Enamored

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY CHESS

[name] hadn't expected to see cop cars so quickly.

Not a week had passed by before Helen started killing. First, it was someone downtown, someone random. A drunkard perhaps, because they found alcohol in his system and ruled it to be some sort of targeted fight, but when Helen came back to [name]'s house with blood on his blue vest, [name] doubted otherwise.

The second victim, or rather, victims, was a couple in their apartment. This time, he had drugged them, stripped them, and strung them up to the ceiling, then cut them in various places, allowing their blood to trickle down from their wounds and into a bucket or pan below. [name] knew all this because Helen came to her house and told her every detail after she noticed her local news broadcasting the recent event.

He brought a container full of blood to her house to use as paint.

It felt like she had an unruly pet bringing her dead animals home every night or a large, wet, dog that tracked mud in on her white carpets. [name] almost threw the pan of fried rice she was cooking on the stove at him the moment he placed it on the kitchen counter.

"Get that out of here!" She shouted, her face warm and mind racing at the sight of blood sticking to the plastic container. [name] couldn't peel her eyes away from it and her stomach lurched so she forced her attention away. Helen stared at her from behind the protective shield of his mask.

"I'm not going to keep it here," he said, voice soft, muffled, from behind it, "nobody will know."

His words never gave her comfort. They always sent shivers of cold fear down her spine, but he was always true to them and it made her feel some sort of guilt after that. Then, she remembered again, that he had killed innocent people and she was harboring a killer in her home. Feeding him. Sometimes even allowing him shelter. For whatever reason, she was growing accustomed to it.

The shock that turned to guilt turned to anger, "n-no, get it away now! Pour it down a drain or something! I-"

Helen was staring at her, and it made her stop in her firm declaration. [name] stumbled over her words and they grew quiet, unsure. His fingers drummed on the seal of the plastic.

He...he did always follow through...

[name] cooked the rest of the rice quietly and placed it on the counter next to the stove. She felt hot and disgusting and didn't want to be around the kitchen anymore. She wasn't hungry.

She went back to her bedroom where it was dark and cool and placed a chair at the handle of it. She had been doing this every night since Helen had appeared. [name] tugged off her shirt and lounge shorts and propped her ankle up around her protective barrier of pillows.

It was nice being surrounded in the dark and silence for once. Her skin that was sticky from the heat of the flame and embarrassment was beginning to cool down, surrounded by what she was aware of in her room. [name] listened closely to any sound that came from outside her room, close or not, and held her breath while doing so. Helen was quiet and rarely made a noise, only twice she could hear the clinking of silverware against a bowl. He was eating.

Her ankle began to itch and ache, causing the uncomfortableness to settle in her leg once again. [name] closed her eyes, hoping her thoughts would drown away the pain.

Helen's stories online did not disappear just because he became real and true. In fact, [name] was sure that once more details were released about the case that happened within the night, his stories would just be brought up in more strength. Perhaps others would quickly notice the relation between the murderer and the fake character. Maybe people would say that it was a fanatic trying to copy his tricks.