He only goes to school when he feels like it. He felt like it ever since he caught sight of his neighbor from down the street in that unmistakable uniform, most of her long legs exposed by her scandalously short pleated skirt. Really, he can't be entirely blamed for his actions. It's partly the school's fault. What was Domino High thinking when they decided to require their female students to wear such revealing skirts? In all honesty he prefers long hair, but the style suits her, and the pretty face it frames has wide, guileless eyes—eyes he could drown in. Eyes that would readily believe anything he wanted them to.
He wants her to think he's her friend. He digs the blue uniform out of his closet and makes himself part of her routine, following her, and then overtaking her, on the walk to and from school. He hates to give up the exhilaration of his motorcycle, but the payoff will be well worth the sacrifice. At first she seems slightly alarmed by his appearance, though reassured by the uniform. He has a reason to go where she goes, to take the same route. He has sweet talked his way into an almost identical schedule, just two classes are different, to keep it from looking deliberate. Lucky him, there is an empty seat right next to her in fifth period. As she pores over her English notes, he surreptitiously examines her, watches her full lips silently sound out words. When she looks up to give her attention to the teacher, he gives no sign that he'd even glanced at her. His head rests on one hand, his eyes glazed with boredom. The class is pointless to him, he's already fluent in the language, but it gives him the opportunity to appear bored while he memorizes her features, noting the dusting of pale freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her small nose out of his peripheral vision.
Sometimes he catches her glance his way, looks for signs of interest. He's a handsome man, and he knows it. The mere boys of Domino can't hold a candle to him. He's also intimidating, tall and muscular, though she can't tell how muscular. He wears his uniform in immaculate order, and he sacrificed the opportunity to stare at her in her P.E. bloomers to ensure she wouldn't see him in anything less. She doesn't seem like the kind of girl who would be impressed by him flexing in front of her, and it might make her wary. He gets glimpses of her on her way from the locker room to the gym anyway. It's enough, for the time being.
Ushio is an oaf, a bully without finesse or style, but he proves himself useful. Sticking up for her little friend is the best idea he's had in weeks. She rushes to the pipsqueak's side, helps him to his feet, makes him reassure her that he's okay. Then she looks to the dwarf's savior, her eyes welling with gratitude. If he asked her for a date, she would definitely agree. But that wouldn't be half as much fun. He smiles his practiced, fangless smile. She flusters, and unnecessarily introduces herself.
"I'm Anzu, but you must have known that already, we're in so many classes together."
"I don't mind hearing it again, it's such a lovely name," he lies smoothly. She blushes.
"Malik, right? I—we can't thank you enough."
"It's no trouble," he shrugs, "but there is something you can do for me." She is taken aback.
"What might that be?"
"I could use a tutor in calculus. You're top of the class, aren't you?" Her cheeks bloom even more and he's treated to a shy smile.
"If only. But I'll do what I can to help."
"Let me walk you home today," he says. "Your house is on the way to mine, I'm sure you've noticed. We can schedule a study session while we walk."
"Sure thing." She smiles broadly. People like to feel useful.
The first time they go to her house, her father looks askance at him, but it's the base suspicion all fathers reserve for boys who come home with their daughters. Both her parents are quickly charmed. How sweet it is that you asked our Anzu for help, how sweet it is of her to help you. Still, she is required to leave her bedroom door open while he visits. A slight disappointment, but not a surprise. The place he's from is far more strict. Not that he would try anything with them around.
The study dates become routine. He is at her house every other day after school. She's relentlessly cheerful. When he is quiet and lost in thought, she bites her lip and tries to make conversation, asks him about his family, his homeland, his hobbies, what he plans to do in the future. He barely manages to stifle a laugh at that. If only she knew. So he tells her about the turmoil of Egypt, the freedom he feels speeding around on his bike, his ancient tribe and the wealth they've amassed over the centuries, the wealth that allows him to live here. Then he turns the questions around, because he knows it is expected, and he learns of the dreams he will crush, the bright future he will dim. It seems quaint, aspiring to be a ballerina in this day and age. He asks her to put on a little performance, and she obliges. She can move her body in such strange ways, and with each new French-christened position she twists herself into, he knows he has made an excellent choice.
He spends more time with her at school too, eating with her and her friends, laughing when she sighs at their antics and lectures them about maturity. Between friendly rounds of whatever childish game is the group's latest obsession, the dwarf asks if he likes to play games.
"Of course," he says, "I love a challenge."
He's never gotten to know one of his victims like this before. The tension of being so close while she's completely unaware of his intentions thrills him. He wonders if he should do this more often.
On his evening rides he keeps an eye out for a good location. He can't just do it in some back alley this time. It has to be special. In a dilapidated neighborhood he finds an abandoned house with a roomy attic, perfect. Now he just has to figure out how to get her there.
Serendipity hands him an excuse in the form of a photography project. They need to find interesting things to take pictures of, and as they walk home, just the two of them, he tells her about the cool old house he found. She is reluctant at first, but like he says, what's the worst that could happen? Most of the neighborhood is deserted, and he will be with her. She refuses to get on the back of his motorcycle, and that's just as well. It'll be less conspicuous when he leaves. They take the train instead. On the way he suggests they grab something to eat, since he forgot to bring a lunch that day, and then they ride the train to the nearest stop. They make the long trek from the station to the neighborhood, through streets in disrepair and littered with broken bottles, past moldering fences, to the house at last, each of them trembling. With every step comes an electric burst of excitement. He feels in his pockets for his supplies: the lye, the rope, the gloves, the knife. This plan has been in the works for three months, and at last it is coming to fruition.
"Isn't this-" she says, hesitating on the front steps, "isn't this a crime?"
"Against who? No one lives here. Besides, I was here before and no one noticed. C'mon, you have to see the inside."
