Rewritten version of Sugar and Molasses

Chapter 3: The Colour Red

(Ok, here's the next chapter. I have no idea if I'm doing well so far, but hey, I'm trying lmao)

(There will be less cockroach references, I promise...for this chapter at least)

(Actually, if I wanted to say something about my writing, I just know I have a better way of organizing my ideas than the original edition lmao)

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xxx-xxx-xxxx: 'Hey, what's your favourite colour?'

You blink, seeing the message pop up on your phone. You were working at the register for a high-end jewelry store. You're content you don't have to work customer service today. Registering is much easier since you have to do a mechanical process rather than fake a smile and be all nice. But seeing the message from the murderer shot your calm mood. Why was he texting you again? He should know murdering someone isn't a good gift.

You should take this up to the police when you get off your shift. This is a serious case; however, the fact he could prevent himself from being blocked didn't bring up good news in your mind. Nonetheless, you ignored the message and went back to standing at the counter, ready to check out for the customers.

After your shift, you walked home, since your apartment was conveniently close to the jewelry shop. It was early evening, with the sun just set. The sky is a cornflower blue. Not dark yet not light like the daytime either. The cars are crowded since the time is on the brink of the rush hour. Lucky you, you get to disturb all these workers and cross the street.

When you enter your apartment, you take off your shoes, leaving them at the entryway. You sling your jacket over the chair, too lazy to even care about it as of now. You head to your room, wanting to rest a little while before you start on the evening meal. But as you opened the door, a rectangular piece of paper caught your attention. It was seated upon your desk, highlighted by the light. You hesitantly step to it, a growing anxiety and fear beating in your veins.

You read the note, only to realize it was prompting the question from earlier today.

'What's your favourite colour?'

It was a simple question. But you knew who it was from. That terrible, cruel murderer! Who killed your neighbour named...you don't remember his name. He wasn't significant to your life, but still! Murdering people so casually is not acceptable. This buffoon was getting irritated with how mundane he painted himself to be. When all he was a crazed villain.

You then recall you were planning to go to the police after your shit. Stupid you. Why didn't you remember? You quickly search for the local police station's number, tapping the digits. It rang for a while, but then it cut to an automated voice message, "Sorry, but your number has been blocked from calling this number."

You stare at your phone in confusion, muttering, "Huh? The fuck? I've never committed a single crime! How could they have blocked me?" You try again, but it only ends in the same computerized voice. At that point, you give up. You leave your bedroom to grab your coat once more. You hastily shove your legs into your shoes before walking out the door.

The police station was far away, but you could make it, if you got on the bus quickly enough.

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"I should have known they would try to call." A slightly frustrated voice spoke, as the sound of rapid typing on a keyboard accompanied the words. "Well, at least I caught it in time." The person turned around their chair, the look in his eyes vibrant. He stared across the room, to another man draped by the shadows of the dimly lit room. "They should be heading their way, sire."