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Conner didn’t particularly like the night shift.
The good thing about working so late was how dead everything was. Aside from the occasional drunk, or someone popping in for a bag of chips and to use the toilet, it was a ghost town.
But some nights, like tonight, that peace felt more like boredom. So, Conner passed the time on his phone. He knew the old camera hanging over him was broken-and besides, what was he supposed to do instead? Stare at the dingy walls for hours?
He was so focused on scrolling through Twitter that if it wasn’t for the bell hung above the door, he never would’ve noticed his new customer walking in.
Conner’s head jerked to attention, and his eyes widened in mild surprise.
The man was huge, so big he had to duck to get inside the station. His clothes were tattered and old. The hoodie had a half-dozen stitches and patches holding it together, and stains from god knows what. The jeans were ripped at the knees and cuffs, and the soles of his boots were caked in a thick layer of clay. He couldn’t get a look at the man’s face, due to his hood being up and his head being low.
Probably homeless, Conner thought to himself as the man tugged his slightly-too-small hoodie down, trying to hide the inch of skin between the end of his hoodie and the waist of his pants.
Conner craned his neck slightly, leaning forward on his elbows as the man turned around, scanning the many protein bars on the shelves. He always got nervous when rough-looking people came in. He’d never been robbed, sure. But there was a first time for everything.
He could see the man’s hand lift one of the bars up, holding it closer to his face-and his stomach churned with disgust. The man’s hand and arm was a horrible mosaic of purple, red, and white. The skin looked so unnatural, puckered and sunk in all the wrong places. It was shiny too, and almost had a melted wax quality to it.
He looked away quickly. He was used to people coming in with scars or bruises-but this guy looked like he’d stuck the whole limb in a trash fire. He didn’t want to stare at it for any longer than he had to. Conner never had the strongest stomach. Something about deep scars or stitches always repulsed him. Maybe it was an empathetic thing-or maybe it was the mental image of what would cause such an injury.
Conner glanced back at the man as he moved deeper into the store. Now Conner could see those same burns continued on the man’s hips and stomach as his hoodie once again rode up. His knees were pink in color-probably not as bad as the rest of him, but still burnt. Conner had to look away to avoid puking. He was getting sympathy pains just looking at the man. Part of him wanted to call out, ask if he needed something from the first aid kit behind the counter, but as he looked back, it seemed the man was already picking out a bottle of ibuprofen himself.
It probably wasn’t strong enough to help the pain he was most likely in, but it was probably better than nothing. The man moved only with a little stiffness as he approached the counter. His two heavily scarred hands dropped their contents on the counter.
Four chocolate and peanut butter protein bars, a bottle of pain medicine, bug spray, and a chocolate bar.
Conner’s eyes moved upwards, curious to see the face of his customer, only to find it hidden behind a thick layer of gauze. The man worse sunglasses, tinted black so he couldn’t even make out his eye color.
Now that the man was close, Conner could hear him. The man’s breathing was rough and loud. It was probably thanks to the AC that Conner hadn’t heard it sooner. The man would inhale shakily, then exhale with that same unhealthy, raspy quality. It was the sound Conner would expect to hear from a dying man strapped to a oxogen tube to make. Like he could barely breathe at all.
“Uh. 12.48.” Conner said, absentmindedly glancing at the number glowing green on the screen.
“I. Is f...fifty. Ok.”
Conner blinked at the sound of the man’s voice. It wasn’t what he’d expected from such a big guy. His voice was barely more than a whisper, horse and rough. The words weren’t exactly stuttered-more like the man’s voice gave out randomly, or stalled and needed a second to recover.
“Sure.” Conner said, and the man pulled a fifty out of the pocket of his stained hoodie and placed it on the counter.
Conner picked it up, silently thankful he wouldn’t have to touch the man’s skin. He got goosebumps just thinking of how those scars must feel. He placed the bill in the register, quickly doing some mental math as he got the man his change.
Conner pushed back his baseball cap slightly to itch at his scalp as he grabbed a twenty, causing one lock of bright orange hair to fall down his cheek. Conner sighed. His boss had strict rules about hair length, but said he was willing to let Conner keep his long as long as it was kept back. No way was Conner wearing a ponytail, so thankfully, his boss approved of the baseball cap. He placed the change he was handling out of reach (just in case the man tried to grab it) and pulled off the cap completely.
With a little combing and a quick “sorry gotta fix this,” Conner’s hair was back to being hidden under the cap. He quickly grabbed the last coins, then laid them on the counter in front of his customer.
The man didn’t move to grab them. Conner tilted his head back to look up at him.
His posture had completely changed. Instead of being hunched over, as if trying to appear smaller, the man’s back was straight, showing Conner just how big he was. Guy must’ve been almost seven feet tall- fuck, maybe exactly seven feet tall. His build wasn’t slim like most of the drifters Conner saw. He had wide shoulders and large arms like a weightlifter. Guy looked like he could break Conner’s spine by stepping on him. The wheezing was worse now, each breath sounding painful.
“Red.” The man said in that same awful whisper-though this time, there was a rough growl underneath the word. A hint of disgust or hate Conner could hear for only a split second.
“Uh. Ok.” Conner said, trying to sound calm. He didn’t know what had pissed the guy off so fast, so he just focused on getting the man out as fast as possible before he got worse. Without asking ‘paper or plastic,’ Conner quickly tossed everything in a plastic bag, then gingerly sat it on the edge of the counter near the tall man.
Again, no movement. Despite not being able to see his eyes, Conner could feel them boring into his soul. His discomfort was quickly turning into fear. Should he tell the man to get out? Call someone? There was an empty gun under the counter, but if the man called his bluff it’d most certainly end badly.
