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The woman falls to the ground before my eyes, little chubby hands extending toward her. My hands. My mother. Dead on the floor. Her body like a spider's, arms and legs fanned out on the wood, broken, dead.
I want to scream but I can't. I can't even breathe. It takes all my effort to slowly pick myself up, hands shaking as I grab for the towel on the rack next to the tub. I cover myself up and tiptoe around the unmoving spider. I head to the kitchen, my heart still pounding with inexplicable fear as I collect a glass from the kitchen cabinet. I head back to the bathroom. The black dot is still on the ground, and I quickly place the glass over it. Despite my fear of spiders, I can't bring myself to hurt it. It's innocent. It doesn't deserve to die.
I walk out backwards, with my front facing the monster on the ground, locking the bathroom door from the outside before I finally breathe out in relief. The memories that assaulted my mind when I saw the thing seem unbelievable now, but something rings true deep within me every time I remember the scene.
Crawling into bed with my cats, I yawn and pull the covers close. Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson cuddle up next to me and I pull the covers over us. But somehow, it's even scarier beneath them.
After tossing and turning all night, I wake up to the sound of my blaring alarm clock yet again.
Groaning, I get free of the covers and let out an involuntary shiver when I remember what happened yesterday. First, Andrew Martin... and then the spider in my bathroom.
Goosebumps erupt all over my skin and I force myself to use the bathroom door. I try to unlock it, but it's not locked anymore. Furrowing my brows, I walk into the tiled space.
The glass is gone.
There's nothing on the tile anymore.
I want to cry. I swallow back a scream and run into the kitchen, throwing open the cupboard. I try to think rationally, telling myself I have six of those glasses. I just need to count them to make sure everything's okay. I count out loud, painfully slowly, my fingers tracing the shapes of each glass.
"One, two, three. Four, five... Six."
All the glasses are there. Did I imagine the spider last night?
I dig through the muggy mess in my mind. Am I losing it? Why can't I remember things properly?
I tell myself I must've been very tired last night, and that's why I'm mixing things up. The spider was like something out of a nightmare. It's totally possible I imagined it when I was lying in bed, so tired after my shift... right?
Swallowing, I force myself to close the kitchen cupboard. I get ready for work robotically, pulling on clothes, brushing my hair, swiping mascara on my lashes. I tell myself it's nothing.
As I drive to work, I still feel it.
The nagging feeling of being watched, being followed.
I don't know if it's ever going to go away now.7JasperI stare at the spider —a small thing with hairy legs and an ugly fucking face.
And yet, it put my little Petal into a complete panic mode.
“What’s your story, boy?” I narrow my eyes on him. “Who gave you the right to mess with her head?”
Only I have the right to do that, and I didn’t even start yet.
At least, not officially.
I know she senses me, with the small looks she throws around her, but she always brushes it off.
I throw the spider out of the balcony. For fuck’s sake, I’m starting to speak to animals like the cat lady herself.
She’s at work now, and I didn’t follow her because I have a meeting with one of Costa’s old workers, someone who can recognize the Costa heir’s whereabouts.
Still, I sit at my balcony and stuff a cigarette between my lips, watching her living room. The two cats are lazing around by the closed door, waiting for her to return.
Considering she was the last one with Dr. Asshole, the police must’ve visited her, asked her questions, but the camera gave her an alibi. She left before I ‘robbed’ him.
She should be safe.
Not that her safety matters, but I still have unfinished business with my little Petal and the police don’t get to have their noses in my fucking fun.
My phone vibrates on the table. Lucio. I take a long drag of my cigarette before I answer.
“The fuck, Jasper?” The bellow of his voice in my ear nearly deafens me, and I have to hold the phone away for a second.
“Good day to you, too, Lucio.”
“Cut the crap. I have a report about a dead doctor with a fatal wound to the neck. This has your fingerprints all over it.”
“I’m too pro to leave fingerprints.”
“You know what I mean.” Something slams on a harsh surface on his end —probably his hand against the desk. “That’s your MO and anyone who met you knows it.”
