If there was one thing Emily could change about her routine it was the locations. Everyone says it's all about location, location, location. They aren't wrong. Emily just wished she could do something about hers. The choice of the night was Benny's, a bar approximately two hours from her home. This was her first time visiting the place, but she's been to many a bar like it. Benny's was packed with the same type of people that always found themselves at cheap, dirty bars: hookers, motorcycle gangs, criminals, and those looking for one night stands. Well then there was Emily, well Mandy, at least that's what she was going by for the night.
Cigarette smoke loomed over the bar. It never faded or thickened. It was just always there, coloring the air, making everything seem grittier than it actually was. The smoke never failed to force it's way down everyone's throats. Some would exhale it right back out, not noticing the difference between the cigar and the second hand smoke. Others, like Emily, learned to deal with it. Sure, her life expectancy tanked every time she took a breath, but her hobby wasn't the safest thing either. Bedding strange men and killing them was always going to be a risky thing, but it had become a part of Emily's identity. Her life wouldn't be the same without it. There was something about how it made her feel. Most murderers on television or in books spent their time talking and raving on and on about the thrill. The thrill of the kill. The thrill of the hunt. For Emily, the thrill came afterwards - after the sex, after the kill, after the clean up. Afterwards, when Emily closed her eyes she felt him. She felt his touch on her body, everywhere. Every kiss he made, every inch of flesh that he touched, Emily felt hours, days, weeks, sometimes even months after the job had been done. It was like he was right there with her, all over again.
Emily never cared about how good the sex was in the moment. Clearly it was preferable that the sex be great or at the very least decent, but to Emily, it was all about the afterwards. Don't get her wrong. Sex with the intended victim was a perk, and in her experience, the better the sex, the better the afterwards. Once she went a couple of rounds with a guy before finally killing him. Steve really knew what he was doing, and Emily actually blushed at the sight of a closet or clothes hanger for a good week afterwards. He was one of her better ones, and everything about him and what she did to him was great. In all honesty, Emily enjoyed the entire process: meeting the guy, having sex, killing him, and the lingering effects. Steve, for instance, was charming and exciting from the moment she caught his eye across the room. The sex was great, and there was something about the way his blood felt trickling down her fingers. There wasn't a part that she disliked, well except for the location.
She always felt like she needed to take a shower after spending time at a bar, and Benny's proved to be no difference. Every time she moved her legs, she could hear it - the sound of her thighs peeling off the bar stool. Occasionally, she wore jeans, but she found she got better, faster results when wearing a skirt. Plus, short, skimpy skirts made her transformation from Emily into a random, one night stand loving girl like Mandy easier. Emily wore jeans often. She never wore skin tight, short, denim skirts like the one Mandy was wearing. And if the skirt didn't attract attention, the simple plunging tank top never failed. Emily learned it was always best to look nondescript when it came to the clothing. Sometimes she would mix it up with a brightly colored wig, but she never stood out too much with that. Benny's currently had two platinum blondes, a Ronald McDonald red head, and a girl with purple and blue streaks in her hair.
This was why, unfortunately, Emily's location never could change. Sure the actual bar changed. It had to. Emily wasn't stupid. The type of bar was the thing that never changed. Every bar reeked of smoke, and a headache inducing mixture of perfume and cologne.
Emily sighed before taking another sip of her drink. She could taste the smoke.
"Can I refresh your drink, darlin?" A warm voice whispered in her ear as a hand found its way to her back, teasing the hem of her shirt.
Showtime.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Monday, January 28, 2013
Anxious
It's not that hard, right? See a girl. Chat her up. Ask her out. Simple as pie really. At least he thinks it's supposed to be. To most of the guys he knows, it's as easy as that. No pressure. Nothing to worry about. It's all bullshit.
