A/N: Hello everyone! So, another new story is here!
Since Colors is coming to an end very soon, I figured I could give you all a taste of my next story. :P
I hope you all enjoy!
Freddy Krueger was the reason I was sitting in the back of some guy's car, speeding to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center.
I replayed the evening's events over and over, but if I had really thought about it-which was difficult to do with the burgeoning concussion-the point of no return had passed that morning…
Man Dead a Week in Central Pittsburg Apartment
I lingered at the newspaper stand with the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette-paid for and tucked tightly under my arm-nudging the strap of my messenger bag. The headline begged me to come closer and check out the lurid report.
A breeze folded the corner of the paper, hiding half the columns and making it impossible to read at my current 'intellectual who shouldn't care for sensationalist reporting but no one has to know I'm actually riveted' distance.
Pushing up my glasses, I glanced to either side of the empty pavement. Empty, save the vendor, but he was tucked behind his stand scratching at his Sudoku. Quickly, I sidled closer to the rickety red rack. I lifted the flap of paper and scanned the first paragraph.
A man has been found dead in his apartment. Police say he appears to have been dead for close to a week. The body was discovered after the neighbors complained about insistent whining from the deceased's near-starved cat-
"Ya gotta be kiddin'!" The vendor chimed in a heavy Pittsburgh accent, pushing in his racks under the safety of overhead balconies. I lurched away from the rack, from the cat that, despite being "near starved," hadn't yet started chewing on his owner.
"Ya know it's goin' to rain." He said, stretching a finger toward the thick gray clouds in the distance. As if to emphasize his point, a gust rolled down the street, rustling the papers and whistling through the gutter grates.
"Better be on my way, then." If I hurried, I'd miss the downpour. The clouds appeared lighter around the city's prominent Cathedral of Learning, close to where I was heading.
Maybe I'd be lucky.
Readjusting the strap of the messenger bag carrying my essentials-laptop, pens, notebook-I hurried toward campus while scouring the articles on the first pages of the Post-Gazette.
Some of the headlines lacked zest and catchiness, something that I wouldn't let happen with Scribe this semester if I got promoted to features editor.
When I got promoted to features editor.
If I wanted the apprenticeship at my father's firm, I had to prove I could hold an editorial position. For two consecutive years.
I swallowed the lump of excited nerves that'd been bundling in my throat all week and hurried toward the large, concrete block of hideousness that housed the magical world of the student magazine.
Just a few pathways stretched between me and my reporting assignments for the semester. Maybe I'd be reassigned the student politics column I wrote last year. Or, since the final year of my undergraduate studies had finally accepted me into its embrace, maybe the chief would give me my promotion-
I was immediately brought out of my thoughts as I hit metal and tumbled, landing with a smack against the pavement. The newspaper ripped. A tingle of pain burst through my wrists and everything blurred. An amused voice sounded from my left, and I shifted into a crouch, brushing the grit off my grazed palms.
A guy in a black-and-silver wheelchair sat with his arms folded.
"If you wanted to catch my attention, you could've started with 'hello'."
"I didn't see you." I said, plucking up my glasses and getting to my feet. The frames were a little scratched, but not too bad. I slid the glasses back on.
The blond-haired guy smiled. Tattoos of hummingbirds trailed up his arms, and his brow was spectacularly arched.
"Sorry." I said, collecting the paper and folding it. "Are you all right?"
"Better than you are." He rolled his wheelchair back a few feet and then forward again. "Chair's good, too. Little word of advice, watch where you're going next time." He teased.
Well...he had a point. I should be more observant, especially considering I prided myself on noticing details others tended of overlook.
Someone behind me caught his attention, and he waved. Sparing one more amused glance my way, he rolled around me and up the path.
A splash of rainwater hit my nose. The clocktower in the distance chimed the hour.
I jogged the remainder of the path just as the splashes turned into a downpour.
Sopping wet, I scurried into the concrete block of hideousness.
Surely, the day could only get better.
