Author Commentary!

Here be Chapter Three. I finally finished editing, and now I'm working on chapter four! Woot. So yeah. Enjoy? Or not?

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“He went to retrieve his gun. Touching it to the top of her skull, he repeated his command. She froze, and after a moment, began to stand as instructed, putting her hands in the air above her head. He waved the gun and she backed up a bit, pressing the back of her knees to the edge of the windowsill. A small click was heard as Ian cocked the gun, and she twitched. Straightening out his arm, he held the gun more firmly and aimed.”

CHAPTER THREE – Two Birds

Time had frozen and she couldn’t scream. Her breathing ceased and any attempt to use her vocal cords was stunned. The image of her father’s face had embedded itself in her mind as she stared back at it. She didn’t want to look but she could see, in detail, how the wounds had been carved into his flesh and how unnaturally clean they were, the blood having been drained away. Her father’s glazed-over, horrified eyes just kept staring and staring perpetually.

Charissa appeared to be in somewhat of a trance, her eyes locked onto the corpse in the bathtub. Ian wondered what was so horribly perplexing here. He sat on his heels and looked at the girl. As soon as one of his hands touched her shoulder, she gasped and switched her gaze onto his.

“What are you trying to do, communicate with the dead?” He sneered.

Her skin was as cold as if she had died herself. He had secured a grip on her forearm and ushered her out of the bathroom. There was little resistance, surprisingly, until she snapped out of it. She tried to break free from his grip, only to incur the capture of her other arm. Ian held her there, in front of him.

She tried to kick him, but he saw it coming. Nonetheless, the attempt threw him off and loosened his grip ever so slightly, allowing her to break free. He displayed his gun, pulling it from a random pocket somewhere within his trench coat. That should teach her.

It just managed caused a panic attack in the already frightened teen. The killer had blocked most of the path that led to the door, so the only option left was…the window. She traced the frame with her fingers, looking for a latch, and finding none, she began to frantically claw at it.

Ian sat down onto the bed to watch her. Oh, how much he wanted to buckle into a fit of laughter. It only got better from here. She had located the latch and violently thrust the window open. The curtains flew everywhere and she leaned over the windowsill, analyzing the height.

He could almost hear her heart sink. They were on the third floor, of course. Jumping would be suicide, or near it, at least. Whatever cork that held his laughter burst, and he laughed. Hard.

“What’s wrong? You can escape! Go ahead!”

Without taking her eyes off of the window, she backed up slowly. Her body convulsed as she began to sob hopelessly. But without so much as a warning, she whipped around and attempted another go at the door.

Ian stood in time to catch her before she got there. She knocked into him and then immediately withdrew, falling backwards onto the floor. She screamed almost loud enough to shatter glass. It was enough to shatter Ian’s amusement, at least. His hand closed upon a fistful of blonde hair. His other hand covered her mouth after he had released his gun to topple onto the floor.

“You wanna go? Then go!” He hissed, furious.

Using her hair as a rope of sorts, he pulled her across the floor. She kicked wildly and twisted her body this way and that, with no avail. If she wanted to escape so badly, then he’d let her. Her body was against the windowsill again.

“What do they teach you kids these days anyway?” He asked, releasing his hold on her. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to go spying on serial killers?”

Curled into a ball, she just sat there and shivered, covering her head and neck with her arms. At least she was being generally quiet now.

“Stand up,” He commanded.

Nothing; no response whatsoever. He went to retrieve his gun. Touching it to the top of her skull, he repeated his command. She froze, and after a moment, began to stand as instructed, putting her hands in the air above her head. He waved the gun and she backed up a bit, pressing the back of her knees to the edge of the windowsill. A small click was heard as Ian cocked the gun, and she twitched. Straightening out his arm, he held the gun more firmly and aimed.

“Bang.” He blurted.

He hadn’t pulled the trigger but it was enough to send her screaming and flying backwards and out the window. It was like she hung there before falling, cartoon-style, while Ian stared at her dumbfounded. Her frail body then plummeted, and the sound of it smashing against the pavement below made him mock a wince. Thunk. He peered out the window to see her sprawled awkwardly on the ground, unmoving.

