Chapter 1

I killed a second girl because the quiet didn’t go away

I don’t know why I’m posting this. It’s going to sound fake. I know.

Her name was Elise. We’d been talking for like three weeks. She wasn’t my girlfriend. I asked her to come over and she did. I already knew what I was going to do before she got here. I didn’t spiral about it. I didn’t almost change my mind. I just waited till she was in my room and I did it.

I’m not writing how. If that’s what you want, keep scrolling.

She’s on the floor between the bed and the dresser. Half on the rug. I turned the lamp off around 4 because I didn’t want to keep looking at her face, then I turned it back on because the dark was worse. Her phone is on the nightstand. It buzzed twice. I haven’t touched it.

I keep waiting to panic. I’m not. My hands aren’t shaking. I made toast at some point and ate it in the kitchen, and when I came back she was in the same spot and the only thing I felt was annoyed that I still had to deal with it. That’s the part messing with me. Not her. The annoyance. Like I made a mess and now I have to clean it and I’m pissed I didn’t plan that part.

I sat there trying to feel the thing you’re supposed to feel. Guilt, fear, something. It’s not there. I can describe it. I don’t have it. What I have is quiet, her perfume going stale, and this flat thought in my head: I did that on purpose, and I think I liked that it was on purpose.

I googled psychopath. The lists are all the same. No remorse, planned, shallow. I didn’t feel caught. I felt read. That scared me more than she does, because if the list is right then this isn’t a bad night. This is just what I am. She’s the first time I stopped pretending.

I can’t leave her there. Her roommate already texted the phone again while I was typing this. I can’t call anyone. The second I open my mouth I have to explain something I already get and they won’t. I don’t have a why anybody would accept. I wanted to. I did. She’s on my floor.

It’s morning. Light’s on her shoe. I haven’t slept. I keep thinking my body is going to catch up and do the normal thing, throw up or cry or call 911 by accident. It hasn’t.

Somebody in the comments on the last post said the quiet doesn’t stay. It stayed.

I dealt with her once the street was busy enough that a car door wouldn’t matter. Not writing that part either. Roommate texted a couple more times, then some number I didn’t know, then nothing. People assume a fight. I let them.

Six days of nothing. Work, groceries, normal. I thought that was it. Then the lamp came on by itself. I was in the kitchen. I heard the click. Went in and the lamp was on and the drawer was open and her phone was back on the nightstand. I put it in the trash. Took the trash out. Morning, it was on the nightstand again.

I stopped sleeping in the room. Couch, TV on, every light in the apartment on. Didn’t matter. I’d wake up and the bedroom door would be open a crack and the lamp would be on and it would smell like her perfume for a second. Not strong. Just enough.

Tenth night I come home and the socks drawer is dumped on the bed. Under them there’s a note on the back of a receipt I know I threw out. Her handwriting. Four words. You liked it.

I didn’t do the second one because I was scared of Elise. I did it because the quiet started answering and I wanted to see if another one would shut it up.

Her name is Cara. Pharmacy counter two blocks from me. She’d remembered my name before, which most people don’t. I asked if she wanted to come over after her shift. She said her roommate was out of town and she didn’t feel like an empty apartment. I said mine was empty too. Both of those were lies.

She came over Tuesday. Shoes off, laughed at all the lights, said I live like somebody’s grandma. Sat on the couch. For an hour it was fine. Then she goes, do you hear that.

Bedroom latch. The soft tick when it opens. She got up to turn the lamp off because she’s the type who just fixes stuff. Stopped in the doorway. Said there’s someone on your bed.

I looked. Bed was empty. Note was on the pillow. Bigger this time. She can hear me.

Cara turned around and saw my face. She didn’t scream. She said my name like she still thought I was going to be normal. Lamp went out. She grabbed my wrist. Her hand was warm. I remember thinking that. I remember the quiet getting really clear, and the annoyance just turning into want.

Not writing how.

She’s on the floor now. Same place. Half on the wood where the rug used to be. Lamp’s on. Elise’s phone is on the nightstand. Cara’s is still in her pocket. I waited for the quiet to change. It didn’t. It just made room. Only thing I felt was that I was right about myself the first time.

Around 4 I turned the lamp off. Dark was worse. Turned it back on. Cara looks smaller than when she walked in. Perfume’s back. Neither of them has moved. I made toast again. Came back and the note was on the pillow between them. One line. I don’t think it’s Elise’s handwriting anymore.

It stays.

Cara’s roommate is out of town. That gives me a day, maybe two. Hands still aren’t shaking. I can hear the latch ticking, soft, like somebody checking if I’m still here.

I am.

Don’t tell me how to hide it. I already know I’m not doing this right. I just need to know if the quiet gets a voice or if it keeps making room.