XxX
With its flaky wallpaper and threadbare carpet, the Scribe boardroom provided a wonderful view of the proudly-towering neo-gothic Cathedral of Learning. Twelve clever minds seated at an oval table readied to make the room my favorite place in the world.
I slipped into the room, and a whiff of tension hit the back of my nose with a tickle. Editor-in-Chief, Harry Henderson, settled his steel gaze on me, flustering me at once. Yes, sir, I know exactly what you're going to say-
"Nice of you to finally join us, Logan. Make it a goal this semester to pay as much attention to punctuality as to your impeccable reports."
Jett and Beau-kings in here because they ran the most successful opinions and party page columns of the last decade-sniggered across the notebook-studded table.
Jett calmed down and Beau came snorting after.
I swung off my messenger bag, shrugged out of my wet sweater, and palmed the cool metal back of the last free seat as the chief gave Jett and Beau a bland stare that shut them up quite nicely.
"Let's continue, shall we?" Chief Henderson opened the frayed leather binder before him, thumbing the worn spine with tender strokes. "This year we are going to have a few structural changes."
My pulse picked up, ringing in my ears. The chief came sharply into focus. He stroked the beard he'd spent the last year cultivating-to stop pulling the hair on his head-and scanned the paper before him. Changes. Yes. This was it. His gaze lifted straight to mine. Any second now, he'd promote me to the position I'd worked toward my entire undergraduate education.
He pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. One by one, he looked at us: content editors, copy editors, and columnists. But he lingered on me, and surely that was a spark in his eye?
"Tell me, what are an editor's best attributes?"
Was he drawing this out on purpose? Perhaps he was demonstrating how to hook an audience. Heat thickened in the room, the frictional anticipation of twelve ambitious student journalists. Come on, chief. Look at me. Let me answer, and then we can get on with the promotion.
The chief laid his gaze on Jett. The lucky son-of-a-gun.
"Vision." Jett said, shrugging his shoulders like it was obvious. "The ability to see beyond what the magazine is to what it could be."
"Good. What else?"
Chief was really going to milk this today, wasn't he?
Beau's turn. He whipped his bangs out of his blue eyes with a jerk of his head. His slightly upturned nose made him look as arrogant as he actually was.
"He must be able to draw in readers with eye-catching headlines and choose the most evocative photographs and captions."
"He or she. Good." Chief Henderson swiveled his gaze to me with a subtle raise of his brow.
I returned it. "They must also understand the technical aspects of publishing."
The Scribe quarters were my second home. Maybe even my first, since I knew it better than my own apartment. Some nights I stayed here until the wee hours of the morning and didn't leave campus at all. I knew this place. All the ins and outs. Everything.
Chief knew that, too.
He narrowed his eyes, and glanced at his binder. Again, he stroked the spine with his thumb.
"And," he continued, "editors must not only be exceptional writers. They must be creative. They must be able to see the team's creative vision, then help materialize that vision."
He picked up a sheet of paper, and the light from the windows behind him made the paper transparent. What did it say? Were those names? If the chief would just tilt-
"With that in mind, I'm doing something a little...unexpected this semester." He rested the paper back in the folder. "I'm reassigning most of you to new positions. Something that I feel will challenge you, broaden your horizons, and make you better columnists and editors."
Getting the features editor position would definitely be a good challenge. I straightened my glasses and pulled out the pen I always, always carried in my pocket. Grabbing my notebook, I was ready to take notes of the new structure.
Jett rolled his eyes and pulled at the black Desperado T-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. If he were an ounce less of a prick, he'd be an interesting guy to have a conversation with. As it was, he needed taking down a peg or two. If I ever got to be executive editor, I could do it, too. Oh yes, my pen is mightier than any sword…
"Beau," Chief Henderson said suddenly, "say goodbye to the opinions column and hello to politics."
I stilled, my pen scratching to a halt against the fresh page of my notebook. "Beau? Politics?"
"Me? Politics?" Beau echoed. "But you need me for the opinions-"
The chief drew a sharp line in the air that silenced Beau.
"Camille will take over opinions for the semester."