Jake sits, his fingers idly toying with the napkin that sits in front of him. A simple, paper napkin with the logo etched on it. There's nothing fancy about it. You can tell a lot about a restaurant based on the napkins. Maybe he should have picked some place nicer. A place with a cloth napkin. Is that what's best? Should a first date be casual? When planning, he thought so. Casual means more relaxed, less pressure. No chance of losing his breath when he sees her in a dress - damn, seeing her in a dress would have been great. Next time. If there's a next time. Hopefully there's a next time. Shit, don't panic.
"What can I get you?" The voice comes out bored, strained as if this is a tremendous task, being forced to walk all the way over here just to get a drink order. Colin - that's his name, according to the faded name tag anyway. The fact that his name tag's faded can't be a good sign. It means Colin's been here too long, waiting tables. At least he's got a job, at least he's currently not sitting at a table counting down the minutes until she arrives. Why did he decide to get here 15 minutes early again?
The sight of Colin's bored face reminds Jake that he is supposed to speak. "Coke." With a nod, Colin spins around, walking away from the table.
10 minutes and counting until she's here. Can the sight of her walking through a door count as a moment of truth? Right now, Jake thinks anything is possible.
x.X.x.X.x
When's a good time to arrive? Early is best, it has to be, but not too early that she gets there first. Call her old fashioned, but Olivia thinks the guy should be there first. He should also make the first move. There's nothing wrong with a woman taking charge, but for Olivia, at least at first, the guy should do it.
She runs her fingers through her blonde hair, messing with the part for the third time now - center, to the right or to the left? The car mirror isn't the best thing in the world to work with, but right now it's all she's got. Okay, hair's fine. Next up: make up. Olivia tilts her head back slightly, trying to catch as much of the light from the mirror as she can. She smiles, checking to make sure her red lipstick covers all of her lips without running over onto her skin or teeth. Red lipstick might be a touch too much, but it makes her feel bold. There's something about it that screams bold, fierce, sexy. It's perfect for any occasion, whether decked out in t-shirt and jeans or a dress.
Crap, should she have worn a dress? He's not a friend. He's a guy who asked her out. You wear, hell you wear whatever when you are out with friends. A dress is more of a date thing, even if it is a casual dress. She should've gone with that. Olivia sighs, glancing down at her wardrobe choice. It took her around six outfits to get this right, although she's having second thoughts about that now. Dark, skinny jeans paired with a blue shirt with a slight V-neck, but nothing that would suggest she's only there for one reason. Not that there is anything wrong with that reason - just focus on the task at hand, Olivia. One thing at a time.
Olivia takes a deep breath, calming herself down before exiting the car. It's five minutes until the date actually starts, but if she sits in that car for a second longer, Olivia's sure she will go insane. All she has to do is walk through the door and find him. It's not that hard, right? Of course once you tackle that part there is the entire date to get through, but for some reason the waiting and the first moments seem like the worst.
Or are they the best?
Jake sits, his fingers idly toying with the napkin that sits in front of him. A simple, paper napkin with the logo etched on it. There's nothing fancy about it. You can tell a lot about a restaurant based on the napkins. Maybe he should have picked some place nicer. A place with a cloth napkin. Is that what's best? Should a first date be casual? When planning, he thought so. Casual means more relaxed, less pressure. No chance of losing his breath when he sees her in a dress - damn, seeing her in a dress would have been great. Next time. If there's a next time. Hopefully there's a next time. Shit, don't panic.
"What can I get you?" The voice comes out bored, strained as if this is a tremendous task, being forced to walk all the way over here just to get a drink order. Colin - that's his name, according to the faded name tag anyway. The fact that his name tag's faded can't be a good sign. It means Colin's been here too long, waiting tables. At least he's got a job, at least he's currently not sitting at a table counting down the minutes until she arrives. Why did he decide to get here 15 minutes early again?
The sight of Colin's bored face reminds Jake that he is supposed to speak. "Coke." With a nod, Colin spins around, walking away from the table.
