Skeletons in the Closet

Chapter 8

The first few days I stayed at Charlie's had been much the same: awake uncomfortably, shuffle about, holed up in the dimly lit apartment doing nothing of note with my time, fall asleep uncomfortably. In those first few days, I began to wonder if trading a comfortable bed for a couch that left me in knots was worth the trade off of not being smothered by my mom.

One consistency over my time at Charlie's were the flashes of horror. The nightmares as I slept were one thing, this ominous spectre awaiting me each time I closed my eyes for the night. But these flashes in my mind's eye, those were harder to deal with. I did not see his face but that did not stop my mind from placing features on this monstrous being looming over my very being. Cold, black eyes that bore through me with lust. Sharp features that felt as though they could draw blood with the slightest prick.

These images came on suddenly and without warning, sometimes a fleeting image, others enough to leave me trembling.

The Butcher may not have ended my life, but he certainly ruled it now.

Charlie left for work early in the morning, so I was left to my devices until the evening. Even then, Charlie had grown distant, something that I could not put my finger on. It seems we both are fighting our own battles. I tried to watch as much trash television as possible, but nothing could chase the demons from my mind.

On the fourth day of aimlessness, I decided to address the curious portion of my brain that always wondered about what made the monsters themselves. Why did they do the things did? Why did they leave nothing but devastation in their wake?

I removed the laptop from my backpack and fired it up. Admittedly, I had no idea where to start first. After a cursory search, I came across a message board that almost seemed to admire serial killers and their activities. The boards felt like a groupie chatroom, except these artists sang songs of blood, death and destruction.

Most of the posts were nothing of real note, admirers of this monster or that, talks of body counts, comparisons between killers from one time or another. The whole thing left a sickening feeling in my stomach. It's almost as if this were sport to the members of this forum. We weren't real people, just another name and tally for their heroes.

Unsure of how much time had passed since I'd begun, a sudden rap at the door nearly brought me out of my skin. My heart thumped angrily against my chest and I needed a moment to settle myself. It's just someone at the door, Della. Stop being so jumpy.

Slamming the laptop closed, I stood from the couch and stretched as I walked to the door. I peered through the peephole, already annoyed with the visitor. That is, until I saw the dirty blonde hair and shit-eating grin.

I unlinked the door chain and opened the door, standing in an annoyed fashion with my hand on my hip. In front of me, Michelle stood with bags in her hands and that classic grin on her face.

"You know, most people would look happier to have dinner and outstanding company arrive to their door," Michelle quipped before breezing by me and into the living room. "For my outstanding company, I should charge."

She dropped everything onto the coffee table with a thud, narrowly missing my laptop. I scurried over towards her, moving the laptop out of harm's way from the wrath of Hurricane Michelle.

"It's already taxing dealing with you,"I quipped. "Charging for it seems like cruel and unusual punishment."

By the time I returned my laptop to my backpack, Michelle had arrayed our meals. In all the time I had lived in Bathurst, my absolute favorite place to eat was a little Italian place called Mama Bucca's. During college, I had eaten there at least twice a week thanks to a rapport with the staff and their fondness of providing me with cheap or free meals. It didn't hurt matters that the food was outstanding, too. Mama Bucca's was an institution, but it felt like my place more than anything.