Beau gripped the table, his lips parting as if to start protesting again, but the cold, staunch stare of Chief Henderson made him hold his tongue. Instead he jerked back violently in his chair as he raked a hand through his dirty blond hair.
I blinked down at my page. Just a minor blow. I didn't need to run the politics column if I got the features editor position. That would take up most of my time anyway. I probably wouldn't have time to contribute regularly.
The chief kept delegating the new positions, earning some wide smiles alongside the disappointed scowls.
"Jett, you're news editor."
Jett turned a dark shade of crimson. News editor was a tough but rewarding job, and the chief had made a good decision giving the job to Jett. Pain in the ass he was, he definitely had potential that needed nurturing.
And what nurturing do I need?
"Logan Mitchell." Chief read from the sheet.
My pen cut into my palms. This was it. After countless nights working to deadlines, writing, re-writing, editing, I'd finally be Scribe's features editor.
"You won't be working in an editorial capacity this semester."
The pen fell from my grip, clattering on my notebook. "Wh-what? But I...I'm the best."
"And you don't lack modesty."
I blinked, struggling to focus on his next words through the ringing of his last words.
"...an exceptional editor, I'd like to see you expand your skill set. And this goes for all of you. I'm trying to challenge you to approach topics that are out of your comfort zone…"
Won't be working in an editorial capacity.
"...commit yourselves to this, and you'll be better prepared for the real world of publishing once you're through here are Scribe."
Won't be working…
"...Logan, I'm challenging you with the party page."
The what?
Was this a joke?
Jett shot to his feet, knocking over his chair.
"You're giving the most popular page of the magazine to him? Logan effing Mitchell? How can you give someone who doesn't have a single friend outside Scribe the party page? That's a recipe for a stuck-up, frigid disaster. Someone who has no life will not be able to give this column life!"
"That's enough." Chief said sharply before Jett could say anything else. "Contrary to popular belief, your opinions are not always welcome."
I placed my pen in the center of my notebook and stared at the chief. He'd known what I'd really wanted. He'd even talked me through what the position meant and how to be the best. Why did he give me this? The chief wasn't the passive-aggressive type; he'd have told me if I got on his nerves.
Jett threw his hands up. His mouth opened but his raging voice was the last sound I wanted in my ear. Calm and easy did it. We could discuss the issue and politely make it clear the chief had made a mistake.
"Jett...look, I know you don't like me. That's clear, and believe me when I say the feeling is quite reciprocated. But you're also protective of the party page, and I can appreciate that." The chief raised both brows close to his hairline. "Unfortunately, sir, he has a point. I don't have enough jackass in me to run the party page as well as Jett can."
"I seem to sense the potential." Chief Henderson laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his elbows resting on either side of his binder. "But it's quite simple, Logan. Do you want to be on the Scribe staff this semester?"
What kind of question was that?
"Of course-"
"Then we're settled here." He brushed his beard again. "Now, before we discuss the particulars of this year's first issue, I want to remind you all that this year's Best College Article deadline is at the end of the week.
Pick only what you believe are your top three pieces from last year. Two external judges from prominent newspaper agencies will be reading and ranking your articles. One from our own Post-Gazzette and another from out of state. So please, consider wisely which pieces you'll submit…"
XxX
Drenched again, this time in afternoon rain, I let myself into apartment twenty-three, and lowered my bag next to my forgotten umbrella at the door. If I'd taken it this morning like I'd meant to, would the day have turned out differently?
Maybe I wouldn't have fallen over, gotten soaked, and arrived late to my meeting. Maybe that would've put the chief in a better mood. Maybe he would've changed his mind about me doing the party page?
I stripped out of my wet clothes and padded to the laundry room to start a load.
It was what it was. I had fallen over, arrived late and wet-and tonight I'd have to do research for my first column.
They're just parties. I can handle it.
I just have to be professional and choose an angle that will work for me. The politics of student parties, perhaps?
Back at my bag, I pulled out my notebook and, bypassing the dining table by the large arched windows, moved to the couch. I took out the flyers I'd grabbed from bulletin boards on campus.
