Elena Ardent's Guide to Being A Grimm - Nick Burkhardt

1.3 | Lone Wolf

I peeled off my fitted shirt and shorts, tossing them into a laundry basket sitting on the floor just to the side of the bathroom door. The basket was piled full, but I hadn't gotten to do laundry yet. At least the rest of the house was relatively clean, mainly because I didn't have much to make it messy. Most of my belongings were still packed away in cardboard boxes. A few were stacked in each room of the relatively small house.

After ditching my underwear and sports bra, I wrapped a towel around my body and twisted the knob of the faucet. Water approximately the temperature of Antarctica began pouring from the shower head. I stood outside of the tub, waiting for the water to warm.

Once I was confident the shower water wouldn't give me hypothermia, I stepped into the shower, draping the towel on the hook next to the curtain. I used soap to scrub away the blood staining my hand. There was dried blood under my fingernails and embedded in the creases of my skin. That took extra scrubbing to erase as suds flooded the bottom of the tub.

Once the pink water faded down the drain, I shampooed my hair, dying the steam with the aroma of green apple. Vanilla conditioner followed and once I was done with the basic shower duties, I stood, letting the water softly beat down my back, the warmth surrounding me and calming the chill that had set in under my skin from the cold weather, which hadn't bothered me while I was running.

I recalled the conversation-- rather, argument-- with Captain Renard. He had accused me of coming to Portland for a reason rather than leaving my old life behind. Maybe there was some truth in what he said, but if there was, I didn't know it yet.

Back in Maine, there was an empty sheriff's position: one I used to hold. But I left my badge behind, just like I had left a detective's badge behind in New York City. Here in Portland, I was nothing yet. And I was okay with that. Being nothing meant I wasn't an ex, I wasn't an employee. I was alone. And I had begun to think that maybe I was better off that way.

I closed my eyes and let the water wash over my face, but I was dragged out of my thoughts when I heard a heavy thud, like something being knocked over. It was likely one of the boxes stacked in another room. I wish I had a cat. That would make me a lot less skittish.

I kept the shower running, but I was no longer focused on the droplets of water warming my skin. I listened carefully, slowly reaching out of the shower to grasp the handle of the knife that waited on the the lid of the toilet tank next to the tub. I clutched it to my chest and the water of the shower began chipping away at the dried blood on the uncleaned blade. The water was tinted pink again, but I ignored it as I listened to the sound of careful footsteps that echoed through my mind. Cue the Psycho shower scene violins. 

I left the shower spitting out the bursts of rain as I grabbed a bathrobe from under the towel and tied it around my body with one hand, the other still supporting the knife. I left my hair and body dripping wet as I cautiously stepped onto the plushy purple bath mat. The shower covered the sound of me twisting the doorknob and the creak of the opening hinges.

I crept out through the hall, listening carefully for the source of the noise. The footsteps repeated and I spun around when I identified they were coming from the living room. Something shattered, probably the only picture frame there was in my house.

I clutched the handle of the knife tighter. I knew a gun would be easier, but I had been trained with a knife as my primary weapon since I was a little girl. The grip of the knife was familiar in my hand and the weight was welcome.

I jumped, startled, when a man launched out from living room. He was built like a boulder with greasy blonde hair and a matching short beard, his eyebrows creased in anger. He wore a faded flannel shirt over a grey shirt and ripped jeans, rushing towards me when he spotted me.