Chapter 1
PROLOGUE
December, 2014.
Dark. A desk lamp brightens, revealing only a dairy and a pen sitting neatly on the surface of an antique wooden table. Illuminating further, it pulls to view a chair next to the table which slouches away as ordered by the slender arm pulling it. Ending, the light expounds a man who slumps into the chair: the black sacks hanging from his screaming eyes; the writhing movements of all his clasped ten fingers; thumps, resounding from his pounding chest and spiraling pulse; and his haggard short golden hair that contorts in every possible direction.
The brilliance from the lamp reveals the current state of Colin Hawthrone, a blonde British youth in his late twenties, nervously fiddling fingers and dragging up sweats while watching what seems to be the tyranny of his best memories forcing it's way into his mind. Sitting up, Colin leans forwards, takes hold of the ballpoint pen, and without delay his fingers are flipping the pages of the dairy in search of a barren space: a pseudo companion, one he made of inks and paper: a perfect self therapy session to ease the echoes of confusion and screams of derailment sloughing his sanity.
Settling on a page, Colin begins to write, starting with the date: Twelve December, Two Thousand and Fourteen. Beneath the date, his pen throttles like exhaling undue haste in preparation for a sprint, and Colin inking the empty sheet before him, empties unto the page as commanded by the voice in his head which strung his fingers like a marionette.
He writes.
It's the surreal dream again.
Upon a sea of snow, in what seems like one of the dark alleys of London: one specifically close to "The Dew" cafe, I stand as the white beneath my feet slowly gets soaked up in red. My hands equally drips the same crimson spill, and I could feel my eyes burn in hate.
The black mist of malice oozes from every inch of me, mixing with the highlights of darkness which forcibly shoves me into its jaw, as I stand and stare at my shivering hands. Raising my eyes, I spot a woman laying lifeless next to my feet. Her long golden hair sprawls all over the white snow, and her fair skin slowly evanescence: slowly turns pale and blue.
A purse, coated in stones that glitter like the amethyst laid beside her, planted next to the back of her head. Its strap was fixed within her brown leather glove in a firm grip, and her face stared at my feet, so was her jaw stretched and lips unease as though she had a sudden outburst of words right before she was lost to this plane.
I recall watching the state she was, and having surges of fury jolt through my marrows, and a calming satisfaction twisting a torrent upon the sight of the stranger before me.
Colin sighs, grits his teeth, and proceeds with his journalling.
Details like these are part of the sudden flashes that invades my head while I'm awake, which accompanies striking pain that thrusts into the sides of my head and a pang that gnaws on my skull from the inside: attacking my brain and momentarily making my eyes wet and blurry.
It makes no more sense, with every female corpse I've seemingly had foresight of, their eyes are always gray and dim, with stares that claws my boots while they lose gallons of blood that leaked from the punctured part of their body.
"These are more than just premonitions, and I am not crazy! The news always has them on, they do, don't they...so I can't be fucking insane!"
Colin mumbles as he writes.
I want to scream at how over-the-edge I am: a few moments away from an impending implosion, one where I am a million percent insane and cannot make rational thought— give into that reality. If these unexplained foresight of death keeps up on it's track, I think I will lose it. I'd snap and drop.
They began sometime over nine years ago, the year I had gotten into the orphanage, after the undue accident where my dad snapped his neck and died, it ended eight months after, and every blonde haired girl in the orphanage had lost their lives due to strange incidents, incidents I always somehow knew before anyone else. And now, three months has gone by since it began again, and over twenty seven girls has been murdered in bizarre places, one which I have these alien somewhat flashbacks and sometimes dreams as though I am the first who encounters these victims, or like the omniscient, watching.
Colin chugs up air as his heart began a sprint. He gently places the pen over the open dairy, deeply wishing that he would just once be very wrong, but with a darting instinct and sharp luck, it's likely his fears would meet fruition. Closing the book with the pen stuck in the middle, Colin picks it up, rises from the seat, and begins a walk to the other side of the room which resembles a living room. Crouching in front of a coffee table, he picks up a remote and aims it at the flat screen glued to the wall before him.