The folded bunch rested heavy in my hand. One by one, I leafed through them. Bling Bash. Derelict Dance. Nightmare on Shady Avenue. Booze Banger.
I shook my head at a crude drawing of a shot glass nestled between breasts.
"Doesn't that sound awful?" The only answer was an echo of my voice. Even the rain pattering against the window lessened.
Thick clouds layered the apartment in the dark shadows so I turned on a light before sliding out my laptop.
I read through an email my mom sent me, and looked over her application to work as a nurse in a retirement home. After sending it back to her with a few minor suggestions, I began choosing my top three articles from last year for the BCA competition.
The article I knew had to be submitted centered on the importance of student activism on campus. "By far my best work." I said, shifting my feet over the cool hardwood floors.
I really needed to get a rug, warm the place up some more.
I hesitated before composing an email to my father. I wasn't sure what his reaction would be when I wrote to him that I didn't land the features editor position. We didn't talk often, and the last time we saw each other face to face, while I was visiting New York, he calmly sat me at his desk, shaking his head.
"Everyone has different abilities. I'm sure you'll find something you're good at, but you don't have the right...personality to work as a journalist here."
I leaned forward, steepled my fingers together and rested my elbows on his desk.
"I want an apprenticeship at this company. I'll do whatever it takes."
My father leaned back in his chair, frowning. "When I was at university, I held the student newspaper's features editor position for two years. A tough feat, the competition was stiff. Do the same, and you have an apprenticeship." He scribbled something in his journal. "But, son, there will be other things out there if you fail."
"I won't fail."
I shut down my laptop. I wouldn't tell him anything just yet. There had to be a way for me to land the editor's position.
I picked up the flyers once more. Carrying them around the narrow kitchen island, I popped a slice of bread into the toaster. It sparked.
I jerked my hand back and dropped the flyers on the bench as it zapped me. Shaking my hand, I glared at the toaster. I ought to write a report on the dangers of second-hand electrical supplies.
Jett's snigger came to mind, and it stopped my chuckle short. Why did his words niggle at me so much? True, I didn't have any friends outside my professional circle. My life consisted of writing, reading, editing, and studying. I was lucky if I remembered to eat. But sacrifices had to be made if I was going to land my dream job. I didn't have time to waste on getting drunk and making friends at Booze Bangers.
My toast popped, and I carefully plucked it out of the death trap.
A shiver rolled through me. Who would know if I suddenly died? No one would be there to miss me. My mom maybe, but we were both so busy that our calls were irregular at best. Who knew when she'd figure it out? Most likely it'd be Chief Henderson who noticed something was wrong.
Except...if I died today, he might think I didn't want the party page, that I quit.
No one would know!
I didn't even own a cat that would meow until the neighbors were annoyed enough to investigate. How long before they found me? Longer than a week? Would only the smell of decaying flesh tip the off?
I shook my head and, drawing in a steadying breath, unplugged the toaster.
It hardly solved the issue, but it'd do for now.
My gaze dropped to the bright orange flyer on the bench, now covered in crumbs from the toast I gripped too hard. Nightmare on Shady Avenue party. Maybe I should go. Maybe it'd calm me and make me see how good I have it.
Make me see that worse nightmares exist.
XxX
Along with deafening music, multiple kegs overflowed.
One didn't need to see them to know it, either. The run-down Victorian house reeked of beer and something more acidic. I prayed it was vodka and not the regurgitated remains of someone's dinner, but I wasn't about to investigate. No, I planned to find my angle for the column, write my notes, and get out of here.
I steered around a large crowd chugging beer from jugs, vases-even a watering can-and perched myself on a carpeted step at the bottom of the staircase in the foyer. Here would have to do; there wasn't anywhere else to sit. That, and I wanted to avoid running into Jett and Beau, who I'd briefly encountered fist-bumping each other in the kitchen.
A couple making out against the wall shared the lower steps with me, and their suppressed moans harmonized with the vocalized pleasure of other couples. Seemed the foyer was the place for hooking up.
