3

                                    

                                          
Back Alleyway
                          
    Cynthia smiles as the man on the ground writhes in pain and in death. His hands, slick with blood, tries to pull the pipe out of his stomach. Crimson liquid pours from his mouth. His eyes begin to glaze.
                          
    Cynthia peers over his dying body and her smile widens. He looks up at her in shock, and then, he goes limp. The drunken flush fades from his cheeks and his labored breaths come to a stuttering stop.
                          
    The smell of copper wafts into Cynthia's nose and her eyes flutter closed. The smell is refreshing to her, but she knows she can't stay long— someone had to have heard his scream. With that thought, Cynthia scowls. All of the Hollywood murderers on screen always say that the ones who scream are the best. In reality, they're not. Or, Cynthia thinks so.  
                          
    The ones who scream are loud, obnoxious, annoying, and most importantly, they alert the civilians around them.
                          
    Cynthia casts one last glance at her latest score and turns away, walking deeper into the system of the brick maze.
                          
Apartment Building
                          
    Cynthia knows the alleyways of New York City like back of her hand. To someone who is lost, their journey through the maze could take hours, but Cynthia? No, it takes her a maximum of thirty minutes. Tonight, her paranoia causes her to show up at the back door of her apartment building ten minutes after she left the crime scene. 
                          
    She pays the camera no mind and slips in side. Cynthia, with an air of nonchalance, saunters up the stairs with a small smile. Is she worried about the blood that has soaked her shirt? No, that's the perks of wearing a black turtleneck sweater— you can't see a thing. And her bloody gloves? She burned them on her way back home. 
                          
    Cynthia is extremely keen and careful when she carries out a murder. She never uses the same method of killing. She never does it in the exact same area. She leaves the body where it passes and  she leaves the scene promptly, getting rid of evidence on her way back to the apartment building.
                          
    And who would even suspect a florist, of all people? 
                          
    She makes it to the fifth floor and quietly walks inside. 
                          
    Her apartment is dark, the only light is the light of the computer. She sneaks past the office and changes, throwing her turtleneck and everything else into the washing machine. Cynthia takes a wet washcloth and swipes it over her body to rid the smell of pennies. She throws on a bit of deodorant and finally breathes.
                          
    Cynthia softly pads back into the office and gazes at the sleeping figure hunched over the keyboard of the computer. Soft snores fill the air and Cynthia's heart expands. 
                          
    She walks up to the figure and places a freckled hand on their back. Rubbing their back gently, she peers down at their sleeping face.
                          
    "Dawson," Cynthia whispers. "Come on, let's go to bed."
                          
    "Huh?" He groggily grunts.
                          
    Cynthia laughs at his appearance.
                          
    Dawson's chocolate brown hair sticks up on one side and his wire glasses sit on his face askew. Drool drips down his cheek and his shirt is wrinkled and creased.
                          
    "Haha! You're a sight to see," She chuckles, setting his glasses straight.
                          
    Dawson sits up and looks at the computer screen.
                          
    "What time is it?" He rasps.
                          
    "Just after midnight, dearest," Cynthia hoists him up by his under arms to get him up.
                          
    He wobbles but catches his balance and towers over Cynthia. He gazes down at her, his cognac eyes bloodshot from staring at a screen all day. Dawson lazily wraps his arms around Cynthia and sets his head on top of her mane of hair.
                          
    "I love you," He mumbles into her hair.
                          
    Cynthia wraps her arms around his waist and presses her face into his warm chest.
                          
    "I love you, too," She sighs. "but it's way past your bed time, babe. Follow me."
                          
    Dawson stumbles after Cynthia to the master bedroom where he collapses on to the bed and falls back asleep. She purses her lips and begins to undress him. His dead weight makes him hard to lift but, eventually, Dawson is left in his boxers, sprawled against the bed.
                          
    Cynthia gets beneath the covers and carefully removes Dawson's glasses. She sets them on the nightstand to her right and looks back at Dawson's sleeping face. Her eyes quickly adjust to the dark and the light spray of freckles across his nose sparkle like stars. His sun kissed skin cannot rival that of Cynthia's, though. Cynthia is covered in freckles, as well as her face. . . But halfway down her nose and across the tips of her cheeks, the freckles stop, creating a border of brown dots across her pale skin.
                          
    A yawn tremors through Cynthia's body and she curls up to Dawson's side, closing her eyes.
                          
    Her body aches— it takes a lot of energy to thrust a nine foot pole through a man's body. That and trying to undress her beefy boyfriend plus a day full of wrapping flowers and waving goodbye? Count Cynthia as exhausted.
                          
    Rain begins to fall through the air, pelting the window of Cynthia's apartment. It drums on the ceiling of the NYCPD, stirring Takashi from a small cat nap. The phone rings as he does. The rain batters the unknown man's dead body, washing gallons of blood down the drains.
                          
New York City Police Department 
                          
    Takashi glances at the phone and debates whether or not he wants to answer it. Why wouldn't he answer? Well, he already had a feeling about what the caller is going to report. . . another murder.
                          
    He quickly readies another file to fill and picks up the phone.
                          
    "911, what's your emergency?" He answers, pushing all of the grogginess out of his voice.
                          
    "There's a dead body outside of my window," the caller whispers. "I heard a scream a few minutes ago and when I look outside, there's a man lying on the ground."
                          
    "Could you please explain why you think he's dead? Can see see blood or a murder weapon?" Takashi asks, typing away their account.
                          
    "The rain is washing away something red, so I'd imagine that's blood. . . I see something coming out of his stomach."
                          
    "Do you know what it is?"
                          
    "Ah," The sound of the blinds closing comes muffled from the other sound of the lines. "the rain is coming down too hard, I can't see anything else."
                          
    "Okay, thank you for trying. We're sending an investigation team to check it out, please remain indoors incase the killer is still in the area."
                          
    "Alright. . . have a nice night, sir," They say.
                          
   "You too," He says, a little awkwardly.
                          
    The line goes dead and Takashi sets the phone down. He rubs his face and groans.
                          
    "Chief!" He yells down the hall. "You're not gonna like this!"