Someone is messing with me.
It started with the dismembered arm outside my front door. The one that made Vivienne Lee, nosy and insufferable woman that she is, call the cops. I could see why a civilian might respond accordingly after seeing something so bloody, but Vivienne didn't do it because she was scared.
She did it out of spite.
Next, it was a finger—an index finger by the looks of it—shoved in my P.O. box. It emanated a distinct smell when I discovered it this morning. Thankfully, Vivienne didn't catch wind of this, seeing as she hasn't taken it upon herself to make my personal mail her business.
Yet.
After the arm incident, Chief of Police Nash Sullivan cleaned everything up. He even sent crime scene investigators to see if they could get any fingerprints, but the body was too decomposed to obtain any form of identification. Same with the finger. Whoever left these little gifts for me made sure it would be impossible to learn any information about them.
Sullivan assured me he'd keep everything quiet—including Vivienne's allegations regarding the knife-and-alleyway incident. But his mercies will only extend so far. Sullivan must keep his small town blissfully ignorant of these upsets. Once one or two people find out, it won't be long before the rest of the town knows.
And it doesn't help that his most bothersome, intrusive citizen is my next-door neighbor.
He's given me a three-strike rule. Thanks to Vivienne and the calls she's made, I've already used up two of them.
Normally, a measly chief of police wouldn't be bossing me around, but this is new territory for me. Specifically being on the receiving end of threats that I have no idea who is sending or why. I've gone to great lengths to make sure nobody—not even my brothers—can trace where I am.
My ability to remain steps ahead of everyone else, particularly my foes, is what's gotten me this far. When it becomes about control, I always come out on top. Things with my father have forever been the exception. But regardless, what I've achieved still speaks for itself. If I were any weaker of a man, I'd be long dead and gone.
And yet, someone knows I'm here. Someone I wasn't expecting.
And worse, they're so many steps ahead of me that they can afford to saddle me with silly threats. To play with me.
If I'm unable to get ahold of this situation, I'm as useless and powerless as a woman like Vivienne. A woman who runs headfirst into a storm she knows nothing about. Who doesn't see or care that becoming involved in my business is just signing off on her own death.
But perhaps that would make everything easier.
It's a common question I face, and one I need to address now. Would it be better for everyone if Vivienne Lee died? If one of her friends found her tomorrow, perhaps a victim of an unforeseen carbon monoxide leak? A suicide would be too farfetched and suspicious for someone like her, someone so joyfully surrounded by and involved with her community, but there are easy ways to make it look like an accident.
My hands twitch towards my phone. I could do it. I could make the call now, and she'd be gone within the hour.
Or I could do it myself, and she'd be dead in minutes.
It would be a first for me. I'm not so inclined to do these things myself, but I'd have perfect assurance that nothing would get out, that none of her mouthy friends would find out about what's been happening, and I could go about the rest of my business in Rhinebeck truly unbothered.
A low noise cuts through the air and I blink to attention. It's then I realize I'm halfway to my front door, one hand reaching for the doorknob and the other knotted in my hair, pulling so hard my scalp stings.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror in my hallway, and I don't recognize the man there. His chest heaves. His eyes are wild and his face is set in cold determination. Hands reaching—either to brace myself against the wall to keep my body inside, or go find Vivienne.
I can't fool myself. I know what was about to happen.
I was on my way to kill her. Without consciously making the decision. Just another minute and I would have found a way into her home.
Looking back at the chair my body left without my explicit permission, I realize I don't remember actually sitting there. How long was I sitting there? I turn my head woodenly to the window, taking in the pitch-black skies, and suddenly I can't remember. I can't remember what I've been doing all day or when it got so dark or anything at all about the last twelve hours.
Numbly, I go to my phone's security app and pull up the camera footage from today. My ragged breaths are the only sound in the apartment, suddenly deafeningly loud to me, and I swipe a thin sheen of sweat from my forehead.
I fast-forward rapidly through the day's footage but there's no point. It's all the same. It shows me sitting in that chair, staring unblinkingly at the wall for hours.
Then, something catches my attention. A sudden inhale, a decisive movement. In the video, I stand and reach under the couch cushions. Then I watch myself walk out the door, a gun gripped tightly in my hand.
♛
"Could a side effect of my medication be... disassociation?"
Adamo frowns at me around the rim of his coffee mug. The man drinks at least six cups a day—at all hours of the night, too. I've been telling him for years that it's wildly unnecessary and unhealthy.
"What exactly do you mean?"
"Disassociation," I say dryly. "Disconnection and lack of continuity between thoughts, memories, surroundings, actions, and identity."
"Yes, thank you, smartass. I'm the licensed therapist here," Adamo grumbles. "I meant what exactly are you experiencing?"
