Chapter Text
Pooling red swished across the oak-decked floor. He needed a new mop, one that could absorb the liquid beneath him, but it was too late for that. Most department stores were already closed and what’s the likelihood of finding a good quality mop at a 7-11? So Bruce kept sweeping the floor, filling his mop with a carmine flush, knowing his other cleanings wouldn’t be as efficient in the future. He stopped after a while, letting his head rest wishfully atop the sturdy wooden mop that he had lying around his house. The distant shout of police sirens and drunken college students resumed the once noisy ambience of the apartment. Spilt wine and rosy iron filled Bruce’s head with nauseating affection. Having closed the windows and blinds, the suffocating lack of air only enriched the metallic scent. The only light that was allowed in the apartment was the slight off-white peeking under the crack of his front door.
—
It was like the sun was playing tricks on him. Fluttering brightly in his eyes, even as he twists and turns away from the naturally tinged strobe lights. The crusty analog clock was waving its minute hand, ticking by menacingly. Almost as if it was making fun of him for being late again. He should get up. Make sure his student debt was actually worth it, but his twisting and turning said otherwise. He hugged one of his many pillows while groaning in agonising disassociation. He didn't want to move. He just wanted to stay in his room for a couple more minutes. The light didn’t seem to get it though, as he reluctantly got up from his bed after 5 minutes.
“Jeez, you seem out of it today,” the playful nature barely hidden in his voice.
Bruce could feel the table shake at the arrival of his company. A bag thrown carelessly at the seat in front of him. Bruce grimaced repugnantly.
“Just thinking, Griff.” Bruce dragged his fatigued eyes to the boy in front of him, watching the bumbling mess play out. “You know, the cafe doesn’t seem like the best place to talk about this kind of stuff.”
“A busy place, in the morning, where there are mostly kids and adults eating breakfast? I think this is a pretty good place.”
Bruce drew his face in unbelieving contortion. Teasing concern deforming his look.
“Trust me Bruce,” Griffin leaned closer to Bruce, rendering his voice to a careless whisper, “We could be talking about smuggling cocaine up our asses and no one would care.”
Bruce nodded his head in meaningless distaste.
“What do you have for me anyway?” Griffin crossed his arms in a fiddle. The distant tapping of his foot dancing along the concrete floors.
Bruce felt around his clothes, a fake struggle to find something he knew he didn’t. “I can’t really answer that, Griff.”
Griffin chuckled a bit, covering his mouth and halting his tapping. “You’re kidding.”
Bruce tipped his head to the side. A weary grin which let the simple, yet barely audible, silence do the talking.
“Wait, wait, wait, you’re telling me you don’t have anything?” The blonde-haired boy's eyes were more than telling. “I have clients, Bruce! You know how they are.” Griffin’s eyes flaunted panic, weaponizing Bruce’s empathy for havoc.
“Griff. You’ll be alright. They trust you, don’t they?”
Griffin threw his hands to his face. Dragging out a belated sigh, “You know I hate you right?”
Bruce smiled softly, “Yeah, love you too.”
“Okay, fine. Tonight!” Griffin dropped his hands down to his hoodie pockets, “You better have something for me.” Griffin quickly pointed to Bruce, indicating some type of stern structure, before grabbing his backpack and sliding away to what probably wasn’t his next lecture. It left Bruce in the comfort of the cafe.
While the desolate company ate away at Bruce, he couldn't help the free feeling of his face was fleeting. A moment of distillation dropped his mood.
—
Bruce was being nice. Laughing at her jokes and playing along with her touchy tendencies. He never really knew why he didn’t find enjoyment in people. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand empathy, that was easy. He could understand why people were happy or sad, but humanity seemed more like a utility to him rather than something he could be fond of or vulnerable to. Bruce didn’t believe in fickle things like love. It was a chemical reaction that wasn’t going to last forever. That didn’t give into him having fun though. He knew what pleasure was and liked it. It took all the fun parts of love without the time or commitment.
“I didn’t take you as a romantic.” Her voice flirted around his apartment. Sly intentions barely hidden in her words. She eyed the lit candles and red roses at the centre of his rectangular dining table. Boasting an uncomfortable romantic dedication that Bruce couldn’t stand.
“What can I say?” With his back away from his date, Bruce grimaced at his comment. He plastered a forged interest in his voice that he knew she wouldn’t notice, “I’m a sucker for these kinds of things.”
Bruce caught her hand after placing her jacket on a hook in the wall. Leading her to the end of the table, where the array of red and white flower petals led.
“Do you do this with all your dates or just me?” Her expression was curious, slowly inching across the agonising line of seduction. As much as Bruce thought she was pretty, her attitude was getting on his nerves.
“What do you think?” Bruce took some red wine from a shelf in his living room. Casually bearing it to the table and pouring two glasses for his date and himself.
She made a hazy noise of wonder. Obviously asking for Bruce to answer instead. Listening to her words as if they would mean something at the end of the night. Bruce knew he was an ass, but she seemed to be enjoying herself.
“I think you’re special,” Bruce strolled around her seat, pulling out the chair in forged interest, “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
She sauntered over, taking her time as her steps littered the warm apartment with charisma and flair. She placed her hands on top of Bruce’s, ones that connected him to the chair. He smiled absently towards her, suppressing his obvious lack of care. She took a seat afterwards, acting in an elegant fashion.
"That’s sweet of you." Her heart-filled eyes radiated an unbelievable amount of affection. Trying to connect and reach the deepest part of Bruce’s heart.
