Chasing Polaroids

Chapter One (1/2)

JEMMA.

"Coffee for J?"

          I look to the barista and stand up. J is short for Jemma, but they don't have to know that. I approach the counter, take the cup of black coffee that has been whipped up for me, and I say a soft thank you. You really have to these days, people can be cruel.

          I go back to my chair. Sitting ahead of me is Donald Larsen, my latest victim. Well, he isn't my latest victim yet, but he will be soon. I just have to get through this stupid date idea I had.

          "Thanks for coming out with me, J." he tells me. He's looking over to me with glee in his eyes, a ridiculous smile plastered all over his face. I guess this is what happens when man is left in isolation.

          "Of course." I say.

          "You're the first woman under thirty that has actually wanted to go on a date with me, can you believe it? I would have thought that there would be more, but the fact that you're here is enough to make me feel special." he says to me, with complete seriousness rolling off of his tongue. With every word he lets loose, I want to gouge his eyes out just a little bit more, but that's something I'll have to leave for later.

          "Well, what can I say?" I let off a laugh to show a sign of nervousness, and maybe a tad of wanting if he's desperate enough to interpret it that way. "The heart is attracted to what it's attracted to."

          He looks at me with this smirk, this attempt at sexy that falls so far out of that category, that all I feel is a strong sense of assault as he tries to look into my eyes. I nod, hoping he reads it as a stop sign.

          Why I'm on this date, I have no idea. At first, I wanted to do this because I felt like I had hit a slump. I wanted to spice things up and give myself something different, a newer challenge. I thought that going out on this date before killing my victim was what I was looking for; a hint of romantic inclination before killing someone who you thought liked you. Now that's cruel, I thought, let's try that. But now, the only cruelty I feel seems to be directed at me, as I sit in this run-down coffee shop at 10 pm, taking sips off of a cup of black coffee that is somehow too ashy for my taste.

          "I love what you're wearing, by the way." I eventually say, once the mind fuzz falls out.

          He smiles. The oversized jeans, crocs, and skimpy polo shirt isn't really a look to be admired, but I guess it's entertaining enough to barely be considered a redeeming factor to this man.

          "Thanks," he says. "It took me a while to think of this outfit, really, but I was hoping that it did look nice. You look good, too."

          I'm wearing a worn-out dress that I bought online for this occasion, some black and white Converses, and nonprescription glasses to make it harder for my face to be recognized (Clark Kent's methods have some merit to them, no matter how ridiculous they seem). My brown hair is all down for a natural look freaks like this guy probably like more, but who am I to know what men like? I don't even know what I like.

          "Thanks, I guess. I tell him.

          A little history on the victim of the night, Donald "Don" Larsen is a janitor at a local high school. He's 58, overweight, bald, and based on his Facebook profile, a whole motherload of insecurity and control issues. He's not particularly proud of the position that he holds as a janitor, and so he projects it as anger towards those that discriminate against his profession. Some months ago, he was caught and arrested for the assault of one Tommy Gallagher, a kid that studied at Orr Middle School, where Donald worked. He beat the kid up half to death, leaving him with several fractured bones and a concussion. The family pressed charges, which Donald tried to fight but couldn't, which lead to his eventual arrest. A few months later, he got released on good moral conduct and based on my suspicions and research, some work that went on inside with friends he had in the county jail. Soon he was out, and he was walking around as if he was sinless. As if he wasn't meant to be punished. But that's a good thing, because now he's in my hands.