MAJOR BLOOD DEATH STUFF.
I MIGHT MAKE THIS M RATED BECAUSE DAMN I'M AN EVIL BITCH. Dude someone dies I'm pretty sure you know who it is by now but like.
Don't read it if you aren't into that (or if you thought this would be a cute, sweet story where Jerome stopped his ways because that's nothing compared to what will happen).
It's a horror story. Nothing more, nothing less, though it's got some moments. So, if it deserves an M rating, do say so and I'll change that real quick (don't want children reading this)
Not my best but meh I tried.
Mara was dusting when she discovered the closet.
Cleverly sheltered in an alcove just under the stairs, painted to look like the wall, she might've missed it had she not run the blue plumes of the duster over the doorknob of such closet.
It was wooden, and she was careful to turn it lest it be old, but no no avail. The door was either locked or jammed, she didn't know which. Her first instinct was, of course, to leave it because it probably belonged to old residents. However, upon inspection of the feathery duster, she found no dust on it. That lead her to believe that the closet had been used before, and recently.
Of course, she could just leave it alone. It was probably a place for Jerome to store whatever he wanted, and she respected that. Though, engaged couples really shouldn't have secrets...she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully, staring at the doorknob, letting her fingers lightly trail over it.
A part of her told her it was an invasion of privacy. Another part of her said that she ought to know everything about Jerome if they were getting married. Why, she must've stayed there for a good amount of minutes before her mind was made up.
It took bent hangers, bobby pins, nail files, and a regretted call to Patricia, but Mara got the door open. Cracking it open, she was not greeted by a typical musty smell that old rooms gave off, instead, it smelled of cleaning supplies and hospital room.
Pulling it open all the way to get some light into the situation, Mara's dark eyebrows practically raised to her hairline at the sight.
It was weapons.
Not just one or two weapons, either, there were glittering knives of all sizes, and of all types. Long curved scythes, short daggers, butcher knives, meat cleavers, etc. The amount of guns in there were also alarming, the carefully kept pistols, machine guns, and others she couldn't identify.
Even worse so, an array of small bombs carefully arranged on a shelf and that sight was the one that did it.
Mara took a step backward, hitting her head on the stairs and wincing, but she managed to slam the door shut before she ran out of there.
Today, she wouldn't chicken out. Nina Martin was going to march into his office and ask out Jerome Clarke. She must've rehearsed the scene so many times in her shower, called KT to prepare, gone over every practice in the book, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.
Nina pressed the button on the intercom. "Mr. Clarke, there's something I'd like to discuss with you."
Almost instantly, the response came in a friendly tone. "Sod off, Martin."
"Jerome, I know you're not busy." Then Nina was smiling again, put at ease almost, at the thought of Jerome smirking at his intercom.
"Oh, come in. Door's open."
Nina did, lingering in the doorframe, hoping she looked alluring enough to catch his eye, but not enough to look slutty.
Jerome didn't look up once, just kept stacking folders and marking things with a red pen clenched between his thumb and forefinger as casually as you please.
Nina laid her hands flat on Jerome's desk, right in front of his face, so close that he could see the ruby red nail polish that decorated her polished nails.
"Martin," Jerome said cooly, looking up at her with indifference.
"I was wondering," Nina started before she thought things over again, "If you were free tonight."
Jerome only arched one eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Jerome, please," Nina said exasperatedly, "Just answer the question."
"No, Martin, I am not busy tonight," Jerome said flatly. "Now what do you want?"
"I'd like to go out with you." Nina declared it boldly, more confident than the blush spreading across her face said.
"Like- a date," Jerome drawled and leaned back in his desk chair, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Yes," Nina breathed in relief, "Like a date."
"I don't know," Jerome grinned, stretching out his words like he had someplace to be.
"Jerome," Nina sat down in front of his desk, feeling small all of a sudden, like a kid called to the principal's office, toying with the hem of the day's pencil skirt nervously. "I'd like us to be more than- colleagues, if I can be so bold."
