Uncanny

Greaser.

My name is Hazel Barnham, I'm 17. My Mother is dead, my Father too. I live alone. Solitude was always my personal preference. I'm not baptised, nor do I wish to be. I follow out my days with precision, making sure nobody catches on. I complete my job, get home and strip down. Until nothing but my pale thin body and thick blonde hair remain. I twist the tap, heating up the tiled room, opening the curtain and sitting inside my shower is what keeps me going. I scrub. Once, then twice, then a third time until I've removed all evidence of what crimes I've committed. The wars over but my fight is not. I return the tap to its original setting and layer myself is silk nightgown. I return my favourite knife to its place, third draw, second from the bottom, on the left side, next to the golden tinted silver butter knife. I close the draw. I boil the kettle and place the needle onto the record player. I silently slouch down into my chair. All at once it seems everything gets much louder, the over boiled kettle, the tedious jazz music, the neighbors, the knocking at my door. I rise slowly from my sunken slouch, I dance lightly over to the kettle and turn the stove off. I don't pour myself a cup, but instead empty into the drain, making sure all evidence was washed away. I stalk the room, and remove the needle, then the record. I grab a small knife from my stocking and make my way over to the door. If it was a killer I could defend myself, same goes if it was my tenant. I unlock the bottom lock, then the middle one leaving my slide lock closed, I reach for the handle and turn. The door opens slowly and barely at all. There on the outside of my green wooden door stands a beautiful man. Tall, fair skinned, almost black haired. His eyes glowed golden and green. He wore slacks too big for him and a white shirt that had dark stains on it. A greaser.
"I was wondering if you had any sugar? I thought I did, but I clearly don't." His words came out clear but unsure. I wondered if there was still blood on my face. I didn't know if my voice could be trusted at this moment so I unhinged the lock and opened the door.
"So do you not speak English? Or, do you not speak at all?" He was witty, in a place like this, that's why he'd die.
"I speak, both English and French." I invited him using my hands and face to sit.
"Oh really? Tu es très belle." A compliment in French means nothing.
"je connais."
"I don't speak French." He said with a pathetic sheepish smile on his face. I hide the small pocket knife, for now it sits in the first draw under the spoons with flowers on them, but three millimeters to the right. I grab four small sugar packets from the white pot that sits next to the black and across from the yellow. I place the lid down silently and watch as this charming stranger examines my home. Hes distracted by the little decor. Home design right now was big and bold, I could tell he was fascinated by the lack of well everything. Most people were. I kept it simple as not to disturb thoughts. I glance towards my clock. It's 8pm. Late.
"Well I must get going." He stands up and takes the sugar carefully out of my hands, noticing the many small incision scars.
"Oh and you're name?" I realised after he asked neither of us knew each others names.
"Hazel. And yours?"
"Theodore. Most people call me Theo. But that's your choice to make, miss Hazel."
"What is your preference?"
"Goodnight, miss Hazel." And with that Theodore closed my door and walked down the hall. I heard and felt every step. This man was the most beautiful one I had ever met. His personality was beautiful too. There was a mysterious part to him, but around here there was a mysterious part to everyone. It's such a shame he must die.