Enter Apathy

Never Bite the Hand That Feeds(13.)

Muffled screams carry through the apartment past the padlocked door. Lilliana and Kalaraja spew words back and forth at each other, casting a tense mood around them.

"Who's the victim this time?" She asks him, glancing at the door.

"It's not important," Kalaraja gruffly snaps. His posture is stiff and he stands uncomfortably. He leans against the counter top.

She throws her hands up in defense, "Fine. Excuse me for wanting to know whoever else is staying in Hotel Kalaraja."

He glares at her. She might be joking, but it always sets him off, making him feel irritated and impatient.

"It's not important," he repeats himself.

She hops up to sit on the counter, earning herself another angry expression from Kalaraja.

She raises her brow and questions him, "What's got you so bugged, then?"

He glances around the room, hesitates, then answers, "I left one of my gloves at the site I kidnapped him from."

"What-"

"I'm going to get it soon. I just have to hope that nobody notices it." He interrupts her.

He's aware of how dire the situation is. He doesn't need her to tell him exactly how big he just fucked up. He knows that if found, the authorities might be able to trace the fingerprints to him. Only if they know which system to look through; he's never been caught for criminal activity, but if for some godforsaken reason they look through the foster system, he'll be taken in without a doubt.

A sigh leaves his body as he contemplates his previous actions. He stalked the area, snagged his victim when the grounds were clear, and then tucked him into the trunk of his car. Somewhere in the fuss, his glove came off. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the places it could be. There was a pretty clear trail from the moment he grabbed him to the moment he left the scene. He remembers having it on as he grabbed the guy, so it had to have come off while he put the guy in his trunk.

"Fuck," he mumbles under his breath. He has to check the trunk. If it isn't there, he has to go back to the scene. How could he have messed up like this? He's always been so precise.

He grabs his keys and leaves the apartment to check his car. Lilliana shouts a question behind him, but he disregards her as the door closes behind him. The night breeze pelts against his skin. He scans the area around him before he opens his trunk and searches its contents.

Windshield wiper fluid, a crowbar, a wrench, and an extra shirt are all to be seen. No glove.

"Fuck!" He shouts as he slams the trunk shut. He glances around to make sure no one noticed his outburst. A hand runs through his hair and he walks back to his apartment. He'll need to go look for it.

"What was that about?" Lilliana asks him while he strides through the door.

"I have to go look for the glove. I'll be back later," he tells her.

Lilliana hops down from the counter and goes to the living room to watch TV as Kalaraja stands in the doorway to leave.

"You might wanna turn the volume up. He's not gonna shut up for a good while," he says, referring to the man behind the padlocked door.

Lilliana gives him a thumbs up as the door closes behind him.

Thirty minutes later, Kalaraja sits in his car, parked in front of an empty construction site. Two-hundred feet from here, he grabbed and nabbed his victim. His eyes search the grounds. No one else is around, so there should be no reason for him not to find it.

As he steps out of his car and walks over to look for his glove, a burst of air whisks and tosses his hair around his head. The occasional tree that can be seen dances, flowing to the music that is the wind. His eyes scan the concrete, the sidewalk by a building, and the trail he took to kidnap his victim. Cars pass by the site. If anyone stops and asks him what he's doing here, he'll just lie and say that he wonders what they're working on here.

Kalaraja retraces his steps a couple times. Frustration ebbs its way into his back muscles and sweat develops at his temples. It has to be here, it can't be anywhere else. He crouches down to change his perspective. Still nothing.

A curse flies out of his mouth. He rests his hands on his hips, determined to find it.

He searches the same spots over again for about fifteen minutes more and then gives up. Where the hell could it have gone? This doesn't make any sense to him. He closes his eyes, breathes, and then decides to call it a night. He won't find it while he's this frustrated. His eyes scan the area once more before he drops into his seat and peels out of the parking lot. Paranoia seeps into his brain.

       What if someone took it? What if someone saw me?  He thinks to himself.

What he doesn't see as he leaves the area is his glove, tucked into the storm drain, on its way to disappear forever.