The news is on, and a female reporter enthusiastically faces the camera with fright and curiosity wrapped about the energetic expression encamping on her face. She is bewildered, Colin could tell, making him wryly excited: unexpected, and so was the sense of satisfaction eroding his pounding chest.
"Again, the infamous predator had struck the snowy streets of London..." The reporter speaks through the bubbling sirens in the background. "According to the police, the body has been lifeless for at least twelve hour, and as usual, we are astonished at how the corpse of yet another victim was so carefully, secretly yet openly obscured."
The camera shifts from the reporter to the medics rushing the embalmed corpse into an ambulance, capturing other news reporters from other agencies, the red-white tape that encloses the scene, and the horde of people shoving shoulders and elbows just for a good glimpse of the situation, one of which the handful of policemen tries to keep at bay.
The Camera returns to the shocked face of the reporter as she prepares to speak.
"Just confirmed, our dearly missed blonde victim happens to be..." A photograph of the victim widens on the screen, and quickly shifts to the top right corner.
Every part of Colin grows heavy as his eyes meets the photograph of the beautiful golden haired female he happened to have seen last in a dream.
"No," Colin mumbles as his throat begins to dry up to a crisp. "It cannot be! She...She can't be! This is beyond mere coincidence..."
His moment of an uncertain despair runs short as the reporter's voice crashes his barricade of unhinging self contempt.
"Avery Stafford," The reporter states her name. "a college grad student who was last spotted in The Dew Cafe, just a few blocks from the scene of incident, on the night of the attack."
Hawthrone's legs, no longer able to support the weight of the fear and guilt that fattens his chest, bends and he drops unto the wooden floor board, kneeling and having his head burrow into the wood beneath.
The reporter continues her story, and Colin sparingly listens as he drowns into the abyss he feels he dug up with his own hands.
"Luckily this time, the police has a lead on a suspect..."
"Huh?" Colin's head shoots up in shock.
"...a similarly blonde male between the age of twenty-two to twenty-five," The grovelling Colin springs to feet and widens his eyes at the screen before him. He was immediately frozen in place when he saw an image of himself hanging over the screen. His jaw first drops before a screech drags through his throat, followed with a throb crashing into every side of his skull: an ache the reporting lady seems to be inattentive to, as Colin's outcry is blandly ignored and the procession of the news is prioritized. "who was caught by the cafe's CCTV camera leaving the cafe with Avery last night."
Colin slowly back steps away from the television, nearly tripped by a laying throw pillow.
"That can't be me!" He screams at the reporting lady who yet again ignores him. "I do not... I do not remember being on a date last night!" His voice recedes into a mutter, as the veins in his face starts to freeze over. "Everything about the last twelve hour is blur, but that does not mean anything... No, it cannot!"
Colin gobbling his emotions immediately runs for his wardrobe as the only possible decision settles on his mind. He spreads apart the doors of the wardrobe, draws out a gym bag and quickly scampers about for any cloth he lays hands on, which he throws it into the bag. Once full, he launches for the front door, examines his area, and runs.
Colin Hawthorne runs.
CHAPTER ONE
Flipping the light switch first causes a zapping glitch, which then recedes to a steady lighting.
Instantly, my head plummets to the purse at my side as I feel my phone buzz, but soon as I pull it out, it ceases. A message displays on the screen, and I first squint my eyes at it to make out the sender's name, which lays a hiss off my lips. I then further the irritation by tracing a finger on the phone's top to locate the power button, which I press down hard, and let the screen go black before I drop the phone into the purse.
Horridly, a sigh struggling into a growl, curses at the exhaustion incessantly digging into my legs: making heavy my brows, and birthing more wheels of struggle for me. But amidst its doses of weakness, I still force my body for the fridge in the kitchenette, trudging my legs and nudging my right shoulder forward, while gnawing my fingers at the open space before me, as my feet drags on the linoleum like a partially blind hemiplegic zombie reeking of sore weariness.
There, my bouldering eyes lazily widens to the fridge in front of me, and my finger tips slides over it in search of the handle. The same stinging cold curved edges of iron already imprinted upon my finger muscles as memories, forces my eyes even wider apart, reminding me to wrap my fingers around it, gather energy, and jab it open.
