A Descent into Darkness

The Storage Locker

The moon shines brightly through the clear winter night as the Uber pulls up outside the storage locker facility, Wildman Lockers, here near the Richmond Hill, Vaughn line.

"Thanks," I mutter quietly as I climb out the back seat with my sports bag.

"You sure you don't want me to wait?" the driver calls after me. I don't entirely blame him. On its face, this is completely forgotten part of town, at least after dark. Nothing but warehouses and industrial buildings as far as the eye can see, all of which are completely empty this late. No one around to hear a woman scream.

"You saying women can't take care of themselves?" I shout back.

He looks offended, before rolling up the window and driving away. I close my eyes in regret for that little line. Not that I regret saying that to him. I just usually try to avoid doing anything that makes me more memorable to the people I'm required to interact with and not kill. Now that driver's gonna have an image of me in his head for God knows how long. Oh well, no bother so long as the cops have no reason to talk to him. Which they don't.

I've already dismembered and disposed if Mitch and Mel's bodies and brought their car to the scrapyard after ensuring the hotel room was clean. They'll be missing persons at worst, if anyone cares enough to report it. No chance of that driver ever being questioned, at least in relation to me.

Having calmed my worry, I resume my walk toward the front doors of the storage facility, the only light on in any building around. This place is always open. Clients have to be able to access their lockers at any time of day. Many prefer the night because there's less chance of witnesses.

I head through the front door, and find Tico is the "receptionist" on duty tonight.

"Good Evening Ms. Moran," he nods at me as I come in. I nod back and go on my way. He doesn't ask to see ID or anything. The receptionists here are required to know the faces of all clients, disguised or not. If anyone other than a client comes in and tries to pass the desk, it's their job to press the button that incinerates the contents of every locker in the place. Harsh, I know. But anyone with a locker in this facility would rather see its contents destroyed than in an evidence bag in court.

Let me tell you, it was not easy to find a place I felt confident keeping my tools. I discovered it after hacking into my father's files, and finding he was defending a drug dealer who told him that, under no circumstances, could the Crown or cops learn about this place. He would be killed if they did. It was through those files that I learned the code word for a referral here.

I walk through the halls to my locker, number 19. Once there, I pull the key card from my purse and hold it up the pad, where the light turns green. I lift the gate, step inside, and pull it shut behind me, before reaching through the dark and flipping the light on from memory. Before me, is a room one might thing would belong to Christian Grey if he were actually creepy. On shelves and racks all around the room is every torture tool you could think of. Knives, clamps, scalpels, drills, hammers, acid, bags, ropes, tasers, pepper sprays, even a few guns. It's so beautiful. Sometimes when I'm here, I like to just sit and look at all of them. To remember the pain I've inflicted with each individual tool.

But it's four in the morning, and I will admit, I'm tired after the extensive clean up that comes with dismembering and disposing of two bodies as well as the time it took to find their car. They told me it was in a specific lot two blocks from the hotel. I had no idea just how big that lot was, or how many cars were parked there. A lot, as it turned out.

First, I pull off my wig and remove the coloured contact lenses. Then I change out of the clothes I was wearing and put on a less seductive hoodie with jeans. I then hang the clothes and return the wig to it's display head on the shelf.