In a university library, a nerdy-looking, short-haired teenage girl wasn't studying. With a book obscuring her phone between, she waa watching some questionable content in public, content that could get her in trouble with the police, or anyone in general, really.
Sunlight poured in from the glass walls, landing gently onto discussing groups and silently studying loners. And of course, landing at the back of the teenage girl, whose fingers were already between her legs.
Rubbing it in public... This was pleasurable for her... Having to hold her moans from her open mouth while risking a chance of being caught in action...
THUMP!
The sound of something hitting the ground was suddenly heard, and the girl whipped her head up over the book to understand the noise. Ahead were rows and rows of bookshelves; sunlight was more scarce the deeper one walked.
At the aisle right in front of the girl, a book lay on the floor. The girl may be a degenerate, but she did understand to pick the book up, for she was the closest to it.
She walked towards the fallen book holding her own book sandwiching her phone. After fixing the shelf, another thump sound was heard. Another book fell from the second bookshelf.
The girl walked deeper to pick the second fallen book up. Then another thump sound was heard.
A book fell from the third bookshelf, then without waiting, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth.
The girl frowned, her fingers trembled as she held the second book up to read its title. Its title: I'm Watching You.
The girl flinched, dropping that book to the ground, hugging her own and scrambling away hurriedly.
Judgmental gazes from the library shot at her, but that was the least of her concerns. She power-walked out of the library, beads of sweat beginning to slide.
She didn't know why, but she kept getting the unmistakable feeling that she was being shadowed, that she was being stalked.
She'd think the stalker was right behind her, practically riding on her back, making her breathing heavy and difficult, but it wasn't there, there was nothing there.
She turned the corner into a dark alley, the sanctuary for rebellious university students.
She jogged past one of them, with a joint in his mouth and a lighter in hand.
The girl suddenly felt like she could breathe again. Whatever it was, it had gotten off her back, so she turned to look.
The renegade flicked open his lighter for a smoke.
And she appeared.
The girl's eyes widened and reddened.
Her legs tensed.
Her jaw trembled.
Behind her was a translucent and gray feminine figure with haunting long raven hair obscuring the face, yet undoubtedly staring eerily at the girl.
The smoking man also took a few steps back in fear, the joint by his mouth lit but not used. He dropped his lighter, which shut closed when it hit the ground.
The gray figure disappeared.
The girl immediately bolted out of the scene, panting with her eyes squeezed tight. Her phone dropped on the ground as she hurried out of the alley, the degenerate content played.
———
Saturday, who doesn't love Saturday? It's a carefree day without work, and the closest working day is a Sunday away.
Walking beneath the sun through the busy streets of the city is my way of finding peace. I was dressed in my favourite denim jacket with my hair slicked back, just how I like it. Although, sooner or later, side bangs will fall, for I don't use any products to hold my hairstyle.
My destination is a cozy corner coffee shop, which I visit at least once every week with my friend, Matthew Connors, who's probably already waiting for me inside.
I went in, scanned the intricately decorated interior of the café, and found him, indeed waiting for me over a steaming cup of latté.
We're both 43, but I'm the only lucky one who didn't suffer as much from aging. Him, on the other hand, got a buzz cut to somewhat conceal his hair loss.
"Why the long face?" I opened as I slid into the booth.
"Right. My buddy's a goddamn mind reader."
"Psychologists aren't mind readers, Matt. It's the same misunderstanding with chess."
"It's all pattern recognition." He finished my sentence, then raised a hand to call the waitress over for me.
"Good morning, sir, and what would you like to order?" A young blonde waitress spoke with a clear and sweet voice.
"Coffee. Black," I said simply.
"Alright. Coming right up."
"You got me right though." Matthew continued after the waitress had left. "Piece of shit walked free yesterday."
"What was yesterday?"
"Trial for one Lila Powell. 33-year-old woman. Woman sounds innocent enough already, hm?"
"Gender equality applies in committing crime." I shrugged, and his frown grew deeper.
He scoffed. "Doesn't apply to convictions apparently." Matthew is a cop, a good cop too, which is rare these days. He went into the career with a heart of justice that had never faded after 20 years of service.
"Who was this Lila?" I asked, tilting my head in curiosity.
