~Hawkins~

Let the story begin...

~Hawkins~

I am going to die...this I'm sure. The only reason I'm not is because my ticker still drums pathetically in my chest. But even it can only beat for so long. I swallow the boulder in my throat like I am greedy, and face my oncoming doom.

Fifteen years I spent in Little Central, and this has to be the first time I've done something so heartless, that mom will end my life the instant I step foot inside. To be fair, I don't have to go home. I can take off to one of my hiding spots in town and wait till things blew over-even if it takes years-then come back and plead with mom to forgive me. But I doubt it'll work. Knowing her, she'll find and drag me back screaming. Mom is that type of woman.

But it's so much fun, and I'm not sorry I've done it. I should've controlled myself, I should've walked straight home instead of taking a bat to Mr. Crow's cerulean Porsche. The crunch and clatter of glass as the windows shatter to millions of pieces still rings clear in my head, and I can't help but wear a devious smile. Or how about when I slashed his tires with the army knife from Sloan in chemistry earlier? I don't think Sloan knows his trusty knife's missing, but given that it's involved in school vandalism, he'll know soon enough.

Then I'm dead. Really dead.

Sloan Johnson's a burly blonde sixteen year old towering six feet. He's one of the strongest son of a gun's I know, and rumor has it he actually thinks I'm cool. I can say goodbye to my newfound coolness when he hears of this...

"We gonna stand here all evening?"

My heart jumps. I turn to glare at the lanky boy beside me, I'd almost forgotten he is here. Stormy grey eyes watch my every move like a hawk, then like always, I look away. There is just something about the way Travis looks at me that makes my stomach tie in knots. It won't have done it if I hadn't the hots for him...but I do. And he'll never know. I value our friendship way too much to let feelings screw it up, add to the fact that HE is MY ONLY friend. No, Travis Taker can never know.

"No," I bite my lip, "I just...gotta figure out what to say." My words sound so pathetic, I don't think there's anything I can say to defend myself. I am royally screwed.
He snickers. "Oh yeah! I can imagine that conversation!" He grabs his chest, "oh mom, I'm so sorry. I just, I blacked out and when I came too, the damage was done! I didn't mean to, forgive me!" He is mocking me and I don't like it.

"Shut up!" My cheeks sting, it feels like someone just slapped me. I turn from him with a huff, trying to calm my embarrassment and frazzled nerves. Taker's words are affecting me more than he knows, that is exactly how I am planning to fool my mother. But it won't work.
"Okay, okay. Sorry." He whispers in my ear, his breath warm, inviting. I shiver, but not from the cold, and I swallow hard. Is this normal? My brother whisper secrets to me all the time, but not once has it made my heart thump this frantic. It is so hard I can hear it in my ear, and my breathing is coming in short, harsh pants. What's wrong with me? This...this is some kind of sickness. Yes, I'm sick. That's it. Sick. I just need to get in bed and sleep. I'll feel better by morning.

He moves away fast, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Go face your doom A, just wait till Hades finds out. His punishment's gonna be worse."

My mood dampens. I shrivel like a prune, and let out a pitiful sigh. "Don't remind me." The words slip through with ease.

"Speaking of, where is he? I expected him to storm out the apartment and kill me for hanging with you."

"He's in New York for a week."
"What for?"

I shrug. "He left yesterday, mom's all hush hush 'bout it." It's true. My seventeen year old brother hurriedly packed a suitcase yesterday and took off, though not before planting a kiss on my forehead. He expects me to stay away from Travis( something I'm not doing now) and left without another word. He usually tells me everything, so you understand my confusion. Mom too, wont say a word, just that he is going to the big apple for a week or two. They tell me nothing, it is as if I am a stranger in my own house. For the first time in my life I've been left out. And I hate it!

"That's weird."

"Tell me something I don't know. I'll see you around, 'kay? If I survive." Travis waves and leaves, his footsteps echoing as he walks down the hall. I wait until he turns to the stairway and disappears, and face the door.
Bile smears my throat; my nerves pulsate with terror.

"Mom? You here?" My stomach coils tight with dread, the door purrs shut behind me. Using a gracefulness I know I don't own, I weasel into the apartment with the grace of a Siamese cat.

