KILLERS

It was after she finished half of her English homework carefully and quickly as she could after school, that by four in the afternoon, when Stacy asked Nathan when she could come over tomorrow to hangout, she finally settled herself when going to her dad’s bedroom to ask to borrow money for popcorn and drinks, and after, started a bath for herself to think about how she should dress for tomorrow. She then got a text from Nathan, reading: “Okay, when you get here, my dad will be in the backyard; so here’s what I think we should do…”

By one-thirty the next day, when her father went downtown for an appointment, she was out the door and made her way to the bus. And, for a day lightly cloudy, she wore her favorite black t-shirt with white, baggy sweatpants and decided to carry her sweater in case it rained. Only, while having gotten off her stop and thanked the driver, did she tie the sweater around her waist. Feeling conscious and not wanting the focus of today to crowd around her. Until she walked halfway to Nathan’s house did she wonder how often she walked down this exact street, past the exact same stop sign, and down the sidewalk past dozens of frontyards - she questioned, for the fun of it, if she should confirm her feelings for Nathan, get it over and done with. Thinking about how well they would walk together by Monday at school.

She arrived in front of a familiar house on a familiar street with familiar cars on people’s driveways; it was Nathan’s first level house, with off-white bricks and black window frames; she then remembered she forgot to remind her dad to give her money before he left for his appointment. The feeling of hopelessness she felt so often lately finally gave weight. She hesitated between calling first her dad, or waiting to see if she had to ask Nathan to pay for the seats and - “Hey Stacy, is that you?” Suddenly, a man's voice, with a grinning head, came from the side of the house. She looked up to find Nathan’s dad walking around with a shovel. She tried letting her expressions come naturally to her - just like what Nathan told you, she thought; she waved quickly and walked up to shake hands with Mr. M. His hands were covered with dirt and red bruises. As well as an overarching smell taking hold, which brought a bygone memory not entirely formed; looking at the house it must be about when I was five or nine years old, somewhere in there, Stacy thought deeply.

“Hello, Mr. M,” she said delicately. “Doing some gardening?” Stacy needed Mr. M to know she minded busy work from anybody and questioned if she should’ve asked if he was making a shed, something to make Mr. M seem as busy; someone who minded distraction versus productivity. Nervously taming most of her attitude with anything not worth a poppy statement to be expressed overly; however she was aware many times she caught herself embarrassed by it by this habit.

Mr. M glanced at his shovel. Then he looked back at her. “Uh, yeah. Had planned digging a six feet square, for a large, wide box for plants - growing tomatoes or something,” He said flatly.

“Nice,” Stacy said, nodding. Mr. M then walked forward, still holding the shovel. Stacy followed as he opened the front door and held it open for her to walk in. He was breathing heavily, and his hair was out of shape. In fact, his funny smell, Stacy thought about the burnt veggies her father used to cook and the amount of steaks burnt during a barbecue when she was six years old.

“Nathan said you were coming.” Mr. M closed the front door behind her, and walked by Stacy to place the shovel in a nearby closet under the staircase. It had a bright red handle with a sharp, silver tint when the light softly touched it correctly. He shoved it way in the back because hunting gear was blocking most of the space, and knives could be clanging on the wall, hanging by small hooks.

“Yeah, we texted yesterday. I thought it would be nice to hangout.” Stacy made sure to say ‘I’ instead of ‘we,’ and silently congratulated herself for remembering. So far she maintained what she hoped, even thinking if she could live naturally in a house and room like Nathan’s.

Mr. M moved into the living room and positioned some pillows from the couch, and grabbed a litter of photos of houses, sketches of houses, and some other piles of binders to make the place feel comfortable. He possessed some tight care with these photos, and, while always found around the house, Nathan always warned Stacy never to mention nor bother picking them up off the floor. Thus she planned asking if he needed help but instead thought: this is his house though, and remained silent. “Please, sit down. Nathan will be down,” Mr. M said, adjusting his belt; his boots he wore covered in dark mud and cracking at the seams.

Stacy then heard stomping upstairs and quickly turned back to Mr. M. ‘Go when you hear stomping,’ she reminded herself. “Actually, I’m gonna go ahead and see what Nathan’s doing, if you don’t mind.” Worried now her sentence sounded too forward.

While Mr. M smiled weakly, he slowly placed the photos in one of the binders and closed it tightly and placed them under the coffee table. “Of course - go right ahead.” He then went back to organize the place, first, going into the kitchen to rinse off his hands which as Stacy realized were not bruises but stained blood, as though he injured himself.

“Thank you, Mr. M,” Stacy then said, paying attention not to sound odd, and turned towards the rail of the stairs to then march up.

