This story is in the process of being rewritten, and is turning out much better than the first version. Well, at least I hope so, but I'll let you be the judge of that. Thanks for reading!
I wiped down the counter for the hundredth time since I arrived at work.
It was unusually slow this morning, and after glancing at the clock once more, I sighed and sat on the old folding chair hidden behind the register. Its height blocked my view, leaving only the sound of the small bell above the door as the only indication that someone had walked in. The din of the television in the back room and the quiet hum of the mixers were the only sounds that filled my ears, and I was thankful for the reprieve from my usual busy schedule.
I folded my hands behind my head and sank into the uncomfortable dip worn into the chair, kicking my feet up on a low shelf occupied by random items that hadn't yet found their place in the bakery. I'd had a long night—though all nights seemed never ending lately, and blended into my days, resulting in an unhealthy lack of sleep.
Three days now, I counted in my head. It could have been more. I wasn't sure. I reached for the cup of coffee perched on the counter overhead and drank the fuel that did its best to power me through the day. I savored the bitter taste of the coffee, drank black with little sugar, the same way my father prepared his cup every morning up until the day he died.
It was my own way of remembrance, though I would have preferred something cold; the muggy, Miami heat did little in the way of making me crave a hot drink. Even in the dead of winter—February eighth, I noted, after glancing over at the calendar—I'd rather have an ice cold glass of anything.
The sound of an impatient throat clearing drew my attention away from my musings. I peered up to meet the eyes of my employee, and dearest friend, Callie. We had been inseparable for years after meeting each other on the rainy autumn afternoon we'd both moved onto the same block. I remembered the day clearly. Everything had been so much simpler then.
Callie stuck a strand of red hair behind her ear and leaned against the wall, eying the brewing pot of coffee intently, as if it were something of great interest.
"How many pots have you made so far, Piper?" Callie asked. "I keep seeing you suck down cup after cup. You're going to make yourself sick, you know that?"
I smiled. "It's the second pot, and give me a break; I've been here since four in the morning prepping."
It was the way my parents had run things growing up. Waking before the sun had risen, and by the time most of the world was just waking, they were well into their work. Before we had made the move to Miami, we lived on a farm in rural New Jersey with my grandparents. The Monserrat's were immigrants, and hard-working ones at that; I often spent her time in the gardens tending to the vegetables alongside my grandmother, feigning interest while the old woman blathered on about the younger generations and their video games and TV.
Secretly I agreed with her. I never saw the appeal of those things, what most of the children my age adored, and instead retreated to the woods near the water's edge where I watched the stream flow by, crashing against the rocks for hours on end.
Following the first time I witnessed my grandfather slaughter one of the animals, the stream evolved into a different form of calm. I remember envisioning the clear, rushing fluid as the blood that spilled from the wound on his cattle. It was enthralling, watching it flow, sloshing around with a life of its own, that in turn gave me new life.
It wasn't long before I spilled my first blood, a doe that had wandered into my haven, drawn forward by the smell of fruit I'd brought along in a plastic baggie. Curious and hungry, it inched forward cautiously toward my outstretched, berry filled hand. I was quick to notice opportunity and as the animal sniffed at my palm, I leaned forward.
My left hand clutched at a heavy rock off to the side, and with a swift strike, emulating the force exuded by my elder's hand, I cracked the stone on the crown of its skull. The deer erupted then a terrible sound, a cross between an almost human like shriek and a sickening gurgle. I had stared into its eyes, widened and containing a certain sadness that intrigued me then. The animal looked betrayed.
I hit it again.
It stopped shrieking.
I wiped the blood from my face and hands in the stream and continued eating.
"I bet you haven't slept either," Callie said, waving a hand in front of my face, breaking me out of my trance. "You look like it."
I downed the last of my coffee while I blinked, focusing on her concerned face. "Yeah? I didn't think I looked too bad when I left the house this morning."
"As your friend, I have to say, you look like shit," Callie said, her nose wrinkling at my apparent disheveled appearance. "And I think you'd be better off in the back with Ian today. You might scare off the customers looking like that."
"Is that such a bad thing?" I stood, stretching my arms. "We could use a day to relax if you ask me."
Callie nodded in agreement. "Anyway, I wanted you to check on the cake—for the Larson's boy? The mother should be in soon to pick it up. I wanna make sure I got all the details right," Callie smiled sheepishly.