Then the man’s hand shot out, making Conner jump slightly as he grabbed the bag. He turned, pushing open the door. The bell rang, and the stranger waked into the night.
Conner let out a low, shaky sigh of relief as the man left. Once he could no longer see him, Conner once again pulled out his phone, his fear immediately forgotten.
The remaining three hours of his shift went by quickly, and after a hasty mopping and wipe-down of the counters, Conner closed the store.
He tested the door to make sure it was properly locked, and started walking home. The night always made him a little nervous, but he pushed that feeling down. He’d done this plenty of times, and his apartment was just a few blocks away.
His self-soothing was cut short when a familiar large figure exited the alley, barely illuminated by a streetlamp a few feet from him. Conner stopped immediately, freezing as if he believed if he didn’t move, the man wouldn’t see him.
The man’s movement was slow and deliberate, drawing closer to Conner and the streetlight. Once he was standing directly under the harsh light, the man’s hands raised to his hood, and pulled it down.
Conner could now see why the man had bandaged his face. He looked gut-wrenchingly horrible. Whatever accident he was in, his face took the most damage. The entire thing was twisted and melted, less like skin and more like piles of wax drippings. Almost all of man’s cheeks were gone, maybe burnt off in whatever fire had caused the rest of the damage, maybe removed surgically when there was too little to save. The man’s teeth could clearly be seen through his cheeks. He looks like he’s smiling at me, Conner thought dumbly.
His nose was almost totally gone, leaving two pits in his face. His eyes were sunken in, the whites starkly contrasting a sea of scars. Only a few tufts of sandy blond hair remained on his burnt scalp, swaying slightly in the night breeze.
Conner couldn’t hide his disgust. It was like one of those gross medical photos people circulated online. Raw and still painful-looking, despite it clearly being healed.
The man must’ve seen his revulsion, because his eyes narrowed in anger. That large, mottled hand reached into the pocket of his hoodie, and pulled out a hunting knife, the silver blade gleaming in the light.
Conner didn’t think twice. He turned, running down the street like his heels were on fire. He’d never been so terrified in all his life. His heart slammed against his rib cage with every step, his lungs burned, and his mind was just a frantic scream. He couldn’t register where he was or where he was headed, just that he needed to get away, fast.
He could hear the man right behind him, that croaky breathing almost right in his ear. Despite his size, the man was easily keeping up with Conner. So Conner wasn’t all that surprised when that waxy hand wrapped around his throat, yanking him back. Nails dug into his skin as he struggled against the iron grip. His screams for help were weak, barely audible due to his body still gasping for air.
Conner had never been more sure in all his life that he was about to die. He could feel in his bones that he wasn’t escaping this.
Conner was lifted with ease (how strong was this man?) and he kicked and flailed, still struggling despite knowing what had to be coming. Then he was flying. Conner could barely process what was happening before the side of his skull met the concrete.
His mind exploded with pain as he struggled to move. He could feel something warm running down his cheek-blood, maybe? Or did he land in something wet?
The man’s hands were back on him, and through the ringing in his ears, Conner could hear raspy giggling.
He was rolled into his back, and despite how blurry his vision was, either from involuntary tears or the possible brain injury he’d just gotten, he could see stars in the sky.
Then there was a new pain, white-hot and sharp as the knife plunged into his stomach. He didn’t even get a chance to scream before it was yanked out and driven in again. He could feel the heat of his own blood against his skin as it soaked his shirt. The laughter was louder, and bit by bit, the pain faded along with his vision.
The last thing Conner felt was cold. Then there was nothing.
The man’s body was a mess by the time Jeff was done. His blood covered Jeff’s hands all the way up to his elbows, but due to his heavy scars, he could barely feel it. He rose to his feet, stepping back to admire his work. Even though the man had been eviscerated, there was still a flare or rage when he caught sight of the man’s too familiar orange hair.
Even after all those years, Jeff could still hear Randy’s laughter in the back of his mind.
But the man was dead now, and he’d get nothing from continuing to mutilate him. Jeff pulled up his hood, quickly making his way out of the alley. Despite being in this town for only a few weeks, he’d gotten used to the layout. He knew which streets out of town wouldn’t have lights.
Now that the rage was gone, Jeff could feel the itch of his scars flaring up once more. He absentmindedly scratched at his upper arm, despite knowing logically it wouldn’t help. The itch was under his skin, down under the scars, coming from nerve endings trying and failing to repair.
He was almost to the forest when he heard a far-off woman’s laugh. Curious, his head turned to the direction.
In the backyard of one of the tiny apartment houses were a group of three women, sitting around a fire and roasting marshmallows. It looked to him like they were having fun.
Jeff watched with mild interest. Perhaps they’d leave their firewood out, or had a bag of charcoal that he could steal later. As he serched for these things, one of the women leaned closer to the fire.
His breath cought in his chest as the light revealed her necklace, dangling almost too close to the flames. A silver, heart-shaped locket. In his mind’s eye, Jeff could see another locket in the exact same shape-one his mother wore. The one she’d twisted around her finger when she nervously asked his father if he thought Jeff could ever have a normal life again.
The rage was back, burning brighter than ever.
Jeff’s snarl of a smile widened as he saw just how easy it’d be to watch her, thanks to every curtain in her house being drawn. He could wait until her friends left, when it’d just be the two of them alone. It’d be so easy one to break one of those windows with a good-sized rock. But...she was rather close to the other houses.
That wasn’t a big problem, though. Her neck was so thin he could strangle her to death with just one hand.
All he had to do was wait for the perfect opportunity.