10 minutes and counting until she's here. Can the sight of her walking through a door count as a moment of truth? Right now, Jake thinks anything is possible.
x.X.x.X.x
When's a good time to arrive? Early is best, it has to be, but not too early that she gets there first. Call her old fashioned, but Olivia thinks the guy should be there first. He should also make the first move. There's nothing wrong with a woman taking charge, but for Olivia, at least at first, the guy should do it.
She runs her fingers through her blonde hair, messing with the part for the third time now - center, to the right or to the left? The car mirror isn't the best thing in the world to work with, but right now it's all she's got. Okay, hair's fine. Next up: make up. Olivia tilts her head back slightly, trying to catch as much of the light from the mirror as she can. She smiles, checking to make sure her red lipstick covers all of her lips without running over onto her skin or teeth. Red lipstick might be a touch too much, but it makes her feel bold. There's something about it that screams bold, fierce, sexy. It's perfect for any occasion, whether decked out in t-shirt and jeans or a dress.
Crap, should she have worn a dress? He's not a friend. He's a guy who asked her out. You wear, hell you wear whatever when you are out with friends. A dress is more of a date thing, even if it is a casual dress. She should've gone with that. Olivia sighs, glancing down at her wardrobe choice. It took her around six outfits to get this right, although she's having second thoughts about that now. Dark, skinny jeans paired with a blue shirt with a slight V-neck, but nothing that would suggest she's only there for one reason. Not that there is anything wrong with that reason - just focus on the task at hand, Olivia. One thing at a time.
Olivia takes a deep breath, calming herself down before exiting the car. It's five minutes until the date actually starts, but if she sits in that car for a second longer, Olivia's sure she will go insane. All she has to do is walk through the door and find him. It's not that hard, right? Of course once you tackle that part there is the entire date to get through, but for some reason the waiting and the first moments seem like the worst.
Or are they the best?
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Cockroach
Suddenly it's like everything is happening in slow motion; even her flashbacks have that sense of horror movie moment of doom speed. Everything is quiet. Everything is still. If there was dramatic music playing, this would be the part where it stops. Silence is much more terrifying than noise. Nothing good happens when it is too quiet.
She can hear herself breathe. It's short and ragged. If she had just finished going for a run this is what she thinks her breath would sound like. Panic is the reason for being out of breath - no actual physical strain has happened, yet. There's no use in trying to calm down, and she's given up on trying to be quiet. He's already seen her.
The air conditioning turns on, rattling the vents.
Drip.
Amelia jumps slightly at the sound. It's the only other noise in her big, quiet house. This is the worst possible scenario for this to happen. She's all alone, and he knows it. No one is there to help. She can't rely on anyone else to defend herself - a damsel in distress and the knight has left the castle.
Deep breaths. It's going to be okay. Just remain calm. Don't let him sense your fear. Then you lose any sliver of an advantage that you might have.
Amelia clutches the purple towel that's wrapped around her. Her hair is still dripping wet from the shower, sending droplets of water down her neck. She didn't even hear him enter. That's the worst part. It's a silent attack, almost like she is being stalked, almost like he waited for the right moment to make himself known - to attack.
There has to be something, anything that she can use to defend herself, something that's on her side of the room. Her eyes scan the bright blue bathroom. To her right are bottles - shampoo, conditioner, soap. Those are useless. At best she can chuck them at him to buy herself time, but she risks making him angry. Her razor sits a little further away, resting on a shower caddy. It's risky. She would have to move more to get it, giving him more time to react.
He moves.
He's closer now.
Within arm's reach.
Amelia's time is running out.
If only she was one of those people who take their cell phones with them everywhere. Then she could call for help. She isn't one of those people though. Who needs their cell phone in the bathroom? Well clearly she does, right now.
Drip.
Part of her wishes that he would just make his move already. The anticipation is filling her with dread. There are a million ways this scenario can play out, and right now her mind is going through every last one of them. She starts with the worst, obviously, and the ones where she comes out victorious don't even cross her mind.