She didn’t want to be too quick; and made her way down the usual hallway. Taking a turn, this was a neat place, she reminded herself, and observed the image of how well she was being within it - glancing at the pictures of family portraits on the walls and long gone memories - Nathan’s memories. His mother was a nice lady, she thought.

Suddenly, whispered, “Stacy.” Up ahead, in the next room, what she assumed was Mr. M’s room on the right of it, she saw Nathan’s blonde hair and eyes peeking from his room.

“Hey,” Stacy said. Wanting to giggle for his amusement but decided not to.

“Hey. Come in,” Nathan said, waving his hand over.

And, even if Stacy picked up some stutter in his voice, she just assumed he could be nervous about having anyone around his age enter his room. Maybe having feelings for me too, she thought dreamily, and wanted to giggle again just for her.

When he closed the door, she thought to herself she ought to sit on the floor since the sunlight from the window by his bed cast a spotlight for her to sit and lean her back against the small drawer, lay out her legs, or crisscross, and look up at him with a smile. Maybe for a good photo to post, she thought. Particularly how she adjusted her ties on her waist she turned around, first, to give Nathan a kiss as he walked to his bed to grab his wallet and keys. He hugged quickly however, but Stacy didn’t want to think too hard about it.

She threw that plan away and said, “How have you been, dude?” ignoring the fact, as she made sure to keep her back straight for her easement.

“Fine,” he said.

She needed another question, and asked “What movie are we planning to see?” Nathan looked at her and went to his closet to grab a jacket, mumbling his response.

“We can decide when we get there,” is what Stacy managed to hear.

That stutter in his voice, though, caught her that time, like she recalled the way her dad seemed stumped to give her twenty bucks for the concession, and she felt an obligation to remain neutral throughout that evening. To show to herself she was, perhaps, just as hesitant to ask anything, especially coming from her own father’s wallet. “We could do something else if you’d like,” Stacy said; I’m so stupid, she thought harshly, and, to save herself, added, “there’s a small burger place not far from the theater. My gosh they have the best fries there. It’s cheap too.” Embarrassed by this statement she didn’t know how to recover herself now. Nathan then checked his pockets to make sure he had his keys, wallet, and charger for his phone - “Phone!” he said worryingly. “I think my phone is downstairs.” Stacy just nodded, anticipating there was no neutral tone to save.

“Oh okay,” she said uninspiringly, “we’ll get it on our way out.” He knew that, she told herself and wondered why she needed to say it. To say anything else it should always be best to say nothing at all, she thought and both began and walked out of his bedroom. However, while she continued to go back downstairs - Nathan instructing her to wait down there and she obliged - with a key attached to the thin ring with his car keys, he locked his bedroom door steadily since Mr. M’s bedroom was right across from his. He checked by rattling the knob, until seeming right for him, and followed Stacy down the stairs.

They took their time walking down each step and found Mr. M wiping his hands with a wet cloth sitting on the couch. The TV played the breaking news about a teenage girl gone missing, and he was drinking a cold glass of water, that Stacy, spotting this, had then chosen in her mind she would get water at the theater instead of juice or coke, and found Nathan walking close behind her. The front door was a few feet away when Mr. M heard his son, or just knowing by his steps, or the rhythm the way the house gives away who’s walking, asked, “What time is the movie?” Nathan stopped, and Stacy turned and saw a shocking sight of his eyes wide open, and a slight sweat coming from his forehead. Should I be afraid to, she thought worryingly.

“We decided to watch the one at three-thirty,” Nathan said quickly. Then added, “might eat at a burger place down the street.”

Stacy and Nathan then stood by the front door, awaiting Mr. M’s response.

“Okay then,” Mr. M finally said. “You two be safe though: there’s all sorts of sick monsters out there.”

“We will, Mr. M,” Stacy said and quickly opened the front door to let Nathan pass and walk to his car. She felt the cold air of the living room leave her and the warm sun hug her, as she stepped, quietly still, to his car even with no use doing so.

When they got in, and Nathan started the engine and pulled out the driveway, she saw how nervous she looked in the side mirrors and turned to Nathan. And asked lightly, with a sharp tone, “Are you mad at me?”

Nathan then turned the wheel to make way to the main road and said, “No, it has nothing to do with you. I just needed to get out of the house - away from that smell for once…”

Stacy just nodded, granting a stronger response on the horizon, and tried holding his hand dangling from the wheel thinking it was the right time. But when he glanced at her with a concerned look, she realized with anxiety, she was shaking a little and thought: I wonder whenever I try something big there is always something bigger around the corner, and felt the seeking pain in her finally catching up to her. And then, terror.