"So you'd like us to go on a date," Jerome smiled, a predatory grin that made Nina shiver. "I'm not so sure about that, Martin- I'd say let's go on an outing, as friends, and see where that hits off, shall we?"
"You would, though?" Nina let herself smile.
"I would," Jerome confirmed. "But let's just not tell anyone."
Nina was taken aback, drawing behind in her seat. "Not- tell anyone?"
"Rumors travel fast," Jerome didn't look at her, studying a stack of papers and tidying them. "I'd prefer it if it was just between us, don't you agree? That way, if we move in any sort of direction after friends, we keep it just as us."
"I assumed we were already friends," Nina said, quietly.
"We are, Martin, but let's just pretend, for the sake of tonight, yes?" Jerome smirked. "Let's talk location, then- I'm going to meet you outside of the pub a few streets over at eight and you won't tell anyone."
"Right," Nina thought, just once, how bizarre his terms were, but shrugged them off. "Okay."
"Thank you, Martin, it's been a pleasure," Jerome waved his hand to dismiss her, focused attention gone. "Now go work. I don't pay you for nothing."
Nina smiled, genuinely this time, and she left Jerome's office.
Jerome turned to make sure that the door closed carefully in her wake, and dialed Mara's number. Upon getting her answering machine, he muttered, "Mara, love- I'm going to be working late tonight. Don't wait up for me."
Nina walked back to her desk, where KT sat, and the girl waited for her news.
"Well?" KT practically squealed in anticipation.
"He-" Nina thought of what Jerome said and she shrugged nonchalantly. "He's confusing, that's all."
"So no date?" KT's face fell.
Nina felt bad about lying to her friend. "No."
"Bummer," KT said, pouting, but recovering quickly. "Hey, come over to my apartment tonight! My roommate won't mind, we can watch chick flicks and order in."
"I-I would, but I have something else to do tonight," Nina lied, eyes darting everywhere nervously. "My grandmother's sick. You know how that goes."
"Oh. I hope she gets better," KT said solemnly.
"Er- thank you."
The silver pot bubbling on the stove made grumbly noises, telling Joy that her water was boiling at last and she turned down the volume on the TV to lower the black dial that reduced the flame.
Humming out of tune, she tossed vegetables into her soup, mixing everything with one spoon and dabbing it with her fingertip to taste. No, it needed something, but what? Looking through the cupboards, she found some spices and heck, why not, she sprinkled them in.
She really had to learn her way around Fabian's kitchen.
"It smells like something died in here."
Patricia Williamson was plenty of things, but polite was not one of them. Subtle, not so much. Blunt and rude, that was more of Patricia's style. However, being Joy's oldest friend, Joy loved her for it.
"I'm cooking," Joy informed her.
"You don't cook," Patricia narrowed her eyes at Joy like she was trying to see right through her.
"I've started to cook," Joy tilted her head in a proud manner, waving her spoon around in the air. "Try the soup."
"I'm not tasting whatever died in that pot," Patricia reiterated her earlier point.
"Your loss," Joy declared.
"Where's your boyfriend?" Patricia made herself comfortable on the couch Joy had abandoned, tossing her coat and her bag onto the table without another thought.
"Fabian is at work," Joy said, "It's just us."
"Thank God. He's such a bore."
"No he isn't, Patricia."
"He's your boyfriend, of course you're going to say things like that."
"He is not my boyfriend," Joy's face flamed as she leaned over her soup.
"But you wish he was."
"...no, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"Patricia, come try my freakin' soup!"
"Not when it tastes like bodies."
"There are no dead bodies in my soup! Unless the chicken counts. I put a dead chicken in here."
"What, a chicken you found in the town dump?"
"A chicken I found in Fabian's freezer!"
Patricia grinned a snarky smile. "I'm teasing, Joy. Of course I'll taste your soup."
Joy huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "Now you're just being sarcastic."
"Well, someone's got to do it."
Joy turned, muttering about her ridiculous friends. "Hey, so how's Eddie?"