I pull, but it isn't budging. I drop another heavy sigh, and my hand now tiredly slides off the fridge handle.
"Hm? —" A smile brightens on my face as my fingers effortlessly trudges down. "Caleb?" Reminiscing the slim spines of veins that slightly bounces my palms away every time I trace my hand down his broad arms, opens geysers of hate that is stiffening my temple, making me clench my jaw tightly, with my fingers grabbing the handle for another pulling attempt.
Another jab and it opens, made possible from envisioning my now ex's head as the fridge door.
Just like this, I wish his head could come off so easily. I scoff and peer into the innards of the fridge.
After a quick scan of what was inside the fridge, I can feel my emotional eating, one of "Camille's norm" in uniquely unbalanced cases like this, is on to a pause for the night, as nothing my eyes fall upon hold enough power to get me from being sad to depressively careless, which should then set me on a guided path to a very bad decision with jars of liquor and tears, and loads of crazy hangovers.
Nothing!
I snicker then sigh, and gather the energy required to fling the door to a closing. But halfway to shutting the door, I stick my hand through and hold it off: second guessing as the glimpse of the orange juice packet is not looking too bad to try.
So I draw it out, open the lid, and fix my lips without giving regards to the redness of my lipstick smearing against the juice carton. I gulp. Near empty, I squeeze strongly to let out every drop of orange liquid in it; It does feel good when I squeeze this hard, with the picture of Caleb like a slideshow of oil painted collages scramming through my head, as I imagine how his bones could be caving in as I fold the carton, shrinking until it is totally extinguished.
No! I let it go before it looks like a dumbbell.
It isn't about the juice or Caleb. It is me! Always has been. I just may not be able to keep a man.
But, there's no need to crush my pasts. Rather, I should move on. If only life were of such ease and wishes are at the snap of a finger. If possible, I would drop a coin in a well and let my single craving of you run loose..."color me yours, and let me bathe in those reds and warmth of you!"
I shake my head to wade off the thoughts that seems to have fallen out of line. The instant it sinks, so did the anger barge up, and with it the purpose for the orange juice that seeks residence in my bladder.
"I needed that... I did?"
I sigh with a mix of satisfaction, and curiosity, and guilt. I throw the empty juice packet unto the kitchen counter, then lazily make my way in search of the bathroom.
The bathroom tiles are white, and so are the walls. I wish it could turn gray as the ashes that's left of my heart. No it doesn't, rather, the white shimmers dauntingly. Pfft! Mock me!
Stealing a moment, I stare at myself in the mirror, and turning to my sides, I examine my curvy body. The violet strapless mini gown does grip my body firmly. Any extra fat I may have missed? I narrow my sight and look harder for imperfections, while wondering if that could have been the reason for it all.
"Am I not skinny and beautiful enough?" I say softly.
I doubt. Well, I guess men are scum!
I undo the band that has had my dirty blonde hair locked in a ponytail for close to an hour now since I left Caleb's, and allow its curls to fall shamelessly onto my shoulder. I make another quick turn to eventually look over my shoulder and down there, just to view my bum, and even looking carefully at it, I still can't find any muzzle of fleshy bubbleness out of place. It wasn't that large and bouncy, but a firm backside, an hourglass body hand carved from yoga, minding diets, and consecutive jogging; and a good boob with enough skin on display right at the top of my killer gown, should be enough to keep your man from craving for desserts else where...right?
Still in the same stance, I let down the zipper, and wriggle about to let the dress drop on my heels. Trust me, I'm definitely not going to hesitate to drag down this panties too like a whore in heat.
I then cross over the clothes, and say no words as I walk to tub, but my heels smacking the tiled floor speaks the trillionth time. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I lean down and slowly peel off the black heels gripping my feet. I suddenly pause, fling my head up and fix my eyes on the mirror opposite me. The urges to throw the shoe at the mirror grips every of my inch, but a second after a careful consideration of pride and cash and a sigh, I lower my head and continue with taking off the other pair. I drop them, turn on the tub's water, and find myself settling into it.
Relaxing!
The water is cold, I need it cold.
"A good shower to calm my jetting nerves was what I needed." I say softly, while watching the steams of hate and weariness wither off my skin.
