Of Journalists and Knives. [ Johnny C. x Reader ]

"Four."

For a week, you see nothing of Johnny. If not for the fact that you are constantly on edge, just waiting for him to show up again, you might consider it the best week of your life. You are exceptionally productive in an attempt to distract yourself from that glorious sense of impending doom. Johnny's return is not a matter of 'if', only of 'when'. A thousand times over you have considered calling the police and arranging a set up to catch him, once and for all. Something tells you it would be wildly unsuccessful, though, and you have learned that trusting your instincts has its benefits as of late.

You loathe the feeling that he is lying in wait to make his next move. It is not unreasonable to wonder what you are to him. Perhaps you are nothing more than a prey animal he intends to toy with, before calling off the game and snapping your neck. You don't have the time to worry as much as you want to. Your life, and the lives of others, continue to exist whether you are immobilized by fear or not. You have to get over it. If he shows up at your door, that canary-eating grin on his face again, then you will have to accept that for what it is.

Your impending doom, that's what it is.

How unfortunate.

"I mean, it's not like he's going to just.... kill you out in public, with everyone watching." You say out loud to yourself as you step out of the shower, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You jump slightly, and you have to feel stupid for being startled by your own reflection. "He- he won't do that. You should go to that dinner. It's good for your reputation."

This one-sided dialogue with yourself does very little to soothe your nerves. That said, you have no intention of stopping. Helpful or not, the sound of a voice, even your own, relaxes you enough that you feel you should keep going.

"You're going to go and have a nice time with people from work after your shift ends, and then come home, and go to bed. Nothing will happen." You wipe the clinging water from the mirror and look yourself in the eye. "Nothing will happen."

--

The dinner is, as one might expect, nothing short of very awkward. You don't talk to these people, and you're sure they simply invited you out of obligation. As soon as you take your seat beside one of the secretaries- her name is either Shanda or Sharon, you're certain of it- you have the distinct feeling that no one particularly wanted you here. Still, the group brings you comfort like you haven't felt for some time now. They chatter on about things that you don't care about, but you smile and nod when its appropriate.

Shandron, as you have dubbed her, asks you about your recent article. "What was that like, seeing what you did?"

"Uh, well..." Of course someone had to bring it up, just as you were beginning to relax. You wish curses upon Shandron for asking that simple question and making you relive the incident. You don't call it 'the murders', or 'the crime', it is always going to be 'the incident'. "Pretty terrifying, I guess. I don't know, I think... I've blocked a lot of it out, ha." You laugh to keep the mood light and take a sip of your drink.

"Was he cute?" Shandron inquires.

You regret taking that sip, because it immediately winds up in your nose when you hear that. The alcohol burns, and you stammer out a 'w-what?'

"Shanda!" One of your other co-workers exclaims. At least you aren't the only one who thinks that's a highly inappropriate question to ask.

"Well, you know what they say about serial killers. Aren't lots of them charming and attractive? That's how they lure people in, right?"

'Mass murderer', you think, 'Very different.'

"I mean," Now you have to give an answer. Now Shanda (may the gods smite her) is making you actually think about Johnny. He's not charming, no, he's abrasive and rude and inconsiderate. You can't mention that, though, because that would imply you've have extended interaction with him. As for whether he's attractive or not, you could have gone your entire life without giving that a moment of thought. "I-I guess so. I wasn't paying attention to that, really." You shrug, trying to make it casual. Nothing about this could ever be casual.