Taking out my notebook, I scribbled some notes. Rooms large with dim lighting. Half the guys wear black-and-red striped pullovers. Some have fake hands with long, sharp fingers...Nightmare on Elm Street is projected in the living room, and the slashing terror lights up the wall.
I twisted away from the grim images. There was a reason I'd always been sensible enough not to watch it.
A girl in a white dress at the bottom of the stairs twirled. She lit up the dim foyer and her smile lifted with a laugh as she followed her Freddy boyfriend around the corner. Her laugh continued, making me think of Jenny. How long was it? A year since she'd broken up with me? Time really flew by.
Doesn't have a life. How can he give the column life…
The pop rock thumped louder. Freddy's swam around me and I blinked. Refocusing on the notebook, I slowly let go of a breath. Why couldn't I get Beau, Jett, or the Man Dead a Week in Central Pittsburgh Apartment, out of me head? I struggled to gulp down a fresh lungful of air and push back the vision of myself dead and rotting.
Maybe I should get a cat.
Yes, I'd go to the shelter tomorrow. Then all will be good. Great, even. Perhaps the cat's fur will help soak up that nasty echo…
I clicked my pen, a habit Camille found irritating when I did it at the office. But pen-clicking soothed me and brought out the creativity in me. The frustration built until there was nothing left for me to do but make my pen gush everything and anything out.
Click. Click. Click.
Angle. My angle. What could it be?
Click. Click. Click.
A girl in dark pants, combat boots, and brunette hair walked in the front door.
My stomach clenched and my finger paused at the top of the pen. There it was, over the girl's shoulder.
My angle.
My pen hit the paper, and the ink flowed.
Jock. Toned. Tall. Runs fingers through hair as though he's attractive and knows it. Walks into party like he has all the time in the world, slow but oddly graceful. Left ear looks like it has a scar. Lashes like a girl's, long and dark-suggesting his current blond hair is unnatural. Laugh lines around the mouth. Casual jeans, dark green T-shirt, beat-up leather jacket. Black, nondescript bag slung over shoulder. Wears so much body spray, it's detectable across the room.
His gaze slaps on a male making out in the foyer. Hurt flashes in his eyes. A raw, pained look. But he swallows it back as if he doesn't care. Or isn't entirely surprised by what he's seeing. Maybe both. He stops in front of the slightly shorter male who has his tongue locked in-
I pushed my glasses further up my nose. Huh…
-another guy's mouth.
I paused my pen on the page as I stared for a moment. Then My Angle spoke, and I was back to pushing the pen. I shouldn't have left my recorder at him. And I really should take a writing course.
"Wow. I really do always go for the wrong person." His voice was heavy and creamy, edged with the same hurt his eyes reflected.
The shorter man, long bangs swept over his forehead, pulled out of the kiss, looking to My Angle and then glancing to the side, toward my brown canvas shoes. Reproachfully, as if My Angle were the one in the wrong, he said, "What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I was going to tell you." Long Bangs said.
The music grew louder, and I slipped down a step to hear them better. My Angle glanced at me briefly, his jaw twitching. Hazel eyes.
"Well, Chris, seems now you don't have to."
I transcribed the rest of the argument, the idea for a column piece articulating in my mind. Yes. I would be about breaking the illusion that college parties are superficial. Raw, real, uncensored emotion lived here. I'd call it University of Party, Lectures in Life.
A thrill rushed through my as I envisioned the columns, complete with insignia in the form of a keg.
I clapped my notebook shut and zipped it in the inside pocket of my jacket. My pen went back to my pocket, and I strode out of there, leaving the party, the booze, and the breakup behind me.
I had my angle. I was done.
I sucked in the fresh night air and made my way down Shady Ave. A few drunken students roamed the street, some dressed in black and yellow, cheering for the Pirates; others-like myself-quietly slipped through the shadows.
At the lights on the corner of Shady and Fifth, someone stumbled to my side. He was a guy about my age, with dark hair. He smoothed his T-shirt to his flat stomach. "Can I borrow your glasses?"
I subtly pulled back from him. "Excuse me?"
