You turned the key in the lock four times, making sure to properly close your apartment's door. Last time you forgot to do that, you were left without a fridge for some time.
Life has not exactly been sunshine and rainbows since you came back; over a year now. The moment your parents learned about what you have really been spending their money on, and the reason you were hospitalized; they made you go to rehab. No matter your assurances that you didn't have a problem, and your drug or alcohol use has been only recreational; they still made you go. And they stopped giving you money, instead opting for sending it to your landlord directly. And your living expenses? They made you get a part-time job...
You took the narrow stairway down, tiptoeing around broken glass. It was awfully early; far too early for you to be up, but your job wouldn't do itself.
A thanks was due to your parents for that. If it weren't for them, you wouldn't have met some new friends. And if it weren't for those friends, you wouldn't have had such a well-paying, freelancer job by now. It was a once in a lifetime, easy to miss opportunity. But you caught it – right by the balls and squeezed until they popped. With your major, it was only logical for you to work in a field like that.
You walked out of the apartment complex, the metal gate slamming loudly behind you. The air was stale, the sky grey. Ah, the golden Detroit autumn. Nothing could beat the smell of pollution and the sound of police sirens early in the morning.
The memory is very vivid in your head, even though it's been a year since it happened. You, right out of rehab, wanting to go against your parents and continue your irresponsible way of living. You attended a party; a friend of a friend decided to invite you. There were two guys, sitting on a something- stained couch, drinking beer, when you walked in. You asked if you could join them, a drink in your hand. For others, they looked intimidating. One person even tried to pull you away. But you ignored all warnings, desperately wanting to interact with them – you knew who they were.
You holstered the heavy bag on your shoulder, tools clanking softly inside. There was a quick stop you wanted to make, before getting to work.
The guys were clearly part of some organization. You studied guys like them – not your typical hood, wanna-be gangsters. No, they looked to be the real deal. So, you got to talking. They were surprisingly nice, for men with scarred and tattooed faces. One was even missing an eye... And as the three of you got more drunk, one of them asked what you did for a living. You explained that you went to college, and worked part-time at McDonald's. They seemed to visibly tense at the mention of you being a criminology major. You surely must have had a strong moral compass, right? Wrong.
You rounded the corner, avoiding the bum that has been sitting on the same sidewalk as always, asking for change. You swore that his ass was glued to the concrete.
As the conversation carried on, and your complaints about how life was so unfair to you, because you had to get a job, they kept stealing glances at each other. In your drunken state, you didn't realize that you have mentioned several times, that you have killed people. It was always one man, but you made yourself sound more badass than you ever were, or will be. At that, one of the guys perked up; "How didn't you get caught, then? That is, if you're really telling the truth. You don't look like the kind of person with the balls to do shit like that". And your dumb self had to prove them wrong.
You crossed the side-walk, slowly getting closer to your destination. A bit of a drizzle started to pick up, but it was nothing serious.
In great detail, you explained how you got rid of the bodies. You never did, the simulation handled that for you. But you had extensive knowledge about how a cadaver functioned, the best ways to clean human waste, ways to successfully get rid of biohazards of all sorts. That was all theoretical knowledge, but you were so sure of yourself at that moment. So adamant about wanting to look cool to those strange men. By the time you finished all your bizarre stories, the two seemed rather convinced. You could always sell the most ridiculous lies...
You stopped to admire the beauty of a tumbled-over trash can. Ah, the big city never changed.
They told you something about giving them a call; you were too drunk to remember everything they said; and after a while they left. You sat there, the number saved in your mobile, until the party ended. You went back home, slept, and woke up with an awful hangover. And an even worse sense of dread – you remembered how you told two random guys that you killed people. None of what you claimed about yourself was true. And when you saw the number, saved as "gangstas from party", you almost cried.
You looked at the grey sky, remembering the job interview as clear as if it was yesterday. You swore that you saw grey hairs on your head, when you got back home that day.