She gives a small nod and follows, but she still looks worried. Maybe she senses the danger at hand, or maybe she's just afraid of getting in trouble, but either way she shoves the feeling aside. He is her friend, and she trusts him. Soon enough, she's caught up in exploring the house, dusty and cobweb-ridden but in surprisingly good condition, with flowery wallpaper and dark wood floors. He lets her decide to climb the ladder to the attic unprompted, and swiftly follows, slipping on his gloves while she looks around.
The trap is set. When she steps into the center of the room, he knocks her to the floor, and the wind out of her. While she desperately sobs for breath, he ties her wrists together with a length of nylon rope and tethers her to a support post.
"Ma-mal—ik," she can barely choke out his name; she gulps in air so hard it hurts her lungs. "What are you doing? Why are you doing this?"
"I'm sure you can guess," he rumbles in a voice that sounds rougher and deeper than she's ever heard it before, "and because I've always wanted to, since the moment I laid eyes on you."
Her wide eyes dilate and her voice freezes inside her raw throat. He sneers. She's shocked by his treachery, but she was so easy to deceive.
"If you let me go right now I won't tell anyone, I swear! Please, just let me go!" Even though she knows there's no way she could keep this to herself.
"You really are a fool," he chuckles. "You think everyone else is just as naïve as you are. Or else you're trying to appeal to my better nature." How ridiculous.
He sits across her legs to keep her from kicking while he removes her shoes and slides her underwear down. She cries and pleads and flails ineffectually, but soon a hand pressed firmly against her neck robs her of oxygen and energy.
At last he gets to see her in her full glory. No, he really can't be blamed for this, not entirely. It's the school's fault for making him notice her in the first place, and her own for being so beautiful and so stupid.
When he's done her chest is a mess of overlapping lacerations; her throat gapes open from the killing cut. He wipes his knife with her skirt, puts the lye in place, throws down his gloves. It's unlikely that they'll be able to get fingerprints from the fuzzy lining, and they're too bloody to transport. The knife will go into Domino Bay.
As he gazes into her blank blue eyes he considers that it's a shame such beauty must be destroyed when he's done with it, but he knows he would destroy it one way or another, and there is no shortage of beautiful people in the world. He leans down and cuts off a hank of brown hair, wraps it in her panties, stuffs them in his pocket. Something to remember her by.
Later, when Anzu's parents come by the next day, he looks perfectly distraught. He hasn't seen her since yesterday. They'd gone by some diner after school, and then she'd said something about wanting to investigate some old house for their project. He should have insisted on going with her, but she said she could look after herself. She's stubborn like that. Her mother cries and cries. Her father sternly thanks him for his assistance. It's more than Yugi, or any of Anzu's other friends, had to offer. They've already reported her missing.
When her body is found two days later, it's national news. Everywhere he goes he hears whispers of disgust and shock. The police take him in for questioning. He's the first suspect as the last person to see her alive, and a foreigner to boot, but his story checks out, more or less. A waitress confirms that he and Anzu went to the diner that day, and there's nothing to place him at the scene.
He still acts like her friends are his friends, and like them he's sullen and much, much quieter. There's no roughhousing anymore, no good natured taunting to accompany the games. He moves away at the end of the year. Everyone thinks he can't bear to keep living in a town where he lost a close friend, as well a potential girlfriend. It's another job well done, his most ambitious to date.
Yet something troubles him. Sometimes he thinks he hears footsteps following him. It starts at home. He gets up to get something to drink, only to hear someone softly padding after him. He reflexively turns to the sound, but can find no source, and it has stopped. It only starts again when he continues his journey to the kitchen. He searches the house, but the noise is never any further or closer. The next day it is gone. He always knew he was different, even crazy from some points of view, but never like this before. The footsteps come and go for a while until they're following him everywhere, and soon they're accompanied by a faint whisper in his ear, a noise like the wailing of the wind, too soft and amorphous to make out words. At first it distresses him, but then he thinks he can turn it to his advantage. If he ever gets caught, he has a ready alibi.
Every now and then he sees her among the knotted masses of people in this new city, a glimpse of bright sky blue, of just-there freckles, of shiny brown hair that matches a lock he has at home.
But it can't be her, it can't.
He double-takes, and when he looks again she's gone.
He decides he needs something or someone else to occupy his mind. Normally he wouldn't begin a hunt so soon after the completion of the last, but it's the only thing he can think of that might erase her presence.
He has spotted a beautiful boy with the kind of eyes he likes: wide and warm and open. There's a beguiling sadness that permeates the very air around him, and Malik thinks he would like very much to know what made the boy so sad. He is with friends, but his smile is forced, and the answers he gives are brief. The group gradually dissolves, and Malik tails the boy as he makes his way home. He is careful to blend into the crowd whenever the boy looks behind him. Perhaps this kid is more perceptive than he first thought.
He is almost close enough to grab the boy's silken white hair when he is seized with a pain like his heart is being squeezed in a giant's fist, and his brain in the other. He falters, resists the force that is trying to bring him to his knees, then fails. The boy does not appear to notice him, and he watches powerlessly as the boy walks out of his reach and disappears around the corner.
"I won't let you do to him what you did to me," says a voice he thought he'd never hear again, in the tone she used to boss her friends around in. "Him or anyone else, ever again."
He sees her clearly now, but no one else does. Some people stare as they pass, others stop to offer him assistance, but he brushes them aside and staggers to his feet, and runs home, her always just a step behind him.
Such strenuous haunting is too taxing and too much bother for most older people, but she died as a teenager with all the energy in the world, and now she has nowhere else to direct it.
At night she lies beside him and wraps him in ghostly arms that suck the warmth out of his body, and gives him dreams of her and what he's done, and he clutches his souvenir and cries in his sleep.