"I'm sure you did," I said, not wanting to move from my spot. The night before had been a long one, full of research the likes of which I hadn't done since high school, and hunting that lasted from my shift the day before, early into the morning. I couldn't deny her the inspection though; after all, this was my business, and with Callie an eager amateur at best, I had to make sure things were done properly.
A beautiful cake brought in money and reflected the bakery well. A standard supermarket block of cheap 'icing' and bland cake did not. I wouldn't stand for less. And neither would my parents, I thought, casting a glance up at the family photo hanging on the wall.
"Alright, lead me to it," I groaned and pushed off the counter, rolling my shoulders while I fell into step behind my shorter friend.
. . .
It was the greatest thing she'd churned out since working here. The colors were vibrant and all of her lines were clean. I commended her on her work and slinked away while Callie discussed over the phone excitedly with one of our customers when to pick up her son's cake. He was turning fourteen apparently, and I wondered why in the hell someone would choose a train theme for a teenage boy. I shrugged away the thought and resumed my usual spot, hunched over the morning paper near the register, ready to greet customers with a charming smile and a warm greeting.
I skipped over the celebrity gossip and uninteresting sports columns and immersed myself in the comics. After a long, stressful night I needed a distraction like a junkie needed a fix. Though, not all luxuries could be afforded; halfway into a Garfield comic the bell rang over the front door and I tucked the paper away. I prepared my cheerful charade and upon meeting the gaze of the new customer, felt my smile falter and my eyes narrow into a suspicious stare.
He approached the counter with a small smile and a cautious air about him. The man kept his hands balled in the pockets of his khakis while he ducked his head down to view the pastries in the glass case. I kept my eye on him; he was playing a dangerous game with me, not to mention leaving himself vulnerable to attack—he had to know by now what I was.
"Everything looks so good; I'm not sure what to get."
All I could see was his light brown hair peeking over the edge of the counter and I held my hands behind my back, resisting the urge to knock him over the head with something heavy. With Callie and Ian in the back, that wasn't a smart choice. So I settled on taking the less violent route with this man, who'd become less a stranger over the past two weeks and more of a hindrance than anything else. The two of us had crossed paths too many times for it to be a mere coincidence, and I wondered if we were after the same person, or if I myself was being targeted.
"Take your time," I answered evenly, "it's a slow morning. No rush."
"What do you recommend?" he stood upright finally, waiting while I listed off various baked goods. He settled on a bagel and coffee.
"Good choice. Say, I've never seen you before," something we both knew was a lie, "what's your name? I have plenty of regulars and you're the first new face, so forgive me for asking."
He waved his hand. "It's fine. I'm Dexter, and you are?"
Dexter, I thought. Has to be a fake name.
"Piper. It's nice to meet you Dexter." I held my hand out and he took it, returning the firm grasp. "I suspect I'll be seeing you again?"
"What makes you say that?" he raised a brow.
I let go of his hand. "Monserrat's is one of the best bakeries in the area. I've been told our cakes are to die for."
"Really." He said, nodding his head slowly. "I'll have to come back then if that's the case; one of my coworker's birthday is coming up."
"I'll see you soon then."
There was a cold look in his eyes as he backed away toward the front door, leaving me with the promise that we would indeed cross paths once more. Only Dexter knew if our next meeting would be the last, or if the two of us would simply stumble across each other on the hunting grounds we'd silently laid claim to. My heart pounded at the potential danger he presented me with and I made a point to be more cautious than I ever had been.
. . .
There was virtually no traffic on the main roads, making my drive home from the bakery to my apartment complex quick and much easier than I expected it to. The sun was just setting, casting a warm, orange glow onto the harbor as the day came to a close, but I knew my work was far from finished. I turned away from the railing and unlocked the door, expecting to be greeted by the sloppy kisses of my dog, Charlie, and instead was met with silence. Only the droning sound of the old air conditioner could be heard and I shut the door quietly, treading lightly across the hardwood, my hand reaching up under my shirt for the knife I tucked in the waist of my pants.
As I rounded the corner, I gasped as fingers wrapped around the column of my throat and tugged me forward into the darkened hallway, my feet dragging over what I soon discovered was limp body of my dog. I gazed up into familiar green eyes and fought to release myself from the tight grasp he had on my neck. My hand clutched the handle of my knife and swung out, swiping Dexter's chest and shredding the front of his shirt, and before I could sink the blade any deeper, I felt the sharp prick of a needle. Slowly, everything began to fade and I found myself being lowered gently to the floor, unable to move my arms and legs.
He had made good on his promise, I realized, and as my thoughts became less and less coherent, I reluctantly accepted the fact that this was my last night on earth.