"I am experiencing disconnection and lack of continuity between th—"
"Alright," Adamo groans, rubbing a hand over his face. He seems more tired than usual, and I make a mental note to ask him if everything is alright with Sasha after this. "You're a therapist's nightmare, you know that?"
I wait in silence for him to get to my question, resisting the urge to drum my fingers on my thigh. I'm restless and more disturbed than I'm comfortable admitting, so I opted for an impromptu call with Adamo. It's past midnight, far later than we usually call, but I told him I needed to talk.
The memories from earlier today returned, as they usually do. I have no way of knowing everything I did or said to Vivienne. But I know I threatened her. I know I interrupted her in the middle of heating up a pathetic looking frozen dinner, cuffed her, and shoved my gun down her throat. That's what I remember, along with snippets of our conversation.
"Vivienne, it doesn't have to be this way."
"Tell that to your hand holding the fucking gun that's about to blow my brains out!"
"I told you to stay out of my business. You proved incapable of such a simple ask."
Blurry. But more of her voice. That clear sound underpinned with a soft layer of rasp whenever she raises her voice at me.
"I don't know how you think people generally work, but the fact that it's happening next door instead of ten feet closer to me really doesn't make any difference. Now get your dirty gun out of my fucking mouth, Massimo."
The way she said my name. Like a curse word. It filled my chest with an unknown sensation.
"I don't like to get dirty, Vivienne. Now look at the mess you're forcing me to make."
After that, it's too fuzzy. But I know I didn't kill her. I know I walked away. Blood has a way of staining everything it touches, and my mind remains clean for now. But despite my certainty, I obtained access to the hallway security cameras. And sure enough, they capture me leaving, with a cuffed Vivienne seen glaring at me in the background before I swing her door shut behind me.
Needless to say, I deleted that footage.
So, I didn't kill her.
My true intentions behind this call with Adamo are desperate to an almost shameful extent. I want to unearth any possible indication that what's happening to me could be different than what happened to me as a boy. How convenient it would be if I could blame this on my sleeping pills.
If I could simply stop taking them and return to the way I was before.
If I could guarantee I wouldn't hurt her.
And, of course, I want that guarantee so that if I do need to end her life, it would happen when I'm coherent. When I'm mentally aware of myself and able to do it the right way. Clean, quick, and untraceable.
"Have you been taking the medication consistently?"
"Yes."
"And you've been sleeping?"
"More or less. About four hours a night."
"Hm." Adamo adjusts his camera with a frown. "That's not as much as I was hoping. But sedative sleeping aids can be linked with dissociative behaviors or hallucinations. More likely if you're mixing them with alcohol and other medications."
"I'm doing neither." The air in my apartment feels thin, and I press a hand to my chest. "Hallucinations. Like blackouts?"
Adamo eyes me worriedly. "Not quite. With a blackout, you'd be unaware of your surroundings or actions. You wouldn't remember it afterwards. A hallucination is when you experience things through your senses that are only in your mind. It's more of a false perception of reality, while—"
"Alright." My head is spinning, and I swipe a hand over my hair, trying to pull myself together. I can't listen to so many words right now.
"Massimo, are you okay?"
"Yes. I just need to sleep."
Adamo nods, his concern practically dripping from his face. "It would be smart to let someone know where you are, son. You could tell me. I wouldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't even come down there myself. You'd have my word. But just in case, you know, if something happens—"
"Goodnight, Adamo. Send my regards to Sasha."
He wilts in defeat, and his smile is dipped in sadness. "Of course. Take care, Massimo."
After we hang up, I do the only thing that works to push down the disturbed and helpless maelstrom in my chest. I roll up my sleeves and investigate. At least the other issue I know how to tackle.
Hours of calls, thorough reflection, and research later, I've examined the facts surrounding the anonymous threats. I've explored every avenue I can think of, reached out to associates and connections to cast a wide net that could catch a new potential enemy in its snare.
I've narrowed it down to two options.
The most obvious option is my father. It's no secret that Antonio holds no care or well-wishes for me. But he has no motive to threaten me—and if he did, he'd certainly make sure I knew it was him. He's too self-absorbed to not claim the credit. Not to mention on the run, unable to afford bringing attention to himself.
The second option is one that makes the inside of my skin itch in discomfort. It's an alternative that I think, in a lot of ways, is much worse than my father. But this one doesn't quite make any sense either. Again, there's no motive.
My father has already unexpectedly reappeared in my life; I don't suppose I'd be unlucky enough for the second demon from my past to materialize at the same time.
I'm loath to admit it—but I don't think I could handle her.
When it comes to dealing with just about anything, all I need is the space and silence to think. To let it all pan out before me, pick apart a problem until it lies disassembled before me and I can develop a solution from the millions of tiny pieces. But when I think about her, my mind goes blank.
