Lone Traveler

Alternate ending V2.0

She valued her cleanliness, as did I. I’d watch as she spent hours, sometimes entire days, washing and organizing each and every inch of her home, always to perfection. Now it was a mess, a chaotic wreck of turmoil and struggle. I’d never seen her in such a shape of sheer humanity. Her walls, once rife with the beauty and life she painted, now lay bare, the art scattered and broken upon the floor. I clenched my teeth as I righted them, muscles tensing as I tried to hang them back in their correct places, but they were simply not the same. I silently placed them back on the floor.

A figure crossed the hall beside me, a long black piece of cloth trailing behind. It turned around the corner, slowly climbing its way up the perfectly vacuumed carpet stairs. I’d crept up those same steps so many times, careful to keep to the far left—close to the wall—so as to avoid any noise. It led right to her studio, the only room on the second floor, where she spent most of her time creating masterpieces. I glanced back at the shattered paintings now propped against the wall by my feet and turned toward the steps.

I never had much reason to go upstairs, as she did her sleeping in her first-floor bedroom, but I still enjoyed wandering there late at night, sometimes even spending the evening in her never-used closet. It comforted me, being with what I knew would save the future. Her talents gave me hope, I needed to ensure the world saw her beauty. I climbed over the last step, feet automatically following the path I’d traveled so many times, and stopped in front of the closed stairway door.

The crème carpet outside her studio was stained a ruby red, still moist under the weight of my bare feet. I could hear her breathing heavily behind it, her gasps raspy and strained as if under a tremendous weight. I wrapped my hand around the doorknob, twisting the cold brass handle and silently pushing it open.

She lay on the floor in the center of the room, body encased in a rainbow of spilled paints. Cans of red, yellow, blue, orange, and every other imaginable hue lay scattered around her, their contents soaking in with the blood seeping out of her. The worlds she’d painted for just the two of us, the universes that were supposed to inspire the future, were now stained beside her, covered in blood and paint and split by knife.

She glanced up, her eyes studying me with a faint hint of recognition, her mouth gagged and broken, hands tied back. I could hear her whimper softly, just as she occasionally did in her sleep as I stood watch. I stared at her for a moment, admiring her beauty. Even before a near-certain death, she was still stunning. The way her blonde hair, matted down with paint and blood, stuck to her floor and forehead: it was simply divine. She had to be famous, had to be known as more than just a teacher. A figure shifted in the far corner of the room, its back to me. I glanced up at it and slowly began my way forward.

The floor of Caroline’s studio still felt the same, even as I silently crept around the spilled paint and blood. Soft and warm, the wood absorbing heat from the bright, white lights overhead. It was simply my favorite place to be, maybe even more so than the nights I’d spend lying just outside her window. The figure was leaning over a table, its hand entering and exiting the burlap bag Caroline kept her money, passports, and other items in. She stored it in the drawer behind the studio door, stopping in once or twice a day to take something out or put something in. I’d occasionally look at her picture on the ID cards, but never took anything. I had no need for her cash or items.

It was a man in front of me; the cloth I had seen trail behind him was the tail of a long, dark-black overcoat. His orange hair was unkempt and curly, spiraling out from under a brown beanie cap. Although he faced away, I could still see the five-o’clock shadow forming on his face, the individual prickles of hair standing up and trying to alert him to my presence.

I didn’t like what he had done to Caroline. She was my conduit; I was to be her vessel to success. He was interfering, threatening my plans. I took a step forward and sunk my teeth into the side of his face, my tongue slipping against his ear as I pulled. It came off easily, much to my surprise. He screamed and pushed me back, blood dripping from my teeth as a metallic taste filled my mouth.

I shoved my way back through his flailing hands until I was back at his face, again biting down into his cheek and clenching with all my might. A ruby red poured out of him and onto my sweatshirt, my fingers digging their way into his eyes. It was soft, like putting my pointers into a tub of pudding. I wiggled them as he struggled, his throat gurgling with an instinctual cry. I’m sure he hit me back, but I just didn’t care.

He continued struggling, but to no avail. I grabbed the X-ACTO knife Caroline kept in the mug on her desk in front of us, the one she used to put her paintings into her frames. She was quite good at trimming down the edges, always getting it to fit on her first try. It was simply perfection; each masterpiece framed expertly. I plunged the long, thin blade into the man’s abdomen again and again and again. Spurts of warm liquid splashed out onto my hands and the desk ahead, painting the walls in a Jackson Pollock-esque design I knew Caroline would appreciate. Again, and again, and again, until he fell to the floor encased in ruby.

I turned back around, wiping my hands off on my sweatshirt. I was a mess, I knew it. I had hoped I’d look at least semi-presentable the first time Caroline met me. She had no choice in my plans, but I still wanted her to like me. I glanced toward the wall beside her. Several pieces of her art remained in-tact, along with the ones I knew were still downstairs and at her work. The world had not been robbed, I would make sure of it.

I stared down at Caroline. She looked stunning, her hands tied behind her back, a thin piece of black cloth over her mouth. She was perfect, flawless, even with her face shattered and bruised. If the world could just know her name, see the beauty she could create, then there would be hope for tomorrow. I knelt down and untied the cloth around her mouth, a tickle of blood dripping across her burgundy lips.

“Thank you,” she whimpered, her voice angelic and soft.

I smiled. She had no reason to thank me, the world didn’t even know her name yet.

:)