I'm pretty happy with how this one turned out. I hope you will be too...
I would have posted this on fictionpress, but I though it was related enough to Dexter to post here. Also, fictionpress won't let me submit. This is a horror story, my major composition for this semester... I would appreciate critique and not "OMG this isn't a Dexter story!" This will tie in with future fics, so think of it as a backstory.
Tick, tick, tick…
The noise was annoying. Annoying enough for me to focus on it, and only it, as I waited. As if time wasn't already on my mind.
She had been in the room for over five minutes now.
I sat on the edge of my wooden seat as still as humanly possible, but foot still jiggled back and forth. I waited for the scream that never came. I was beginning to wonder if she had died as well.
Footsteps sounded again in the hallway. My next-door neighbor appeared in the doorway, face pale and ashen. She shakily sat down across from me on the ancient sagging couch. A thin layer of sweat covered her forehead.
She tried, in vain, to keep her eyes off of me. She looked at the wall, the table, the floor. My tidy apartment had never held so much interest for her before.
Her hands were shaking.
I finally answered the question I knew was running through her mind. "No, of course I didn't do it. Jesus Christ, Bridgitte, you really think I killed someone?"
Bridgitte remained silent. She opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. This process repeated for the next couple of minutes, her plump lips making popping noises. She seemed at a loss for words, which, to be honest, didn't happen often.
She finally settled on, "How long has it been there?"
I checked my watch. Six o'clock. "I don't know. I found it about half an hour ago."
She looked at me oddly. "And you waited this long to tell someone why?"
"I had to clean," I said, as if it was obvious.
"Jeremy!" She sighed in exasperation. "Cleaning's the last thing you're supposed to do at a crime scene." A more sinister thought crossed Bridgitte's mind. She licked her lips nervously.
"Oh." Dim realization spread across my face. She stood and began pacing. "Cleaning helps me think," I offered in lieu of a better explanation.
"What the hell was there to think about? If I found a dead body in my bedroom I'd sure as shit call the cops."
"I was thinking," I glared at her briefly, "about calling the cops. I wanted to talk to you first," I added in an attempt to flatter her.
Bridgitte took a step towards the doorway. "Jeremy, this is awfully suspi-"
"Relax, relax," I told her, perfectly clean hands up. "I swear on my bible I didn't kill her."
A short pause grew between us. "You don't own a bible," she said, annoyed. She pushed her long, dark hair behind her shoulders.
I know.
"Look, I've lived here for, what? Six months? I think you'd notice me moving corpses out of my apartment if I was some kind of freaky killer."
She sighed and looked at me.
"Is it really so hard to believe that I'm innocent?"
Bridgitte didn't answer me, but I already knew the answer to that question. Yes. Yes, it was.
She remained unconvinced. Her eyes flickered from me to the hallway. "Let's take a look at it again."
I followed her down the hallway. My gaze lingered on my few framed pictures. She cracked the door open to my bedroom and slid herself inside. I did so as well with a touch of difficulty. She was slimmer, a couple years younger, and altogether more able at such things.
The room was spotless, if a little small- apart from the bed. Neat wooden cabinets housed my clothes. The cream-colored carpet was vacuumed clean. My alarm glowed a brilliant blue with the time. Thankfully, it didn't tick.
The curtains were drawn. Bridgitte flung them open, and a golden sunbeam illuminated the figure on the bed.
She was pretty, despite the blood. Dressed in a short white gown, she lay sprawled diagonally against the twin-size mattress. She was obviously in good shape.
The blood. Instead of a pool or mess, there were a few strategically placed cuts along her wrists and neck. Blood had seeped through the neckline of the dress. It was etched into her fingertips, her palms.
Bridgitte exited the room with me. She shut the door carefully, as if a door slam would wake the girl. We tiptoed back into the front room.
She waited a while to speak, letting it all sink in. "You swear you just found her like this?" Her eyes avoided mine, preferring to stare at the blank yellow walls. I nodded.
"What do you think I should do?" I asked, looking and feeling rather helpless.
Her stomach grumbled. We both laughed, glad for a moment of normality.
"I think you should whip something up, master chef," she said teasingly. Whatever doubt she had with my innocence before was gone. She didn't seem to doubt me now.
This would make things so much easier.
"Sure," I agreed, leading her to the kitchen.
The apartment may not have been much, but the kitchen was its saving grace. Obsidian black granite counters sparkled. The freezer and fridge were both fully stocked, and spices lay carefully arranged next to a shining stove top.
I opened the fridge, tugging hard on the heavy door, and selected a few choice ingredients.
"What's on the menu?" Bridgitte asked.
I looked at her for a moment. "Hot sandwiches." I pulled out a frying pan as I spoke. The majority of the things I would need already sat piled by the spices.
She took a seat on the white wooden stool near the entrance of the room. Her hands tapped against the edge of the counter. I became immersed in my work: the ritual of slicing the bread, the cheese, slicing them so thinly and neatly…
Her voice startled me when she finally spoke. I almost jumped. "What do you want me to help with?"
"You could butter the pan," I said, motioning to the still-waiting frying pan.
She did so in silence. I was struck by the almost awkwardness of the quiet.
One thought finally made it from her mind to her mouth. "You seem calm."
"So do you," I retorted, keeping my attention on the food. My knife had now moved on to the produce.
"My excuse is denial. What's yours?
I turned from the peppers a moment and considered the question. "I've always been good at repressing unpleasant things."
"Oh."