But then a realization crawled threateningly across his mind, and he held his breath a little. It wasn’t all that hard to notice when the sky rained teenagers. He quickly closed the window and pulled the curtains closed, with a feeling that he’d just taken a flying leap himself, into a pile of deep shit.

He was torn. If he didn’t finish polishing his project, he would surely damn himself later. If someone found the girl, it would be very obvious where she fell from. If this, if that.

He continued to stare at her lying there below, and she hadn’t moved yet. No one came running, no one broke their daily routine. A windowless brick wall faced the hotel room, and his neighbors had their curtains closed. It was odd how the worst person in the world could be so fortunate sometimes.

Shrugging, he carefully began folding the tarps, trying to trap all of the blood inside of them. Some sort of wonder allowed him to package them into trash bags without spilling a drop on the carpets. So courteous he was, the maids should appreciate it.

He was still wearing that goddamned shower cap. It was pointless – he should have worn it from the beginning, to avoid dropping pieces of precious identifiable DNA. A bright blue bath accessory wasn’t much of a show though and it would have caused death by laughter on Ted’s part.
The only thing the cops could do with his DNA anyway was store it in a database for future use. The unknown little bits of matter didn’t scream, “Hey, I belong to Ian Warrick!” until they matched a known sample. That wasn’t in existence, yet.

Still, he whipped out the mini-vac he brought and went to town on the place, stripping every crevice of dust and germ. Probably dropping more of himself in the process. It was all too much, really.

It never was before. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he sighed. He crumpled the blue shower cap in his fist, and assured himself that his efforts were keeping him out of going to a place where he’d always have to keep a tight grip on the soap. Not the ideal retirement plan.

He avoided the security cameras by hiding his face and entering a different room. He avoided witnesses—

Oh shit, witnesses. He’d forgotten about the one that thought she could fly. Paranoia started to set in as he realized how absentminded he had been today, and it was quite unnerving.

Stuffing his scattered belongings back into the black leather luggage bag he had carried them in originally, he made way towards the adjacent room. Scouring Ted’s room once more with his eyes, he approved his leave.

“Alright, I’d say we’re done here. Buh-bye, Teddy,” He said.

His hand caught the door behind him, and he locked and sealed away Room 316.

As casually as he could, he stepped out again into the drab hotel hallway from 317, holding his luggage and his laptop. Being casual was always something to consider; acting suspicious was almost like walking straight into a jail cell, guilty as never before, and expecting not to get locked away.

Near the elevator there was a little outlet where the stairway exit met with the second floor. Inside it, there were several vending machines, and grasping this convenience, he bypassed his advance out of the building to pick up a quick snack. Hey, everyone had to eat, and his breakfast was currently getting mashed around in the container in his trench coat.

The selection the vending machine held wasn’t impressive, but it was something. Behind the glass, a small variety of snacks rested, each labeled with a number that would correspond with the keypad to the right of it. Digging out a few cents, hoping it would total to the needed $0.50, he remembered the number of his selection and tossed his coins in. To his greater distaste, the metal hook containing the snack snagged on the loose bag like it wanted to keep the chips. What greedy hunks of shoddy engineering these stupid machines were.

“Oh, what the fuck!” He cursed.

Ian proceeded shaking the machine that held his food violently. His extra change fell out of the change hole as he did so.

“Stupid piece of—” He yelled, pausing every few words as he continued shaking the machine, “Goddamned…good for nothing…bag of potato chips…!”

He had a mind to take out his gun and shoot it, but quickly tossed that thought as a hotel maid strolled by with her cart. All the frustrations of the day were being displaced onto this inanimate bastard that stole his chips.

“Sir! Don’t shake the machine, that’s dangerous! Here, let me get—“

Ian sent a forceful kick into the machine, followed by more violent shaking.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop!”

“Fine!” He yelled.