Against your better judgement, you called the number. Maybe, you were hoping to explain yourself; tell them that you were just high and drunk; that you just got out of rehab, and weren't in a clear state of mind; that you just came out of a simulation, and haven't really come to terms with your own mortality. But the moment you heard someone answer your call, your heart dropped.
-You're quick on your feet. That's good. I have a job for you; consider it a proof of your skills. Sending you the details. - He hung up.
With horror, you stared at your phone's screen, and as a new message popped up, you almost dropped it. The address... it was a suburban neighborhood. Not a particularly rich one, but definitely not considered dangerous. Even though, a cold, dreadful feeling crept up your spine. This was not looking good.
Against all your better judgements; your bowels aggressively gurgling at you the entire way; you drove to the address. A typical, white bungalow stood in a row of identical houses. You parked your car next to it, noticing one other, black, expensive-looking vehicle.
You stood on the porch, and after a moment of pondering if you should change your name and move to another continent, you knocked on the door. Heavy footsteps immediately approached it, and it soon creaked open. A big, bald man answered the door. He was dressed casually – a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for when you looked at his face, you saw that he was missing his left ear; multiple scars coming from the hole on the side of his head, and creeping onto his face.
-You the cleaner? - He asked in a thick accent. You couldn't tell what it was though.
You stared wide-eyed at him. Then, cleared your throat, trying to stay composed and look casual, you answered.
-Yup. It is I. - That was not casual.
He moved to the side, and let you in. You hesitated a bit, but not wanting to offend him, you entered. Immediately, you knew that something was wrong. The smell of death, sweet and copper hung in the air – still fresh.
-He in the kitchen. Tools also. - The huge man pointed to a hallway, and motioned with his head for you to go in.
And as you did, you almost cried. That was not the first time you saw a dead body; not even the first time you saw a body in such an awful state, but something about this being a non-academic environment made your blood run cold.
There was a man; or at least you assumed it was a man. The head was missing. Cut cleanly off, a pool of blood around the cadaver. On a kitchen island next to him, you saw an array of tools and chemicals.
You almost shit yourself when you felt a presence behind you.
-Clean around him, and pack him. You have four hour. - You whipped around, staring at the man. He looked back at you, his eyes intense and dark in color, scleras almost fully yellow.
-U-uh... Where's his head, if I may know?
-You may not. - He turned around, moving to some other part of the house.
Your body shook violently, as you turned back around, the body still in the same position. Yup, definitely not a dream. You were stuck, with a scary dude, in an unknown house, having to clean up a body.
There were no choices left. You had to do it, if you wanted to live. This was no simulation; no respawning this time.
You walked under a bridge, remembering all the times you got chased while walking there at night. It was good cardio.
Speaking of which, you also got around to working out. Yeah, maybe you went to the gym two times and then never came back, but it was a start. The people in there intimidated you. So, you opted for running in the local park, and exercising however you could at home. Now, you could even walk a flight of stairs without heaving for air.
You wrapped your coat a little tighter around you; a gust of cold air making you shiver.
-H-hey, dude. - He whipped his head around to look at you. He was sitting on a nice-looking sofa. - I'm done. He's all wrapped up, and the kitchen Is spotless... Can I go now?
You almost pissed yourself when he stood up. His hand was in his pocket, and from experience, that wasn't a good sign. And just as you closed your eyes and got ready for your demise, something square pressed against your upper chest.
-Payment. - The man muttered, as you opened your eyes. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple.
It was an envelope. A very thick envelope.
You raised a shaking, dry from all the chemicals hand, and grasped the object. - Thanks... Can I go now?
-Yes.
You squeezed the envelope, and keeping eye contact with the man, you backed up towards the front door. When you knew you were right next to it, you twisted the doorknob and bolted for your car.
As you sat inside, trying to calm your panic attack to be able to drive, you almost jumped through the roof when your phone rang. You slowly picked it up, and saw that it was the guy from the party.
-H-hello?
-Well done! My friend told me you did a great job with wrapping the package. I suppose you received compensation? - The man on the other end was nice, but you knew that under that he was wicked.
-Mhm... - You muttered, still unable to form proper sentences. You reeked of blood, and wanted to go back home as soon as possible.