My descent into madness is a slow crawl, but it would hasten to become a pitching nosedive into an irreversibly dark reality if she were to come back into my life.
Of course, there's always a third option. Some unknown enemy, something I've missed. But I know this to not be true. I don't miss anything. The answer is right in front of me somewhere, I just need to figure out where exactly to look.
A noise from the hallway jerks me from my reverie, and I knock my empty glass off the counter. It shatters, jagged pieces scattering everywhere, and I stare at the mess in disdain.
I never used to be so jumpy.
Giggles mixed with male and female voices rustle outside, making their way meanderingly to my neighbor's door. From the sound of it, it takes her several tries to get her key in the lock, and her company finds this abundantly humorous.
It's past three in the morning and she's just coming home.
She's been going out more recently, which I'm aware of only because of the way noise carries through the walls. Just the other night—after returning the abomination of a sex toy she'd ordered—I heard her leave and return hours later, bringing more noise and the smell of weed with her.
Good to know that after having her life threatened via firearm and handcuffs, the first thing she does is go out and party with her friends.
Living a life so... free is a foreign concept. Going out and participating in social interactions has never been appealing or possible for me. I have never had the privilege of my actions not reaping immediate, deadly consequences. Since age seven, my life has been a game of controlling everything in my reach. Grasping onto whatever I can and only letting the right amount of chaos seep through the cracks of my fingers, only letting it touch the right people.
Suddenly, a scream cuts through the dead, night air. It bleeds through the walls, undeniably coming from Vivienne's place.
I don't think, I just move.
And I don't know what I expect to see—maybe a knife impaling her shoulder, or acid dripping down her face. I'm convinced I set some sort of trap before I left, unsure where my mind goes when it's cloaked in that numbing darkness. But I can only assume it's somewhere awful.
Her door is unlocked—a dim move for a woman living alone, especially next to a man like me—and she stands half hidden from view looking into another room, with both hands on her cheeks. At the sound of my entrance, she whips her head over to me.
She's not bloody or disfigured. In fact, she seems to be physically fine.
The shock doesn't fall from her face. She doesn't get that stubborn set to her jaw, that steely confidence that flares in her dark eyes whenever she sees me. Doesn't question why I'm here at three in the damn morning, or shout at me for trying to kill her. Again. She just looks horrified. And that's how I know it's serious.
She was staring into her bedroom, so I push past her into the small space. It's surprisingly compact and decked out in soft, subtle colors. Not the bright, loud colors I'd expect from a woman like her. Her bed is so large that it practically takes up all the floor space and nestled there, twisted among the blood-stained sheets, is a human foot.
"Get it the fuck out of my house," Vivienne whispers. Her face is stony and pale.
Someone knocks loudly at her front door. "Vivi? I heard you scream, dear. Is everything alright?"
"Oh God." If possible, her face pales even more. "It's Mrs. Chambers."
I round the bed and her chin lifts the closer I get, until she's staring up at me resolutely. Stubborn woman, refusing to let me see her cower even when she's disturbed out of her mind.
"Go." I jerk my head to the front door.
She doesn't respond, and for a moment I see the panic swirling around in the depths of her eyes before she shutters it off from me.
I step in front of her line of sight before it can veer back to the mess in her bed. "Go. Distract her. Right now, Vivienne."
"Oh, so you've decided to help me this time?" Her eyes narrow, anger flashing across her face. She wears her emotions so openly. So much in one person. Sometimes looking at her feels like a fire is washing over my skin. "Are you sure you don't want to try killing me again?"
That pesky neighbor knocks on the door again, and it's a welcome interruption to a conversation I have no idea how to have. "Go, before she calls someone," I say.
She stares at me for a few moments, and if I'm not mistaken, it looks like she's fantasizing about all the different ways she could try to hurt me. Then she curses, grabbing a robe that hangs on her door. In all the surprise, I hadn't even processed her outfit—a skintight, dark ruby dress that slides dangerously up her thighs as she lifts her arms. The dress molds like a layer of paint to the delicate curves of her thighs, supple ass, and sloping back—which are soon covered up by the robe.
She ruffles her hair in the mirror and without a word, strides confidently from the room.
I shut the bedroom door behind her. As I wrap the bloody mess in her now ruined sheets and comforter, I hear her warmly assuring her neighbor that she just had a nightmare. She does a surprisingly convincing job and a few minutes later, storms back into the room.
She drops the robe, stomping right up to me and jabbing a finger into my chest.
"You need to tell me what the hell is going on, right fucking now."
♛
THANK YOU if you're reading this story! I know Simo's POV is mostly his thoughts right now and I hope it's not boring - please bear with me as I get into the groove of this story. Getting into his head was already gonna be difficult but then I decided to make him clinically insane. FML.
Until next time! Next chapter is one of my favorite so far.
- G