"Just get it over with. Come at me you sick freak!" She shrieks sounding ever bit like one of those annoying, typically big breasted girls in a horror movie. That's what makes it worse. She can't even hold on to a shred of decency.
She's at his mercy.
Part of her thinks fighting back is an option. Be strong. Show him you're not afraid. Instinct kicks in and she grabs the closest bottle towards her. That's right. The sight of her armed with a bottle of TRESemmé shampoo will definitely frighten him to enough to reconsider this attack. Her fingers tighten around the bottle, clutching it like a life jacket. It's her only option.
Drip.
It's time.
She lunges.
She can hear herself breathe. It's short and ragged. If she had just finished going for a run this is what she thinks her breath would sound like. Panic is the reason for being out of breath - no actual physical strain has happened, yet. There's no use in trying to calm down, and she's given up on trying to be quiet. He's already seen her.
The air conditioning turns on, rattling the vents.
Drip.
Amelia jumps slightly at the sound. It's the only other noise in her big, quiet house. This is the worst possible scenario for this to happen. She's all alone, and he knows it. No one is there to help. She can't rely on anyone else to defend herself - a damsel in distress and the knight has left the castle.
Deep breaths. It's going to be okay. Just remain calm. Don't let him sense your fear. Then you lose any sliver of an advantage that you might have.
Amelia clutches the purple towel that's wrapped around her. Her hair is still dripping wet from the shower, sending droplets of water down her neck. She didn't even hear him enter. That's the worst part. It's a silent attack, almost like she is being stalked, almost like he waited for the right moment to make himself known - to attack.
There has to be something, anything that she can use to defend herself, something that's on her side of the room. Her eyes scan the bright blue bathroom. To her right are bottles - shampoo, conditioner, soap. Those are useless. At best she can chuck them at him to buy herself time, but she risks making him angry. Her razor sits a little further away, resting on a shower caddy. It's risky. She would have to move more to get it, giving him more time to react.
He moves.
He's closer now.
Within arm's reach.
Amelia's time is running out.
If only she was one of those people who take their cell phones with them everywhere. Then she could call for help. She isn't one of those people though. Who needs their cell phone in the bathroom? Well clearly she does, right now.
Drip.
Part of her wishes that he would just make his move already. The anticipation is filling her with dread. There are a million ways this scenario can play out, and right now her mind is going through every last one of them. She starts with the worst, obviously, and the ones where she comes out victorious don't even cross her mind.
"Just get it over with. Come at me you sick freak!" She shrieks sounding ever bit like one of those annoying, typically big breasted girls in a horror movie. That's what makes it worse. She can't even hold on to a shred of decency.
She's at his mercy.
Part of her thinks fighting back is an option. Be strong. Show him you're not afraid. Instinct kicks in and she grabs the closest bottle towards her. That's right. The sight of her armed with a bottle of TRESemmé shampoo will definitely frighten him to enough to reconsider this attack. Her fingers tighten around the bottle, clutching it like a life jacket. It's her only option.
Drip.
It's time.
She lunges.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
30 Minute Writing Excercise Day One
Finding yourself is easier said than done. Most people think it's easy to know who you are, easy to figure out where you belong, easy to be yourself. Those people are wrong. No one knows exactly who they are, especially not at every moment of every day. There are moments of doubt, insecurity, and hopelessness. Midlife crisis is not something that is made up. It's just the only time where people have given it a name and condoned it, well more like tolerated it. Teenage years are the only other designated time where it is okay to experiment and find yourself. Past that? You should know who you are, at least according to society. However, there are some people that are still searching, but most likely most of them aren't searching in a dingy motel room off the interstate just outside of town.
Note to self, raise standards on motel rooms. Emily cringes as she looks around the pathetic excuse for a bathroom. She knew this was coming. It's not like the bedroom was anything spectacular, but the sight of the yellow stained walls and floor of the bathroom, not to mention the collection of dead and alive cockroaches in the corner, is too much.