A towel crosses over my chest to my thighs as I walk into my room. Another is wrapped around my head which I thoroughly rub to my scalp, and tightly yet gently squeeze my way down a few bundle of hair, allowing the water to soak into the towel. With my hair lessening in dampness, I wrap the towel around my head again, then motion to pick up my purse.
I pull out my phone and have it on, and then rushing in are buzzing welcomes of dozens of missed calls from Caleb, and a bunch of text messages from Aisha. The curiosity to read them resurfaces, but never will I open any or return the calls, as I am well aware of the direction this will take.
I throw the phone to the bed and roll my eyes fiercely: I can feel my eyes threaten to pop, from how hard I bulge and move it around the socket.
The phone buzzes again. "Urgh! Spare me your crappy ass apology!" I bellow.
Moving on after-all requires that I discard anything that strings me to my sunken ship, and face the unpredictable blue sea of carnivorous fishes and deadly sailors. So, I do what any lady in my state would, I block first before deleting their contacts from my phone.
Block first, ask questions later!
A load drops off my chest as I drop the phone on the bed, which lets me know how considerably huge the steps I've just taken at healing are. Losing their contacts are that baby steps.
Instagram and Facebook comes soon after.
I immediately squint for the equally depressed phone fixing its weights on the bed's sheet. I pull up a number from among my very limited lists of contacts, and begin a text. I would love to pour out my shaken core, and the irresistible urge to cry into a very lengthy epistle.
I start...
'Hey! I know you may be busy at the moment, but I'm sorta in need of my bitches to talk to...'
"Bitches" shows I'm doing fine, and fighting this silent battle valiantly. A big fat lie. It sounds wrong, so I erase it.
"...sorta in need of a bit of cheer tonight. Wanna hang?"
I am very hesitant now at hitting the send option. Frozen with a thumb hovering over the send arrow, I keep looking at my screen.
I clear the texts entirely, throw the phone back on the bed, and growl as I fall into it too.
"Breakups can be so fucking draining!" I sigh and let my thoughts linger for a while.
Reaching over the sheet, I feel the surface in search for my phone. I find and drag it closer. Running over my contact list, my eyes keep peering out for the suitable person. My fingers suddenly pauses, and my eyes imprints on a number. I click on it, and tap the text option.
'Let's go out for a drink. You are free to think of it as a date. I'll meet you at Hs & Bs'
Courage does not seem to be a required criterion for sending this now, and without a second thought, I click the send button.
A buzzing follows immediately.
'I'm in. Meet you there in ten minutes.'
The text en routes a heart emoji, which I am considering sending the green-puke-sick-face emoji as a reply, but I don't. I simply roll my eyes, and carefully leave the phone back on the bed, leaving the message on read.
The need for a dress is far from thoughts tonight, but I have been running my fingers over the hangers for a few minutes now, and nothing looks a little more depressing or sad. They were either cheerful, or memory-ful.
"So many polka dots in one dress!? Nasty!"
I'm edgy. I should try to hide that, at least for a few hours until I'm drunk.
I pull out a pair of skinny jeans, a bra, and a hoodie. The mirror is next, so after a wonderful moment of jumping to have this jeans on, I'll head for the mirror.
Makeup doesn't have the needed tag that wails "hey she's sad and depressed, and has just had her heart broken". Why? I honestly do not understand why I need my countenance to show that...or maybe I need someone to pour out my feelings to, and rant about how much of a dog some men are?
So, I put on no makeup, only a lip gloss, which I smack my lips to make even. I then add the final touch with a brush going between the locks of my hair, which after, I let down to shave some of my back off.
H's & B's. Many prefer it in it's initial letters, mostly because of modesty, or maybe they cannot just go about sprawling "bitch" and "hoe" indecently from their mouths. To me, I think modesty and a strip club are no where near complacent.
Who in Hell's gore named this place?
Rule obvious: "straight girls don't do girl strip clubs, unless your man takes you there for a show". Needless to say, you can rope me in with the general straightness, so I doubt some girl flesh and dark tits are gonna turn this Latina on. But muscles and triceps!? Damn! Please put me on the list for that oiled skin and tights, and a little pole dancing.