"From the surface, looks and acts just like a normal middle-aged woman. You'd expect all she worries about is whether the grocery prices would rise or fall. But if you looked at her crime scenes, you'd find a monster." He took a sip calmly.
"What did she do?"
"Skinned her boyfriend." Matthew's face tensed up ever so slightly. "She even openly, indirectly confirmed that herself in a statement: 'All he ever wanted from me was my skin, so I want the same.'"
"Sheesh." I blinked, leaning back as the waitress brought over my drink.
"She didn't stop there, she skinned the boyfriend's nine-year-old brother too. Yet lack of evidence and fake tears still prevailed." He gritted his teeth.
"One of those cases, huh?"
"One of those." He nodded stiffly, clearly uneasy. "She doesn't even deserve to breathe, let alone roam free."
"Ain't that right." I smiled to ease the mood, then reached out for my drink.
"She didn't even kill them first, by the way. Forensics showed they both died from the sheer pain of the skinning process. A fuckin' nine-year-old, damn it." He banged a clenched fist against the table, light enough to not startle anyone but hard enough for it to thump.
I didn't know what to say to that, so I simply shook my head and took a sip.
"God, sometimes I just... I just wish..."
"Wish you could be the decider." I finished his sentence this time. We've known each other long enough to know the other throughout. Only thing he remained in the dark about was my night job.
"Yeah. Play god." He nodded with a faint smile, which I returned.
"Here's your receipt." The blonde waitress returned, handing me the receipt.
"Thanks."
"You treating?"
"Hell no." I shut that down immediately, which he chuckled at in return.
I checked the receipt, and what shouldn't be on there but was made me involuntarily drop my jaw, followed with a surprised, "Shit."
"What?" He reached and snatched the receipt from me, reading what was handwritten below the bill. "Holy shit, man. You don't age and this proves it."
He slapped the receipt on the table into my view. Written below the outrageous total price of the two cups of coffee was the waitress's name and phone number, in elegant cursive.
"Envy." He said with a smirk. "You interested?"
"Not really."
"Come on." He leaned back, rolling his eyes. "At least check her out, my guy." Then jerked his chin to the waitress in the distance.
I took a casual glance at her. Tall, clean, lustrous blonde hair with a cute demeanor. The smiley type. Her teeth shone brighter than the dim lighting of the shop.
"She mustn't know I'm 43."
"'Cause you don't look it." Matthew complimented bitterly, leaning back. "She, on the other hand, looks in her twenties, early thirties at best."
"It'd feel weird."
"Still." Matthew twitched his eyebrows. "It's good to meet someone new. Who knows? Maybe she might just be the one."
I must've instinctively grimaced here. "I don't know—"
"Mate, you've never dated in your 43 years of walking this goddamn spinning orb," Matthew cut me off with a half-frustrated, half-concerned voice. "It's good to give it a try, you know?"
Deep down, I do know he's right. My lips were pressed tight as I turned to glance at the waitress again, or, Caitlyn Winters, as she had written for me.
It was laughs and smiles only from her interactions with the customers, green flags all over, her estimated age being the only red flag.
"I'll think about it."
"Think quick." He gulped down the cup of coffee like he was late for his flight. "Women don't like the indecisive type."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Oh hell yeah, I am. Trace ain't got no patience for me. Haha... Finish that quick." He pointed at my cup of coffee, still pretty much untouched.
"Why the hurry?"
He looked at his watch before answering. "I've already told you, Trace ain't got no patience."
"Aw, leaving me for her? Really?" I dramatically forced a disappointed face.
"Come on, my guy, I won't leave until you finish that drink."
"Then I'm gonna take my sweet time." I took an exaggeratedly slow sip.
"Ahh... Fucker." He muttered as he got out of the booth. Before he left, he turned and said, "Call her. She seems like a good lady, probably won't skin you alive."
"Noted with thanks." I gave an OK sign.
He rolled his eyes before turning to leave, nodding politely to the waitress on his way.
The waitress's gaze then turned to me, still sitting in the booth. Her smile was wide, diabetic, and even to a guy like me, adorable. But, no matter how many green flags she displayed, I just couldn't catch feelings.
Beep. Beep.
That would be my phone. "What?"
"Association's calling you in. Report latest by two."
Goddamn it.