Patricia grunted. "Oh, you mean that fucking prick? We broke up."
"Patricia, that makes three times in one week."
"He's a bastard."
Joy sighed like she'd heard every excuse, which she might've. "What did he do this time?"
"He called me a name."
"What did he call you?" Joy asked, but then jumped at the idea of giving her input. "Eddie's not usually the type to cuss in the relationship, that's you- wait, let me guess! Bitch? Cunt? Whore? Queen of the witches?"
"No," Patricia gave Joy an odd look. "He called me 'sweetheart'."
Joy stopped in her tracks. "He called you sweetheart?"
"Yes."
"Why is that a bad thing?"
"I told him not to call me that, damnit."
"So you broke up with him."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to!" Patricia snapped, running a hand through her tousled red strands of hair, cursing Eddie under her breath.
Joy sighed again, and turned the soup off the burner. "I know you love Eddie."
"What?" Patricia sputtered, like that was a ridiculous notion. "No, I don't."
"You do, otherwise you wouldn't get this defensive," Joy said, ignoring Patricia's rapid retorts. "You love Eddie and that's why you keep breaking up with him every time he says something affectionate."
"I do not," Patricia insisted.
"You do."
Patricia scowled and sunk back further into the plushy couch. "That's not why I came over, okay? We're not talking about Eddie."
Joy shot Patricia a sad look. "You fought with Eddie and that's why you're here."
"...maybe."
"Come eat soup with me," Joy said, serving plates and ladling her creation with a large spoon.
"No."
"Chicken soup is good for the soul."
"Isn't that a goddamn book title?" Patricia's scowl was not going away.
"That's besides the point. What's important is that you come here and have some soup."
It took coaxing, threats, and stealing Patricia's cell phone, but both girls sat next to each other at Fabian's table with spoons in their hands and bowls in front of their faces.
"How's work?" Joy asked to start a new conversation, tasting her soup like a proud mother. "Any new cases?"
"There's one," Patricia grumbled, stabbing a potato with the blunt end of her spoon. "Willow Jenkins. Murdered in her house and no one knows who did it."
"That's horrible," Joy's eyes were wide. "What happened?"
"Dunno. All I know is that there's no fingerprints left anywhere so whoever killed her knew how to hide their tracks," Patricia said. "It's sort of cool."
"That is not cool. That's horrendous, Patricia."
"Whatever you say," Patricia muttered, tasting Joy's soup. "Gross, Joy, what the fuck did you put in here?"
"It's not gross," Joy mumbled, lowering her gaze to the table. "Stop changing the subject. What happened to the girl?"
"Oh, stabbed, I guess. Terribly. Coroner found her intestines spewing out of her throat, brains smushed on the floor, blood everywhere."
"I'm eating," Joy moaned, clamping a hand over her mouth.
"Hey, you asked for it."
"Besides that, how far are you?" Joy asked.
"No real suspects," Patricia shook her head. "The others are thinking that it might be an unrelated killer, but whoever came into Willow's house, she must've known them because there were no breaking and entering signs anywhere. That or she was an idiot and left her door unlocked, which I doubt."
"Don't speak ill of the dead," Joy reprimanded her friend but swallowed another gulp of soup, looking thoughtful. "Maybe the killer was someone she vaguely knew."
"Yeah, but that's the hard part. Finding acquaintances, that really don't care if she lives or dies, versus friends, that might not know all those people."
"Let's stop talking about dead people, it's scaring me," Joy decided then.
"Is it, Joy? Does hearing about bleeding, suffering mortals terrify you at night? Knowing this killer lives rather close to you and could come after you in any given-"
"Patricia!" Joy cried out.
"I was kidding, Joy, honestly-"
Joy frowned and ate her soup in silence, shooting looks at Patricia all until her bowl was scraped clean.
Nina had planned her outfit for the date with Jerome meticulously, with little room for error. A stunning dress that she always deemed to low cut and short for other occasions and a deep midnight blue would do, with glittery silver heels, bright red lipstick and her hair in curls, hanging around her face in ringlets.