Then why the heck do I want to meet with him at a strip club?
Shrugging it off, I grab my phone, credit card, and a few bucks, and stuff them into my hip pockets.
Hoes & Bitches. Hs & Bs as preferred by the general consensus.
A pink line of neon light drags and reveals the H, rounds the O, curves the E, and twirls the ends of the S. It pauses, and brightens the "&", dims, and begins to drive its linking curvy and curly calligraphy on the BITCHES. The light brightens on a silhouette of a lady in a bikini and heels, just right after spelling out the fullness of Hs & Bs.
The light was on schedule to begin the same lighting sequence, and I steadily watch as I've been since I'd exited the taxi.
Suddenly coldness escapes through the thickness of the hoodie's shoulder replacing it with more warmth, and a soft grip clamps me there. I turn around to meet the red haired man I awaited.
"Hey!"
He says with a smile.
"How were you able to spot me?"
I ask.
"Uhmm... This is Hs and Bs, and it isn't usually that packed on a tuesday, much less any other clubs around this vicinity of New York. Regardless, I can still spot those beautiful curves anywhere," He hints with his head nodding to my body. "and also, you happen to be the only one here at this moment."
What he says seems true, and I never realised that I was the only one here in front. I now feel stupid, as I had anticipated a reply like "you stick out beautifully like a rose in a thorn bush... Or, Amazing can never be hidden in a cloud of crap". I need something to make me feel a little bit less of how shitty I feel on the inside. But " ...curves...", though with countless kinky agendas, still does it.
"Oh... Rig-"
His cold hand envelops mine, and he speaks right after.
"You are beautiful tonight."
"Without makeup? Good choice on my part. You'd have had a nosebleed if I had a bit of blush on."
I am not saying this out, so I simply force forth a smile, and respond.
"Thanks. Can we?"
I gesture to the club's door.
We brace through the door, and what welcomes us was a continuous beat of a boom. It was in a rhythm, with certain intervals in its repetition.
Disappointment tapes on my face as my eyes scanned around. "And this is the infamous "Hs & Bs", or maybe it is just a Tuesday thing?" My face still frowns at this sight of masculine desperation, and how near empty the club is. Even the rock music sounds sad, and there was nothing more obvious than the pole dancer struggling to make a perfect three-sixty spin, and the men reluctantly throwing dollar bills at her. "How sad!"
We are at a table, awaiting a waitress in undies. A few braless ladies pass by us, and all of them either smile or wink at my supposed date. He seems like a regular, and just as this thought takes form in my head, a waitress appears before us.
"Hey Curtis!"
She leans over on our table, and pulls him by the chin to her face.
"Hm-hmm..." He clears his throat, frees from her hold, and settles into the seat.
"Hello... Sally."
His eyes restlessly wanders, avoiding her eyes and mine too.
This boy must think I'm stupid.
He's quite a popular regular. "That explains the winks and ass shaking around this very table."
I fight the urge to facepalm in reality, so I do it in my head still.
"Could you get us a glass of-"
He attempts a request.
She cuts him midway, as though she can tell what his request is.
"You know how we do it with glasses and a whip." She curls her lower lip, and bites it. A brow of mine is risen in curiosity. "You know how much we charge for private show." She adds, and turns to me. "We'll charge more for blondie here, and we've got someone who'd help her out a bit."
She says, then sticks out her tongue which slowly rolls over her lips.
"I'm. Not. Blonde!" Immediately in a mental defense, as I subtly grit my teeth. Maybe that's how she calls girls she condescends at.
I simply scoff loudly, forcing their eyes to shift my way. Noticing her sneering and how she looks with more condescension, I sneer back, then give her the dirty I-too-can-bite look, and roll my eyes which pushes her gaze back to Curtis.
I too was the mean girl back in highschool.
"Bye!"
She tells Curtis, and walks away.
I facepalm for real this time, and give Curtis sitting on the other end of the table, a look that has disappointment wrapped in it, and shake my head likewise.
"I..." Even stuttering, his face still hold seriousness in it's range. "I know them from church."
The fu-
"I've ended things with Caleb today."
I say, and his jaw drops.