There was peace once more in my kitchen. The tomatoes were my next victims.
Of course, Bridgitte ruined it by talking again. "So, how's this gonna work?"
"How's what gonna work?" My blade slipped and I almost cut myself. She took no notice, of course. Small things were escaping her, probably as a result of her so-called denial.
"Calling the police, of course," she said with an eye-roll.
Bridgitte had always been sarcastic, in the half year or so I had known her. There was always the occasional comment or two to me in the hallway both of our apartments shared.
True, we hadn't been that close. She had been in my apartment maybe three times, not counting now.
"We can't."
She rolled her eyes again. "Please. Don't turn this into a 'we can't go to the police because they won't understand' thing. They won't think you did it, don't worry-"
I cut her off. "No, I mean we literally can't. I didn't pay my phone bill." She didn't bother to check the phone less than a foot away.
"Oh. Shit."
"So we can just go down to the station-"
"No!" she said, cutting me off for a change. I raised one eyebrow- an acquired skill.
Bridgitte continued, "I mean, we can't just leave the body here alone. What if the killer comes back?"
It seemed utterly ridiculous. Killers by nature weren't stupid. If this were really someone's dumping ground, they wouldn't be returned for the body they had left here. But I decided to humor her.
"Really? So one of us should stay and watch?"
"Yeah," she said, in all seriousness. I continued chopping the vegetables. The knifestrokes matched the steady noise I could still hear coming from the clock in the living room. Tick, tick, tick… time was already escaping us.
"I'll go," I volunteered. "My car's faster than your rusty Corolla."
"True," she admitted with a sigh.
"But I wonder…" I said aloud, chopping stopping for the moment.
Her curiosity was peaked. "What?"
"If he really came back…" I leaned towards her.
Bridgitte moved closer. "Yes?"
We were at eye level now, and inches away.
"Would you really be able to defend yourself?"
She scoffed and leaned back in her seat. "Jeez, Jeremy."
I laughed. "Just asking." I closed the distance between us again. She looked at me and shook her head, retreating to her original position.
I gave myself a small smile and returned to the vegetables. Almost finished. Bridgitte seemed mesmerized as she watched me work. I finished slicing the last tomato with a loud chick! that reverberated through the cutting board. I swept the ingredients by knifepoint into the center of the board and played with rearranging them.
She spoke quietly, seriously. "I'm not so defenseless, you know."
I turned, one hand on the dripping knife, and looked her straight in the eye.
"Aren't you?"
"…so that's about all the questions we have. Let me just go over some of the facts so we have this all straight," the burly-looking detective said. The other man nodded politely. "You came home at seven."
"Yes."
"And found the victims…"
The man found himself tuning out the detective's words. He nodded silently to every question. The detective's hands motioned often to the identical black body bags being carried out. The detective grew more and more skeptical with each one.
"And everything was completely," he paused for unneeded emphasis, "spotless."
"Mm-hm."
"And you have no idea what they were doing here."
"Well, the one in the kitchen," he winced a little woodenly, "was my neighbor."
The detective nodded, not really understanding where the man was going with this. He said no more.
The detective decided to break the silence first.
"You're taking this pretty well." He was quiet for a moment and looked the man up and down. "You seem really calm for someone who just stumbled on two bodies."
He shrugged. "I've always been good at repressing things."
A chill went up the other man's spine but he said nothing. He took a step back and scanned the apartment. The various forensic professionals were clearing out. Soon the two were alone.
"Well," he said, clearing the lump in his throat, "we'll still be doing a follow-up, of course." He continued on with the various formalities, growing more and more uncomfortable as the man stared.
"Thank you," the man said as he finally finished. "I might need to send you my new address."
"You're not staying here?"
He shook his head, pursing his lips. An incredulous expression adorned his face. "God, no. I was planning to get a transfer with work anyway. I'm definitely not staying here with a killer on the loose."
"Of course." He nodded understandingly. "So if that's it, I can just go…"
"Yeah."
"No questions, concerns or comments?"
"No. I just want you to catch this bastard," he said with a crooked smile.
The detective shook his hand. His grip was firm, he noted, and a little on the sweaty side.
The detective gave him a last loaded look as he walked out the door. He glanced behind him every couple seconds as he walked away, as if the man would suddenly disappear. The man in the apartment gave him a little wave as he turned the corner.
The man didn't go inside, but looked outside for a moment. The apartment next door was empty now. Perhaps a woman would move in, a beautiful woman… He allowed himself to reminisce for a moment. He would be moving soon anyhow, as he had told the slightly oblivious detective. He needed to keep a low profile, and staying here wouldn't do that.
Sighing, the man stepped back inside his domestic prison. The bars were growing all around him. He closed the door tightly, locking it with a click.
The clock on the wall was accusatory now. Tick, tick, tick… with every second it condemned him. The light seemed to shine on it and only it. The glare made him shield his eyes against it, and the noises grew louder.
Guilty, guilty, guilty…
In a sudden burst of frenzy, he ripped the clock from the wall, throwing it aside. It shattered against the other wall in a satisfying sort of way. His hands fumbled with the light switch until finally cool shadow washed over him.
He lay in silence on the carpet, heartbeat slowing. His breathing became more even, and he was able to think clearly.
It's just a clock.
He crawled his way over to where the pieces were scattered. The glass lay all around, but the face was largely unharmed. Pressing his ear to it, he couldn't hear a sound.
In the growing darkness of his apartment, Jeremy smiled.