She felt confident. And perhaps, this "outing" with Jerome would lead to an actual date. Maybe they'd become more than friends. That alone made Nina shiver as she waited outside of the pub, and it wasn't just from the night chill as she stood under fluorescent yellow lightbulbs.
"Martin."
It took a while for her to recognize Jerome. He had on his work slacks, but his white button up had rolled up sleeves and the top buttons undone, tie lazily stretched down with the shirt. His hair, usually slicked back to look professional, was washed out and falling over his face in the most heart melting manner, but there was something wrong. His hair, the blond color she so adored, was dyed black. It looked longer than she imagined, too, and she was confused as he slid on a pair of oversized sunglasses onto his nose.
"Jerome," Nina muttered, just a whisper, as he took her arm. "But why-"
"I said no one can find out, can they?" Jerome looked her in the eye, or at least she thought he did (she couldn't tell with those pesky glasses). "You didn't tell anyone, I presume."
"No!" Nina blurted. "No, I told no one that I was meeting you tonight- not even my cat." That was true, regretfully, but she winced at the thought.
Jerome chuckled. "Extreme, Martin, but acceptable. Ladies first." He swept her into the pub and lead her to a barstool, him talking to the bartender like they were old friends and sliding Nina a martini.
"Thank you," Nina tried to say over the pulsing music, but Jerome just nodded like it was expected, taking a glass of scotch for himself, flicking his wrist and nodding mutely at the bartender. The man nodded and set up a line of shots.
Somewhere between the fifth drink, Nina wasn't thinking straight. Her head was rolling on her neck, eyes closing shut to the beats, hands trailing over the smooth wood of the bar and falling into the soft fabric of Jerome's shirt, inhaling the scent of his cologne.
"Martin, you're smashed. Go home."
"I'm not," Nina mumbled, tracing circles on Jerome's knee. "I'm just tireeeed."
"Go to your house and sleep, Nina."
"This wasn't a date," Nina sighed instead, "Was it."
"No, Martin, I'm afraid I've never had any romantic feelings for you. Nor will I ever."
Nina suddenly grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him in close, nuzzling his neck with her nose and craning her head up to give Jerome a kiss, hoping he'd change his mind.
"Stop," Jerome said forcefully, pushing Nina away, his tone cold. "I'm engaged. You're my secretary, and I'm your boss."
Nina felt every nerve turn to ice and could've sworn her heart stopped beating. "Engaged?" she croaked.
"I love her," Jerome said. "I'd never cheat on her, she's too bloody perfect."
"Than why go on a date with me?" Nina asked, slightly angry that he could just fucking lead her on like that when he was engaged. "Why flirt all those times in the office?"
"Outing, Martin, this is an outing. Secondly, your delusional little mind thinks I'm flirting with you but you're barking mad if you ever thought such a thing."
"A fling," Nina remarked bitterly. "I'm a practically married man's fling and it's not even a romantic fling!" She stood up shakily in her heels, moving towards the door of the pub. "This night was a waste."
"I disagree," Jerome's hand was on her waist and stopped her from leaving, but his smile wasn't teasing or friendly, instead, it scared her. "The night's just started."
Patricia flicked on the lamp above her desk, watching the beam of light hit her papers and she spread them out, a black and white picture of Willow Jenkins smiling broadly up at her.
Nothing in the case made sense. Willow had worked in a small office as a receptionist for her work, but there was nobody she clashed with, not reported infractions. The woman's record was clean, no scrapes with gangs or even the police over the years.
Why would a woman, clearly innocent and without any consequence, die for no reason?
"Patricia, you've been working all day."
Patricia made a noncommittal noise but otherwise did not look in the direction of her (ex)boyfriend. "I've got a job, unlike some people."
"I work at a grocery store. Not the 'career' you have, but I happen to like it."
"That's because you flirt with every girl that walks past you," Patricia jotted something down on her paper, sparing Eddie a quick glance from where he sat behind her on the sofa. He needed to shave, she noted, with stubble growing on his chin, and he was dressed in a t-shirt and boxers which meant he was getting ready for bed.
