Prologue
It was evening. The kind where the soft exhales crashing across the beach side, the faint sounds of passing cars and the seabirds screeching far at a distance meant that it was a whispered yell. Snow white clouds barely tumbled over the night sky filled with the stars hidden mostly by the cold moonlight washing on the calm, rippling waves, the nearby apartments and business crouching towards it and into a darkened loft. It was silent, save for the breeze that shoved the fluttering curtains inside a forced open patio door, where glass shards littered the dark floors and parts of the large rug covering the small living room space. Potted plants were tucked in the corners, hung from the ceiling but not too close to the ceiling fan, and were sprawled over the white coffee table, and kitchen counters. On the walls were picture frames, mostly of people, such as family and friends, of a particular woman who showed up in each one. There was one photo where the moonlight reached it enough that it gazed over a beautiful woman. Her dark eyes stared deeply yet distantly into the camera despite that smile that barely reached her lips. Given she wasn’t the only one in that photo, it looked forced. The moon’s light clung tightly to her dark brown skin and the fitted clothing that showed off her curves, as if she was a walking beauty of sin and temptation.
In the far corner, there was a simple yet beautiful brown bird cage sitting on top of a thin wooden stand. It was surrounded by more plants that nestled it within a floral embrace. Perched on a branch inside the cage was a canary bird. The bird was carefully watching a crouched figure on the other side of the dark sofa, where two legs peaked around the side. Some parts of the rug were stained red; much like the red staining the corners of the sofa and the wooden floor, where blood pooled down to a person’s bare feet. The bird shuffled to the side, letting out a small chirp that sounded almost sorrowful and song-like. The crouched figure rose up. It was a man. His dark skin was rugged against the cold, faint moonlight, and his dark eyes appeared even colder than that. He was tightly gripping a knife—reflecting the moonshine on its bloody surface still dripping with blood—in his black gloved hand.
“You think I didn’t know?” the man muttered, turning around to walk inside the kitchen. He didn’t elaborate on what he meant. Without turning the kitchen light on, he grabbed a towel sitting on the counter and slowly wiped the blood off the knife. His eyes wandered back to the woman lying on the floor. Her eyes were focused on him. Dazed, in pain, yet no words left her moving lips.
The woman lying on the floor was none other than the gorgeous woman in the photo. Her dark, side-parted afro was sprawled over the floor, with blood drenched between its curls. A slim-fitting neon orange dress, where the torn straps appeared to strangle her neck and her breasts, was shredded by his knife from multiple angles. Most were near her chest, where dark marks on her skin, especially her wrists, revealed a struggle. The man stuffed the knife back into the knife holder. He walked around the kitchen counters, nearing her slowly dying body, and crouched down once more. He pulled one glove off and used his rough hands to caress her cheeks. A slow, almost sadistic, and sad, sly smile greeted the woman’s pained and tearful eyes.
Just the smile alone told the woman all that she needed. His fingers trailed down to her left earring where her name “Delilah” was engraved into its sun-like design. Instead of taking the plug out of the back, the man snatched it out her ear and held it up in the moonlight. He inspected it, turning side to side, and admired it at every angle, before stuffing it into his pocket and flipping his hood up. He walked away. No parting words, nothing else, but that “he knew.”
Delilah glared at the man exiting her loft. She knew that bastard was crazy. Crazy enough that when her best friend told her about a stalker lurking around his place and following her home, especially when she was with him, Delilah already knew things would go away pretty quickly. Looking down at her body, she should’ve told him to come earlier. At least earlier enough that, if her ex-boyfriend showed up, thinking Delilah was alone, he could’ve helped her. She trusted him enough in that regard, anyway. But she fucked up. She forgot to ask the landlord to change the locks. After realizing that, months after they broke up, her ex still had a key—had a way into her place. The wind blew again. It ruffled the curtains, but as Delilah stood on her patio, staring down at her body, nothing else on her was fluttered with that chilling breeze. Her side-parted afro remained still. Her earrings remained untouched by that gale. It was just a sinking realization that she wasn’t alive. Delilah was dead. Dead at 28. Dead when she hadn’t lived her life freely and openly as she wanted. Dead after wasting much of her 20s with a man crazier than the devil himself.
She wasn’t sure what she should be doing. Wasn’t she supposed to be at heaven’s pearly gates? Or did she have to wait on her soul to be taken there? Delilah grit her teeth to hold back the anger rising up in her invisible body. Anger burned so brightly within her soul the longer she stared, and the longer her invisible body remembered every unwanted touch. Every unwanted stab, and most importantly, how every last moment was with a man she hated more than anything else in the world. Delilah stepped one foot inside the loft, her hand gripping the patio door. Refusing to look at her mangled body more, her eyes wandered to the clock on the wall.
7:30 pm.
He’ll be here soon, Delilah snorted. Why couldn’t he come when she told him to? He did it every other time like an obedient dog. So, why not this evening? What the hell held him up when she texted him multiple times to come earlier? Delilah was annoyed. Very annoyed. She wasn’t even sure how she should feel right now. If she wasn’t submerged in loneliness before, she damn sure was now. Sighing, Delilah exited back onto the patio and walked far enough to the rail, where she felt tethered to the spot of her death but didn’t want to remain near that mangled sight anymore. She gripped the rails. Though that grip was like a phantom. A touch familiar but no longer there at the same time. To calm herself down, Delilah decided to sing—that’s all she could think to do. Her anger, confusion and painful loneliness were all bubbling into one emotion that she couldn’t describe herself. All she knew was that it was his fault.
“Morris…” the name left her bitter lips in the middle of a high note. “Come to me.”
tart writing here…
