Perfume

Chapter Six - With Love

Mandy looked tired on Monday. She didn't speak to me and I didn't expect her too. Angus glanced at her and then he glanced at me, questioning. All I could do was shrug. I took a new route on my way home. I walked by myself, my breath visible in front of me.

     Mandy did not direct a word to me in the weeks that followed. She didn't text me, she didn't call, she didn't e-mail. She stayed as far away from me as she could during newspaper. And I guess I couldn't blame her. I only had myself to blame. 

     The memory continued to flash back, like the ugly parts of a movie, the ones you can't forget. But the thing was, I had forgotten this memory; I had gone through this stage before, the self-loathing, the flash backs, and I had gotten over it. But perhaps they could be triggered, perhaps I could never really forget. I could run, but I couldn't hide.

     The only good things that remained were the newspaper and Hanna. Hanna, her green eyes. They kept me sane, she kept me sane. I had told her about my break-up with Mandy, had told her every single part of it except the triggered memory. It felt odd to hold back information from Hanna. It was something I'd never done before. It didn't feel good at all. 

     I owed so much to Hanna. She was there, for me, through the hard days that followed the break-up, through the bad, hopeless days I went through thanks to the memory, which had started to plague me in my sleep.I would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, crying, touching the scars, making sure they didn't hurt, making sure they hadn't opened. 

     Hanna was there and I owed her so much. I wanted to kiss her, to hold her in my arms, but she had a boyfriend. All I could do was dream.

     The memory began to fade away as December grew closer. And on December twelve, it was gone for the most part. The twelfth was a Saturday. I woke up to discover that I hadn't dreamed last night. I didn't even remember him all that clearly. Perhaps I had gotten rid of the memory replay, perhaps it had only lasted for a few months.

     I sang in the shower that morning, happy, gleeful. My heart thudding a healthy beat. 

      And then, when I walked out of the shower and into my room, a towel wrapped around my waist, I remembered. December twelve, the one year anniversary of the first Belladonna murder. I had been fourteen when I'd first become enthralled by the murders, by the first murder, by the femme fatale, by Belladonna. 

     I dressed into jeans and grey T-shirt and sat down in front of my computer. I had spent the last two months mopping, doing nothing, writing articles about thre simplest things and I had forgotten all about this day. It had loomed on the horizon and it hadn't crossed my mind once. But perhaps with the horrid memory and Mandy's broken heart occupying front seats in my mind, it wasn't difficult to forget about other things that were important.

     Like my theory.

     Or my nonexistent theory, I should say. Because I had learned nothing new since the last time I'd gone over this topic. I hadn't made any other connections that weren't obvious and already established. 

     So I wasn't really near finding out the connection, who she would kill next. And I had no freakin' idea where she would commit the next murder. No matter how hard I worked, I wouldn't be able to figure it out. I had fucked up. I had completely wasted all my damn time acting like a little pussy, doing nothing, not working on what I should be working. It was the only day I could be almost sure that the Belladonna would be striking, and I hadn't used my time wisely to prepare myself for this. 

     I leaned back on my chair and sighed. 

     There was no point to even try. No point at all.