Patricia liked to observe people. Made it a hobby, even. Just staring at Eddie's relaxed posture slumped against the tan pillows, the way his smile was lazy, he was certainly in a good mood and was planning to convince her to go to bed.
"If I can't flirt with you, and I can't flirt with other women, where does that leave me?"
"Flirt with the chair," Patricia replied, flatly, not really caring because he was stupid, stupid to try and entice her back into his arms.
"C'mon, you broke up with me again and you won't even tell me what I did wrong," Eddie said.
"Because I don't want to," Patricia snapped, like they'd been going over this for a long time. "Now fuck off, Edison."
"Not until you get back together with me." Eddie stood and practically pried the papers from Patricia's fingers. "Go to sleep."
"I am not getting back together with you," Patricia tugged her papers back. "I'm never going to date you again, so don't try and convince me."
"That's what you said last week," Eddie looked unabashed and snatched the folder, holding it above his head. "And the week before that, and the week before that-"
"Stop it," Patricia swatted at his chest. "You arsehole, give that back!"
"Come sleep with me, sweetheart," Eddie said, smiling a lopsided grin.
"I am not- you prick, stop suggesting nauseating ideas-"
"I meant actual sleeping, Patricia, quit coming onto me-"
Patricia gave his foot a hard stomp like a child might, and Eddie yelped girlishly and doubled in half, letting Patricia get a hold on her case.
"You monster," Eddie bent to rub his foot gingerly. "I'm going to lose a toe one of these days."
"It'd be an improvement," Patricia said wryly, but she sort of smiled. She couldn't stop herself from letting her fingers brush his flannel shirt and Eddie took his hand in hers.
"Just a nap. Then you can wake up early and keep working," Eddie said solemnly. "Okay?"
Patricia figured she could keep resisting or just cave like she always did, and she was about to pick her first choice before she yawned and she couldn't bring herself to reject him another time.
"Okay."
When Eddie kissed her, it was soft and sweet, and she just knew that she'd end up with him as her boyfriend again by the morning.
The pub floor was sticky and littered with crushed cups, glass, garments left behind and spilled food. The janitor moved slowly through the mess, mumbling to himself about the ridiculous antics of young people, and his back wasn't as springy as it used to be as he approached an older age, deciding to start with the bathrooms and mop up before he swept.
Something caught in the wheels of his transportable mop bucket, however, and the janitor stopped in his tracks to clean whatever it was off. It was strange, though, some weird red liquid that was wet and impossibly familiar, thicker than wine but of the same color.
He followed the trail out of pure curiosity, shoes squeaking dutifully, eyes trekking the path it made before coming to an abandoned storeroom that no one ever used.
Strange, he thought, even he couldn't get in there, and he was the janitor. The door was unlocked and that was how he discovered her.
The woman's body.
The white, dusty tiles were slick with blood and the old supplies that were piled up everywhere toppled like a struggle went on. Then the body itself, oh, the body- a rope hanging from the rafters is tightly tied around the woman's neck, so tightly that he can see rough scratches from the itchy coil.
Her eyes were closed, but her face is a mess. Gashes are slunk into her cheeks and wounds long since stopped bleeding cover her arms and legs like she'd be stabbed repeatedly- and not just stabbed. Whoever had hurt her made it painful and long lasting.
Her body was mutilated. Her stomach had been slit and her ribs hacked at until he could see the white of her bone, the only color on the milky white the red splatters of blood. Muscle and tissue were visible on all the lacerations, even hanging from the corpse. Her severed lungs were drooping, heart ripped in two, quite literally as the useless organ hung on a thin artery.
The janitor was sick on the floor, his stomach upchucking in dry heaves as the image burned into his memory. Nothing, nothing had ever indicated this happened right under their noses- and the worst part was, he couldn't say who did it, not that he paid attention to the many people milling through the pub each day.
There was nothing other than her bloody carcass and the stain of black hair dye.