The sight of pink in the mirror catches her eyes. She cocks her head, trying to make out the image in the cracked, dusty mirror. It takes a minute, but it finally clicks - Mindy. That's who she is supposed to be right now, isn't it? Mindy from Tampa. Emily doesn't remember how Tampa popped into her head, but it did, and apparently pink hair is 'all the rage' there, at least that's what she told him. She laughs softly, remembering their first meeting. He was forward, clearly not ashamed of knowing what he wanted. Some guys are. Some try to act like meeting at a dive bar and hitting up women is normal. It's going to lead to a first date. 'I'll buy your drink, sweetheart' comes out like it's the same as promising to buy a diamond necklace. It's not. He knew that. He wasn't afraid to slide his hand up your thigh, squeezing and massaging lightly as he leaned forward, whispering filthy promises in your ear. Emily, or rather Mindy, didn't have a problem with that, especially since he delivered on everything he said. She smiles, her eyes closing as she gives over to the memory. She can practically feel his lips on hers, on her neck, her collarbone, making their way down her body as his hands begin teasing her in all the right places. She liked him. He was one of the better ones. If only it could have lasted longer, longer than her standard one night stand. There's no use thinking about that now.
Tentatively, she steps into the bathroom, trying hard not to pass out at the sensation and loud crunch that comes as soon as she sets her foot down. She glances down and raises her bare foot up so that the bottom of her foot is visible - correction, the dead cockroach covered bottom of her foot is visible.
"Son of a bitch."
She doesn't even try to make it the rest of the way to the sink or bathtub to wash off the disgusting insect that is quickly becoming one with her skin. Instead, she retreats to the bedroom to gather her things. If there is anything worse than stepping on a cockroach barefoot, it's the sensation of scrapping the cockroach off by rubbing your foot against the coarse, multicolored excuse of a carpet that lines the bedroom. The damn bug refuses to get all the way off. Thankfully, she comes prepared for things like this. She grabs her bag as she sits on the towel she placed on the bed, and dumps out everything until she finds the sanitary wipes. Normally she uses them for something other than wiping off dead bugs from her skin, but she figures it can't hurt.
Next time, Emily knows better than to look. The sight of brown goo and legs plastered to her skin almost makes her lose it right there. She snaps her eyes shut, quickly and manically wiping. It's the sound of music that forces her eyes to open. Quickly she dumps the cockroach stained wipe in the garbage bag as she answers her phone.
"Hello?"
"Emily? It's your mother. Don't forget that we're having dinner with the Kirkpatrick's tonight. Their son Donny will be there. You remember Donny, right?"
Emily manages to muffle a groan as she takes off her pink and now slightly red wig. It's sticky. Of course it is. Emily sighs as she takes another wipe out, running it along her fingers, attempting to remove the hints of red from them while listening to her mother ramble on about Donny and his many achievements. Once she is sure that her hands are clean, she undoes her bun, letting her brown hair cascade down, falling in its normal place just below her shoulders. "Yes mom. I remember being guilt tripped into coming to this poorly disguised set up dinner."
Surprisingly, her mother chooses not to comment on that. "Make sure you look nice. Wear your blue dress, it goes well with your eyes. Oh, and Emily, take an actual shower this time, don't just lather yourself up with antibacterial wipes. It's not the same, hon."
"Thanks for the advice, mom. I'll see you tonight." Emily hangs up, not wanting to hear her mother try to offer her some more sage advice. According to her clock, she has three hours until dinner. That should give her enough time to take care of everything. Emily takes out another antibacterial wipe, running it down each of her legs and arms. It doesn't take long for the wipe to turn completely red, and Emily manages to throw it into one of the garbage bags near the bed before it begins dripping on her. Mindy was not as careful as she should've been, but thankfully, Emily always comes prepared.
Note to self, raise standards on motel rooms. Emily cringes as she looks around the pathetic excuse for a bathroom. She knew this was coming. It's not like the bedroom was anything spectacular, but the sight of the yellow stained walls and floor of the bathroom, not to mention the collection of dead and alive cockroaches in the corner, is too much.
