nothing but a job and an empty house. That’s what we filmed today—except Chad’s dingy flat was my unfortunate substitute for the fancy apartment overlooking the Manhattan Bridge.

Lawrence tells me about any murders he thinks might have been committed by “my guy.” He and the rest of his precinct are unconvinced there’s a prolific serial killer roaming around, but I’m certain there is.

All of my projects for this class are based on the murders committed by Bocklin’s Shadow, or the Shadow for short—the serial killer I named that the police have been too useless to notice.

There’s no obvious MO or trophy collection that I’ve been able to identify, only the artistic touches to each scene.

Sometimes, it isn’t so obvious—a strategically placed hand here, oddly symbolic clothing there, things so artfully done that it’s too perfect to be an accident—but then came Mr. Hogarth.

The reference to the most well-known painting in the world is so obvious it’s mind-boggling, and borderline embarrassing, that not a single detective has spotted it.

The killer is making a mockery of New York’s finest, with Mr. Hogarth as the star of the show.

He was pointing at a cross like in The Creation of Adam.

The fact that he’s half naked and lying on a green towel is a literal dead giveaway that the Shadow was re-creating Michelangelo’s painting.

It’s dark, depraved, and simplistically genius.

Even with the forensic team’s bad angles and flat lighting, I could stare at the crime-scene photos for hours, picking apart every detail, questioning whether the Shadow added certain items into the frame as filler or for symbolic meaning.

I’ve seen thousands of artworks throughout my life because of my mom and the years I spent working at the museum. None have come close to the artistry of his kills.

He’s the inspiration behind every film I’ve produced this year.

For this project, instead of God, the camera I’m pointing at is Big Brother, all-seeing and omnipresent. But Professor Bradford might be too thick to make the connection.

I hope I’ve got the shot. Even if I don’t, none of us have the time or energy to refilm the scene. Especially since this is due next week.

Screw it.

“Okay, that’s a wrap,” I call out the glorious W word.

The collective exhale makes me feel only semiguilty for making everyone stay longer than planned.

“Thank fucking Christ,” Chad huffs.

That’s it. I’m never asking him to join again. He wasn’t exactly butterflies and roses to work with either. The prick. His ego, bad acting, and shitty attitude were the reason our eight-hour day turned into thirteen. I’ll get revenge by picking the footage that makes him look like the tool he is.

Alas, someone needs to act like an adult.

“Thank you, everyone, for all your hard work today. You all did amazing”—Not you, Chad—“and I couldn’t have done it without you.

” That last part wasn’t for you either, Chad.

“I’ll email the final edit next week, but please don’t post about it anywhere until the end of the semester. ”

Everyone—except Chad—smiles and contributes to the clean-up process. Nicole helps me pack up the combo stands and the other film gear while Kimi and Lindsay clean up the rest, peeling gaff tape and wiping pink liquid off the floor and props.

By the time we’ve all said our goodbyes, it’s almost midnight, and I can hear my bed crying out my name.

“I think I threw my back out when I fought off Chad,” I grumble to Kimi, hugging my light stands as we trudge down the streets of New York City, looking like a couple of basket cases from the pink corn syrup still on me.

“I wish you had punched him for real.”

I chuckle and readjust the strap biting into my shoulder. My back feels like it’s going to break from the weight of the equipment.

Maybe I should have agreed to Kimi’s offer to call us an Uber. But I’ve said yes far too many times in the past year I’ve been here. This city isn’t exactly the best place to live with limited funds.

Our moms went to high school together back home in Indonesia, and drifted apart when Mom moved to the States before I was born. They didn’t reconnect until Mom got diagnosed with cancer two years ago, shortly after Dad died.

By then, they both had very different lifestyles. My mom was single and worked every day, while Kimi’s mom married her boss and didn’t have to lift a finger ever again. Kimi got to grow up as a trust-fund baby with an endless bank account, zero responsibility, and living parents.

My inheritance pays rent, the scholarship covers most of my tuition, and I’m hired as a videographer often enough to cover the bare minimum of my expenses.

The money from my dad might have been sizable to some, but if I wanted to make it last, I shouldn’t have moved to one of the most expensive cities in the world.

“I just had the most depressing realization.” Kimi’s jet-black braid slaps her cheek as she whips her head toward me. “I have class in nine hours. Maybe I can skip it.”

Oh. Good. It’s just a her problem. Actually…

“Shit. I have a quiz tomorrow morning.”

She curses. “I have a test tomorrow—which reminds me, I’m gonna need to pass on going to that exhibition. Mom is forcing me to meet with her and her friend who coincidentally has a son our age.”

Shrugging, I say, “It’s no big deal.”

It’s a bit of a big deal, but it’s my issue to bear. I just need to get over myself, because I shouldn’t need someone to hold my hand to do the things I used to do with Mom.

I’d have more friends and a support system or whatever if I hadn’t moved across the country and transferred to Cresswell University, an Ivy League school, in the final year of my degree, after Mom died last year.

But it was my only choice. I need to know more about my father’s life before he died.

Why he was never around. How my mom could love a man who only ever kept us at arm’s length.

Am I any closer to figuring out why I only saw him once a year? No.

Has moving here felt like a waste of time and money? Partially.

After months of researching, I still have no idea what his life consisted of beyond the usual My work keeps me very busy, Reyna. Just listen to your mother and do as she says.

Really sage advice, Dad. Thanks. Appreciate it. So glad we had our annual bonding sessions before you carked it.

My phone buzzes, and I play a game of Twister to fish it out of my inside pocket. Lawrence’s name flashes across the screen, and the corners of my lips tip up at the message.

LAWRENCE:

I’ve got another case for you.