Bruce shot out of the room before drowning himself in his unusual discomfort. He headed to the kitchen to find a site he could locate secureness in. Bruce let his hand grip the edge of the granite counters, sharp edges threatening to wound his delicately calloused hands. He eyed the stowed lamb within his oven, resting serenely in a rosemary and garlic musk. It came with a significant scent that crowded Bruce’s airways to the point of incapability.
Bruce hated playing a character. The fake charade of a caring personality seemed to be enough to gain a person. Sway them into stupid beings that you could hurt and play with. Of course, it had its benefits, considering it was how he made a living, but the truths it told of the human race were more gruelling than he could ever be.
He patted his cheeks with rosy reassurance. Letting a mask of forged idealism rip at his insides, mutilating him into the perfect source of affection.
He reached for two plates and let them sit against the harsh countertops. While grabbing a white cloth, he fixed his left hand on the oven handle, pulling down unnecessarily fast. By viewing the tepid browns and rosy spheres, he quickly took out the lamb chops and settled them on the off-white plates.
“I really hope you’re not vegetarian,” Bruce shouted from the safety of his kitchen. He held a spoon filled with beetroot puree and danced it around the rim of the plates. Garnishing with a few pieces of raw rosemary and a side of grilled asparagus.
“Shouldn’t you have asked me first?” The confinement of the apartment walls seemed to amplify her every word. The taunting nature and sick glare of lust disappointed Bruce.
He placed the white cloth on his forearm and began to bring the plates out to the dining area. Her eyes were drawn to him, hungry and desireful.
“I kind of just wished you were. And I mean, the way you’re looking at the food is telling me you aren’t vegan at all.”
“You know that’s not what I’m looking at.”
Bruce placed one of the plates in front of her. His eyes were watching her every move. He knew she was watching him like a piece of meat, so he thought he’d play into it.
He flaunted a feigned offence for her words. “You could’ve just told me if you came to fuck.”
She battered Bruce’s free arm with friskiness. “Wow, Bruce. Is that all you think of me?” Her laugh bounced off the stiff walls. She honestly could’ve been twirling her hair at this point.
Bruce shrugged before settling his plate down. He placed his hands on the top rail of the chair, leaning into it. He tilted his head in a way to ask her to answer the inquiry herself.
“How about you get me some more wine,” she grabbed the glass in front of her and shook it a little, indicating the small amount she had left, “And then we’ll see what happens next?”
Bruce nodded with a smile on his face.
He removed the white cloth from his forearm and started to stroll distantly around the table. Bruce was happy he had music playing. As much as it helped to develop an atmosphere, it really assisted him when he positioned himself behind his date. You couldn’t hear a single step, where someone had been and where they hadn't.
He slid his hands to each end of the cloth, creating a thick line of fabric. He wrapped his left hand with some of the remaining cloth, security present in his actions. Swiftly, he pulled it over her head, making sure it rested right in between her shoulders and her skull. She kicked and twitched rapidly as soon as she felt the pressure, trying to hit and detach Bruce away from her as abruptly as she could. The table shook and splattered all of what wasn’t consumed, leaving an inky red mess upon the tables and quickly littering the oak wood floors. He liked the way he could feel her airways losing at each breath, the beating of her racing heart with no purpose at all. He tightened his grip on the cloth, proceeding to pull harder. Her head fell slack against his arm and he let go briefly after, stepping away from her lifeless body.
He turned the chair around, lifting the hair that covered her ears. A delicate hand took away the jewelled elegance that decorated her and proceeded to place it on the dining table. He strolled gently to her jacket and pocketed a small purse. He clutched a phone in the same beat, promptly turning its system off.
He walked back to the body and passed it vaguely before getting his own phone. He scanned the subtle discolouration around her neck, her limbs inanimate and splayed like a messed-up doll. Bruce got closer, deciding to clutch her by the arms and dragged her into his kitchen.
Thud.
He dropped the body against the wood grain, leaving it face up. Drawing his sleeves up, he mildly moved to the main counter. Blue gloves were found in an array of eggshell white draws while a knife was placidly waiting by the stove, hiding in a brown sheath.
He kneeled beside the body, holding the knife close to him before making an incision against her core. Ripping open the ravine of her torso. Tracing his eyes around the organs, begging to spill out of her stomach. He tore his phone away from his pocket, dialling the top number on his favourites list.
“Hey!” The crash was sudden and so very clear. Griffin shuffled impenitently against what seemed to be his bed?
“Who’d you kill this time?” Bruce could feel the faint chuckles Griffin threw over the phone, acting as if he was the funniest person in existence.
“Ha-ha, very funny.” Bruce held the phone to his shoulder while touching the internals with tender care.
“Hey, you can’t blame me for being just a little curious as to how you find this stuff.” Bruce could visualise Griffin putting his hands in the air, a victim to Bruce's mysterious means.
“I have skills, Griff.” Bruce pushed aside an intestine to get a quick peek at the kidneys. “Well, I do have some good news if you want to hear it.”
“Yeah? Please tell me it’s something expensive.” Griffin’s whine was blowing up Bruce’s ear drums.
“Uh, not too sure. They look expensive.” Bruce stopped to turn his head towards the dining table, “They are purple and… shiny.”
“Okay,” Griffin took a beat, “Well, that’s good to hear.”
“There’s probably some rings and other stuff. I’ll check later.” Bruce brought his head back to the situation in front of him and started carving along the edges of the liver, situating a delicate hand under to support it.
“Alright. I’ll meet you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
The line became a lonesome tone.