Caroline's boyfriend had been found a few days later, bloated and decaying in that dumpster. Someone had apparently reported the smell, and the police had been called.
She came into the store one day when he was working.
"You. You son of a bitch." She pointed her finger angrily at him.
"What?"
"You fucking killed him!"
"Who? What're you talking about?"
"Peter! You fucking killed him!"
"Oh, he died? I'm so sorry." He feigned sympathy.
"Meet me at my house. Tonight. Midnight."
"I've got a better idea, sweetheart." He wrote down his address and slipped the paper across the counter to her. She nodded and stormed out.
Not the brightest idea, on her part.
He killed her, too. He slit her throat and let her die just like her boyfriend had. He wasn't disposing of her, though. Ooooh no. She was far too much fun. He placed her on the bed that he didn't use- perhaps it had a purpose, after all.
He stripped her clothes off slowly, enjoying the anticipation. Just like when she had done it. He stroked her hair, licking his lips. He felt himself growing hard. He had total and utter control over her. She couldn't move. Couldn't fight him. Couldn't hurt him anymore. Couldn't use his trust against him.
He fucked her long and hard until he couldn't focus anymore and collapsed beside her body.
No, he couldn't lay there for very long. Beds had such a negative connotation to him now, the memories they triggered weren't worth the comfortable furniture.
He let Caroline lay there. She had a purpose, after all.
Fall fell in whatever small town Otis had landed in, and he felt himself growing weaker. He was rapidly losing weight, and he knew his body wasn't fighting off infection as well.
Otis worked for the old man as he could intermittently, and as he started to cough, the old man grew concerned.
"You're wastin' away to nothin', Otis. You look like hell and you're startin' to get sick..."
"Thanks."
"No, I mean I'm worried about you, boy. Are you takin' care of yourself?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"Alright...You get yourself checked out, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."
While he was far from it, he couldn't let on to anyone that he needed help. He couldn't trust anyone ever again. He stole whatever medicine he could and tea from a grocery store in town, and tried to doctor himself. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he had to hunt for food to survive. He drug his aching body through the streets, picking food off of tables as he passed them and digging through dumpsters. Once he had felt he had eaten enough for that round, he returned home and huddled in a corner in his apartment. He wrapped all the blankets he could find around himself, shivering. God, his body ached. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to take care of himself when he was sick. He had never had anyone take care of him.
"Fuck, shit fuck..." He buried his face in his blankets, groaning. "Fuckin' baby...Fuckin'...Whiney ass whore...Stop fuckin' shiverin'...You ain't sick...You've been sick..." He muttered to himself.
He read the directions on the medicine he had stolen and took what he could. Admittedly, he did start to feel a bit better after a while, and was somewhat proud of himself for succeeding in the care.
He made himself some tea and huddled in his blankets once more, curling up in his makeshift bed, placing the mug of tea beside him.
Rest was what he needed, he reasoned. Rest always helped everything, right? He just needed rest.
When he woke up in the morning, his mouth felt dry and his eyes were still heavy. He raised his head- it was daylight. But he had no idea what time. Groaning, he forced himself up. the medicine had worn off. He needed more.
He straggled to the kitchen and measure out the liquid, beginning to shiver again.
His stomach rumbled. Fuck, he needed to find food.
Exhausted, he returned to his nest and laid down. It could wait until the medicine began to work again.
He moaned. God, he lived a miserable existence, he thought. Why was he even still trying? What was he trying to prove?
He was trying to prove he could do it. He was trying to prove he deserved happiness; however that may be. He was surviving. He wouldn't let the people who had wronged him win. They wanted him to give up. But he wouldn't. He would survive. He would fight.
He lay his head back down. The cool floorboards felt good against his feverish forehead, and he relaxed, cuddling into his cocoon of blankets further and letting himself slip into sleep.