Hit List

Part 1

Twenty bucks and a pocket knife sit heavily in my pocket as I slid onto a stool at the bar counter. The man I took the money from is oblivious to the fact that he's missing it. I was uncomfortable, but I tried to mask it; clubs had never really been my speed. I ordered a single drink to keep up with my "disguise" of sorts, using the money I'd stolen. Keeping my head down, I accepted the cup, sipping from the thin straw as i swiveled around to face the dance floor. I was hyper-aware of everybody around me. I cursed myself for choosing such a visible position, but I had a great vantage point of the rest of the room. A few people nodded at me, acknowledging my presence, and that wasn't at all good. If I wanted to pull this off, I had to blend in. Act normal. I scoffed. What exactly is normal? I adjusted my baseball cap and tried to look like I belong. You do belong, I told myself. I canvassed my outfit in my head: black jeans and black long-sleeved t-shirt, black sneakers and cap.

Plain.

Simple.

Invisible.

No one would ever think me capable of murder.

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I scoped the room; searched for a girl. I left my perch on the barstool and maneuvered around a group of men who seemed to have the same quest. And then I saw her. She was surrounded by a group of girls who looked exactly like her, but she was different somehow.

Black hair.

Black eyes.

Black dress.

She was beautiful in an entrancing way and for a moment I was spellbound.

She was so confident in herself, flipping her hair and slinking up to any boy who managed to penetrate her circle of friends. The colorful lights reflected off her body, dancing along with her. The pounding music almost seemed to make her vibrate with life.

Filled with envy, I shook my head, the spell broken.

My vision flooded red, rage clouding my eyes. I leaned into the solid wall of people, using them as a place to rest as I breathed slowly, in and out, calming myself.

It's not the right time, I told myself.

She turned for a moment, looking in my direction, making eye contact with me. She must've seen something in my face because the flirtatious smile dropped off her face. I grinned at her, letting all my teeth show. She tapped the closest person to her, pointing at me, but I was already gone.

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From my post in the corner of the room, I watched her drink until she'd had several too many. She stumbled to the back of the club. The bathrooms, I thought. I trailed behind her, changing course every few seconds so no one got suspicious. Distracted by the chaos around me, I crashed, almost face-first, into the back wall. For a minute I was lost. I spun around in a circle, looking for any way she could've gone. Raising my head, I spotted the standard "female" bathroom sign, glowing along with the strobe lights. I headed towards it, and turned a corner. Thankfully there was no line for the bathrooms, a miracle for me. The darkness was a drastic change to the pulsing flashes of the main room. Better for me, I thought. I picked a path to the door, grimacing at the graffiti that covered the walls. Phone numbers and pick-up lines scrawled in haste were squished together on the wall from floor to ceiling, barely legible in the dimness. The door handle to the stall was sticky with leftover alcohol from carelessly spilled drinks, and God knows what else. I pushed open the door and nearly passed out. The smell of feces and urine filled my nostrils. Perfect. The stains on the walls will hide anything. She is seated next to the toilet, her head between her knees, a puddle of brown liquid sitting in front of her. I turned, shut the door behind me, and check for cameras as discreetly as I can. There are none. I grinned to myself; this was going more perfectly than I would've expected. I wiped my hands on my jeans and stepped towards her.

"Hey," I said softly.

"Hey!" I said again, loudly this time.

She lifted up her head a few inches and whimpered, her eyes still half closed. I chuckled. She had finally realized I was there. I kneeled down in front of her and stuck my finger in her face, making her jerk her head back, slamming it into the wall behind her. She whimpered again, leaning forwards slowly and raised her hands to caress her injury. A couple tears slide down her cheeks, splashing into the pool between her legs.

"That's going to bruise," I told her absentmindedly. "Not that you'd be able to see it through all that pretty hair."

I reached into my jeans pocket, tugged out the pocket knife. I slid my fingernail into the slot, pulling the blade out of its place.