The sight of pink in the mirror catches her eyes. She cocks her head, trying to make out the image in the cracked, dusty mirror. It takes a minute, but it finally clicks - Mindy. That's who she is supposed to be right now, isn't it? Mindy from Tampa. Emily doesn't remember how Tampa popped into her head, but it did, and apparently pink hair is 'all the rage' there, at least that's what she told him. She laughs softly, remembering their first meeting. He was forward, clearly not ashamed of knowing what he wanted. Some guys are. Some try to act like meeting at a dive bar and hitting up women is normal. It's going to lead to a first date. 'I'll buy your drink, sweetheart' comes out like it's the same as promising to buy a diamond necklace. It's not. He knew that. He wasn't afraid to slide his hand up your thigh, squeezing and massaging lightly as he leaned forward, whispering filthy promises in your ear. Emily, or rather Mindy, didn't have a problem with that, especially since he delivered on everything he said. She smiles, her eyes closing as she gives over to the memory. She can practically feel his lips on hers, on her neck, her collarbone, making their way down her body as his hands begin teasing her in all the right places. She liked him. He was one of the better ones. If only it could have lasted longer, longer than her standard one night stand. There's no use thinking about that now.
Tentatively, she steps into the bathroom, trying hard not to pass out at the sensation and loud crunch that comes as soon as she sets her foot down. She glances down and raises her bare foot up so that the bottom of her foot is visible - correction, the dead cockroach covered bottom of her foot is visible.
"Son of a bitch."
She doesn't even try to make it the rest of the way to the sink or bathtub to wash off the disgusting insect that is quickly becoming one with her skin. Instead, she retreats to the bedroom to gather her things. If there is anything worse than stepping on a cockroach barefoot, it's the sensation of scrapping the cockroach off by rubbing your foot against the coarse, multicolored excuse of a carpet that lines the bedroom. The damn bug refuses to get all the way off. Thankfully, she comes prepared for things like this. She grabs her bag as she sits on the towel she placed on the bed, and dumps out everything until she finds the sanitary wipes. Normally she uses them for something other than wiping off dead bugs from her skin, but she figures it can't hurt.
Next time, Emily knows better than to look. The sight of brown goo and legs plastered to her skin almost makes her lose it right there. She snaps her eyes shut, quickly and manically wiping. It's the sound of music that forces her eyes to open. Quickly she dumps the cockroach stained wipe in the garbage bag as she answers her phone.
"Hello?"
"Emily? It's your mother. Don't forget that we're having dinner with the Kirkpatrick's tonight. Their son Donny will be there. You remember Donny, right?"
Emily manages to muffle a groan as she takes off her pink and now slightly red wig. It's sticky. Of course it is. Emily sighs as she takes another wipe out, running it along her fingers, attempting to remove the hints of red from them while listening to her mother ramble on about Donny and his many achievements. Once she is sure that her hands are clean, she undoes her bun, letting her brown hair cascade down, falling in its normal place just below her shoulders. "Yes mom. I remember being guilt tripped into coming to this poorly disguised set up dinner."
Surprisingly, her mother chooses not to comment on that. "Make sure you look nice. Wear your blue dress, it goes well with your eyes. Oh, and Emily, take an actual shower this time, don't just lather yourself up with antibacterial wipes. It's not the same, hon."
"Thanks for the advice, mom. I'll see you tonight." Emily hangs up, not wanting to hear her mother try to offer her some more sage advice. According to her clock, she has three hours until dinner. That should give her enough time to take care of everything. Emily takes out another antibacterial wipe, running it down each of her legs and arms. It doesn't take long for the wipe to turn completely red, and Emily manages to throw it into one of the garbage bags near the bed before it begins dripping on her. Mindy was not as careful as she should've been, but thankfully, Emily always comes prepared.
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