Elisa put her winter coat on before leaving the house. She was perpetually cold lately, and the coat was new (it still smelled new, still smelled like the store) and comfortable. She was unusually cheerful that afternoon, and left the house humming.
Fifteen minutes later, she turned right and walked, singing now, towards the library. Her nose was getting cold and she needed some new books. Maybe, if it was still there, she would even sign out the Steve Earle CD. She smiled and picked up the pace. It was going to be an excellent day.
"Well, good afternoon, Elisa! How are you feeling lately?"
"Pretty good today. How're you?"
"Oh, I'm just fine."
"Any good books for me today?"
"Have you read 'A Home At The End Of The World'?"
"Not yet."
"You should."
It took about a quarter of an hour in the library and Elisa left in an even better mood than she had gone in. She walked quickly back home, singing cheerfully. She didn't know she was being watched. She was clinically depressed, not paranoid. That made her an easy target—suicide is easy to fake.
She was halfway up the stairs to the apartment, singing Copperhead Road, when he caught her by the wrist. "Don't scream," he told her. "It'll hurt more if you scream." He gripped her wrist and told her to take him to her apartment, where he sat her down forcefully in a kitchen chair. "Who's that?" he asked, pointing at a framed photograph.
"That's Scotty." She was so scared. "You're not going to hurt Scotty, are you?"
"He your boyfriend?"
"Fiancé."
He produced a piece of paper. "Write to him." He released her right hand.
"I'm left handed."
He trussed her right hand again, released her left.
"What do I write?"
The killer sighed, bored. "Tell him you're sorry. Talk about memories. You're gonna die, what do you want to write to him?"
Elisa started to cry, but wrote steadily for an hour and a half. When she finished, the killer jerked her to her feet. "Tell me, Elisa."
She looked at him, wide eyed. "How do you know my name?" she demanded tearfully.
He smiled, satisfied. "That's not important. Tell me, Elisa, what are you most afraid of in the world?"
She considered this for a few minutes. "Heights," she said finally. He nodded. "Heights, hmm?" He tightened his grip on her wrist and sent her into panic mode. "Come on," he said. "Come with me. Aww, are you scared, Elisa?"
She nodded. "Please don't hurt me."
He didn't say anything, just dragged her down the hall, down the steps, and to a beaten up car.
They drove for at least twenty minutes in silence. Elisa wondered why he didn't gag her, but didn't want to ask, in case he'd simply forgotten that step. She studied his face, memorizing the features in case she didn't die and needed to identify him later.
"Where are we going?" she asked timidly.
"To the bridge," he told her. "Don't worry, it'll only hurt for a second."
Half an hour later, they stood together on the bridge, his arms around her body. To an outsider, it might look like a comfort gesture. That's what he was going for. False comfort.
"Don't look down," he said teasingly.
She opened her mouth, planning to say something, but before he could, he released his grip and sent her body plummeting down off the bridge. She was too scared, even then, to scream. Images flashed through her brain. Scotty, the library, pink sneakers, Steve Earle, warm baths, sleep. Anything happy that she could think of, then the crunching impact of a rock, then, finally, nothing.