All went quiet except for Ian’s exasperated breathing as he gave the machine a death glare at one moment and the hotel maid a death glare the next. Silence, horrible silence filled the space they were in and Ian tried to calm himself. Then it happened. A small noise entered his ear as the machine let go of the chips. His eye twitched as he cursed inside his head and slowly turned around. Lifting the protective flap near the base of the machine, he reached in and pulled out his snack.

The maid broke the awkward silence and spoke, "Is...everything alright now?"

"Yeah." Ian mouthed.

The maid strolled away quite confused, and Ian was still frothing. He tore open the bag of potato chips somewhat greedily. The elevator was taking long, as usual, so he gave up and took the stairs. It was only two floors to walk down anyway.

The exit to the building was growing nearer as he dragged on. Security cameras bore their gaze upon him, but he didn’t worry. The important ones didn’t have his face.

His trademark grin crept across his face as he pushed the exit door and stepped out. It was over for today. His black Lexus was sitting in the shade under a tree near the edge of the parking lot. He could see where he sat in the restaurant through the window he had looked out of earlier.

The driver’s side window on his car was three-quarters of the way open, and a black cat poked its head out of it. That would be Eva, his only companion. He always admired cats; he admired their stealth and swiftness as well as their intelligence and beauty, with an added bonus: they were expert killers. Well, perhaps that was the main reason he liked them. They’d stalk their prey, toy with it for a while, and then kill it. No empathy, no remorse, no regret. He could relate to something for once.

He patted her on the head and lifted up on the door handle. He slid himself in, and Eva moved over to the passenger’s seat accordingly. Rescuing most of his breakfast from his trench coat, he put it in her food dish on the floor, so that she could eat it if she pleased. He stuck his keys in the ignition after searching for them in his coat, and put the car in reverse.

Hoping Charissa was still where she had fallen, he maneuvered the car around the back of the hotel. At first he couldn’t see her, and he thought she may have gotten help. She was a witness, and if he didn’t find her…

Suddenly he brought the car to a screeching halt. The tires touched her back gently, close to crushing her. Sighing, he opened the door and stepped out, unsheathing his knife again. He squatted down near her, and poked her with the handle. Nothing. She was either dead or out cold. He continued poking her, and soon a small grumble emitted from her throat.

“Ungh… help…someone…he’s…” She wheezed resignedly.

He leaned over until she could see his face. After she was fully conscious, he smiled and waved.

“Hey.”

Her eyes grew to about the size of half-dollars and she whimpered. He guessed she was still too out of it to scream, which was a good thing. Blood was trickling down her forehead, tracing her anguished face as it painted the pavement where she rested.

"Okay, get up." He said, looking down at her.

"My...my…leg…"

Ouch. Her leg was a bloody mess, limp, and pointed in an awkward direction.

"If you don't get up, I'll break your other one. Now get up."

Threats worked. Charissa made a struggling effort to lift herself, but in a wave of pain, she collapsed again. Ian kicked her in the ribs, and she squealed and crawled over to rest against the dumpster, her broken leg dangling painfully behind her.

"Sad." He taunted.

Carelessly he seized her forearm and pulled her upwards, and she screamed in agony as he did so, causing him to quickly push her against the dumpster and clasp her mouth shut with his hands. She was breathing heavily now, tears flowing out of her eyes again like small rivers as she strained to keep herself upright.

He sighed as he dropped her once more.

He kneeled before her and pushed her bloodied hair behind her ears as she tried to press herself as far as she could against the dumpster. She whimpered softly as her eyes met the maniacal glint of his. He watched her tears wet the blood on her cheeks and drip softly off of her chin as she trembled. He could feel her fear and he loved it.

Soon he had one of his hands over her mouth, again, and attempted to drag her with his arm under her shoulder. The task looked awkward, but there were no observers to take in this fact.

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Author Commentary

Hopefully everything adds up/makes sense. I need to know these things, so be as harsh as you dare in the reviews. Critiques are like veggies. They taste bad but they're good for you. K?