"My contact came out. Can't see the numbers. Looking for"-he lifted his hand and splayed his fingers-"five-twelve Shady Ave. Should be here somewhere."
The pedestrian signal turned green. I could hurry off and get myself home, but that wouldn't be particularly Caring Citizen of me, would it? This was just a guy that needed a hand. If I'd lost my glasses, even sober, I'd be half blind.
"I'm keeping my glasses right where they are." I told him, gesturing him to walk across the street. "But I can walk you home."
"Shovel-wrist." He mumbled.
Was that supposed to be chivalrous? Hard to tell with the slurring. I let myself believe it was a compliment and nodded. "You're welcome."
With an uninhibited sigh, he hung on my arm and we crossed the street.
"I'm Dylan, by the way." He murmured, tightening his grip and sagging his weight against my side. "I don't usually drink. Don't think I should again, either."
"I suspect you'll be thinking that all day tomorrow as well." I said.
He stumbled, so I slowed my pace. Along with alcohol, he smelled like something sweet-like he shampooed with cotton candy. When the brass numbers 512 shone under the lantern light, I steered Dylan up the stairs and to his door.
He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys, dangling them in my face. "Got 'em."
"So you do."
He chuckled as he fumbled for the right key and opened the door.
"You good from here?" I asked. Surely he'd at least find his apartment inside?
He nodded, and in an awkward-and rather flexible-move, he kept the door open with his foot and threw his arms around my neck.
Vodka-laced lips met my cheek, followed by a low chuckle, whispering over my skin as he pulled back. "Night!"
The door shut, and I blinked under the lantern light. Well. Interesting night.
I turned and jogged down the steps.
For a second, I thought I heard my name whispered in the breeze, but the scuttling of leaves over the pavement reassured me I was imagining things.
Loooogan. I walked faster. My imagination was getting the better of me-
A fractured shadow of Freddy's sharp-fingered hand stretched long and menacing under the streetlight.
I picked up my pace to a trot. I didn't like to think of myself as a scaredy-cat, but that didn't stop it from being the case.
The clanking steps got closer, and the shadow grew, splitting more under the light. Breath hit the back of my neck. I jumped, looking over my shoulder.
Freddy's scarred face loomed toward me, and I skedaddled to one side.
"Am I a magnet to the intoxicated tonight?" I asked.
I steered away from him and his awful mask. Time to get home-
Glittering steel shot out and sliced down the side of my arm, tearing my sleeve before pain suddenly bloomed in my gut.
"What the-?" A punch hit my jaw, and I stumbled back. My heel hit something and I fell, slamming the back of my head against the concrete.
Two or three blurry Freddies spiraled above me. A sharp metallic taste filled my mouth and slipped down the back of my throat. Who the hell was this guy? Was he trying to rob me?
"Leave me alone." My weak, pain-laced voice didn't match the intensity of my request. "Take my wallet." I twisted and spat out blood.
Another jolt of pain ripped up my side, and I curled into it.
Stand up. Get away-
I struggled to push myself up, but as soon as I heaved myself onto all fours, Freddy kicked my side, and my arms buckled.
The streetlight darkened, shadowed by his figure crouching me.
Freddy twisted his steel, gloved fingers, taunting me with the light dancing on their sharp tips.
He started to say something, but whatever he was about to say was stopped in his tracks when someone suddenly tackled him.
I scrambled away, wincing at the throbbing, dizzying pain in my head. There were only shades of blue and soft ground under me as I crawled. I made it a few feet before I collapsed.
Blurry, the silhouette of a hooded figure loomed. He hauled Freddy up by his shoulders and kneed him until he crumpled to his boots-
My head throbbed again. Who was that? I strained to make out more, but all the blues around me bled into one, and I lost consciousness.
Done! So, it seems that things are off to an interesting start for Logan!
I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter, as well as if you happened to have a favorite part/moment!
Again, I hope you all enjoyed! I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, but it won't be until next week at the earliest. I can't wait to share more with you!
Until next time!
-Epically Obsessed