-Great. I'll contact you again when your... expertise will be needed. - He paused for a second. - Oh, and can I recommend your services to some friends of mine? They would greatly appreciate your help.
-Listen, dude. I-I don't know what to tell you... I'm not built for this. No amount of money will be able to convince me. This is just too much. I'm sorry, but I think I overestimated myself. Please don't kill me... - You blabbered, until you heard him sigh.
-Have you checked the envelope? - You remained silent, and he took that for an answer. - Four K in there. All yours. I suppose you don't make as much at McDonald's for four hours of work?
Your jaw dropped, as you gripped the envelope. Four thousand dollars sat snugly in there, waiting to be spent.
-I'm... Yeah, you can recommend my services...
-Great. Well, talk to you later! - He hung up the phone.
You stared straight ahead, unblinking. What in the actual fuck did you just agree to?
You were almost at your destination, the crowds on the streets growing more dense.
That was about a year ago. And you've worked as a freelance crime scene cleaner for that time. You made shit tons of money, which you put into a separate savings account. The one that your parents didn't constantly monitor because of your previous addictions and irresponsible spending. Soon after the first cleaning, more commissions came your way. Word got around town, and soon the elites knew you as "The Cleaner". Someone would say that the name sounded like a cooler title for a janitor, but you always admired them for having cool jumpsuits, so you didn't mind.
You stood in front of the building, admiring the Halloween decorations they've put up. That was your favorite coffee shop.
Through all that, flashbacks came back to haunt you once in a while. The first time you saw it, you were too terrified to even remember. But the second time you saw a severed head, you instantly recalled your severed head. Or, the person with ligature marks on their neck – that was also you. A gunshot wound – you experienced that as well. The simulation never left you fully.
You walked through the door, inhaling the scent of coffee and seasonal pumpkin spice that those Christian girls loved so much.
No one else saw them, the doctors swore they faded, but you knew they were there – the scars. Sometimes, they would be dark magenta. Other times, they would fade to lavender. But they were always there. You must have looked crazy, going to the dentist over and over, adamant that you were missing a tooth, yet they always saw a full set. Everyone else moved on, and as much as you tried to as well, those memories stuck with you.
You stood in front of the register, examining the menu.
The pills – you tried to identify them. "Tnac - U" was written on the packaging. The goofiest name, something that would catch someone's eye, yet no one knew a damn thing. Not any pharmacist, not any drug dealer, not even the fucking internet. "Tnac - U" remained a mystery for over a year, and you had no leads. You were slowly starting to give up on getting any answers as to what happened to you. And even as you relentlessly studied all the FNaF games, finding out about Glitchtrap, nothing cleared up. In fact, everything just became more confusing. You wanted to punch the creator of the games into oblivion for making lore like that .
-What can I get you? - A bored voice snapped you out of your pity party. You looked around, panicked that you still haven't chosen a drink.
-U-uh, I'll... um... Can I get a... uh... Do y'all have... um... uh...
The barista stared at you with a pitiful look. - Do we have...? - He inquired.
-Uh... Give me a small Americano, sorry...
-Alright. That will be eight dollars. - He visibly rolled his eyes when you finally ordered, and you huffed. God, you could be so cringe sometimes. Not very gangsta-cash-money of you.
You presented him with your card, and he swiped it.
-It's declining. - Your eyes widened at his words.
-What do you mean it's declining? Try again.
-That won't do anything, but okay... - He sighed, swiping the card again. - Still declining. Do you want me to cancel your order?
-No, I-
-Let me get that. - A familiar voice spoke from behind you, as dollar bills landed next to the register. - No need to thank me. - The person spoke in an awful, atrocious, gruesome, horrific, nasty, objectionable, cloying, shocking, shameless, stinking, surfeiting, beastly, detestable, grody, hideous, horrid, lousy, macabre, monstrous, noisome, repellent, rotten British accent.
With your eyes wide as dinner plates, you slowly turned your head around to meet a familiar, pale gaze looking at you from above.
This has to be a joke.