Absolute Silence. No sign of mom's bell-like voice vibrates in the walls-she isn't here. Only the tattered, forgotten artwork we call couch sits in the center of our minuscule living room, ugly. Fur-long and white sticks from the jagged holes in the blackened cushioning. Soot and burns lick the legs in an intimate embrace. Mom says it gives it character, I proclaim it junk.

"I'm home!"

Mom isn't here. Perhaps it's a good thing. The disaster at school and the fright running rampant in my belly dissipates in the blink of an eye.

I wilt with relief.

Fantastic! A crafty snicker creeps on my lips as the revelation of my freedom sinks in. Excitement sparks deep in my stomach-I zip across the room-and halt as I near the kitchen.

Cramped, the space sports the evidence of the disaster that burned bright yesterday, and the excitement that sparks in my belly waxes cold with guilt.

Two counters stand on the wall-charred and covered in soot. Black splays the teal surface, and a space that belongs to a stove and their brother hovers between them.

I won't say a thing to defend myself.

Dull, soot covered cabinets fall from the ceiling, and a microwave sits a top one counter in a blackened mess.
No wonder mom is mad. I suppose I owe her an apology. If I didn't try to make supper, we'd still have a good looking microwave.

"What...what have I done?" My voice cracks. I sound broken. Water floods my eyes, but I sniff hard, refusing to let them fall.

Mustering the will to move, I scamper to the bedroom. If I stand there any longer, I'll tear up and bawl my eyes out. Mom will return home and find me hugging the counter, apologizing for what I took yesterday before dissolving in a fit of giggles.

I don't think I can stand the embarrassment.

The yellow, flaky wall of the bedroom meets me head on, and I shut the door with a soft click. Now that my mother isn't here (and my guilt has subsided), I creep to the bed and make short work of pulling it away from the wall. It is time to partake in the strange hobby I developed for the past few months: Todd watching.
Under normal circumstances I'll never classify myself as a stalker, but I know there is something odd about the man living next door. It isn't something I deduced overnight, and this bizarre hobby isn't an obsession either. It is merely a healthy dose of curiosity about the man known to the world as Mr. Leonardo Todd.

For months I monitored the strange man, so I know his every move like the back of my hand. I can even do it with my eyes glued shut.
Spying on a man twice my age isn't something I'm ashamed of, but I make sure to keep all my actions hush-hush. I have to be safe. I'm not sure what I'll do if Mr. Todd gets wind of me tracking his actions like a psychotic ex-girlfriend. The information I hoard from watching him for so long is enough to make a small itinerary-something the cops will salivate for like starving wolves.

Morning

Mr. Todd staggers in his apartment every morning at six. I have no concrete evidence of where he works, but from the early hour, and the black bags drooping from his eyes to his jaw, I conclude that his choice of employment is unstable. Sometimes though, a thin sheen of sweat glistens like beads on his brow, and a crimson liquid mottles and stains his clothes. The red tint, and the meaning behind it is not lost on me; I see it plastered on walls and merged in pavements borderline the slums of South Ave. It is blood, and it isn't Todd's. But who? The theory he butchers people in cold blood crosses my mind, but I'm not sure. The first time he tripped in his apartment sweaty, bloody, and tired must've been coincidence. But five times in seven days? That is suspicious and anything but normal. It is the first clue I garner on the mysterious man, and it makes him an instant danger. It is the sole reason I vow to pay close attention to him; he has become my #1 priority.

Bedtime

Mr. Todd vanishes down a narrow hallway sprouting from the kitchen, I bet it leads to his bedroom. His apartment stands similar to mine, the only different the small balcony overlooking the small city. Sr. Albert croaked three months ago and left the place vacant and stinking of moth balls, and Mr. Todd licked it up. He secured the second apartment on floor three faster than anyone could've opened their mouths.

Night

A prominent knock hits his door sometime between 8 PM to midnight. If I am careful I'll hear the man's sluggish voice vibrate from his bedroom to the living room, and he'll demand to know who has the balls to visit him at such an hour. At first, I've not seen anything wrong with that picture. My blood boils and bubbles when people disturb my house at night, but that isn't the strange part. No, the strange thing is, there is no answer. It is almost as if a wicked ghost is playing a horrible, horrible trick on the man. Mr. Todd slams the door as he stalks out his bedroom and down the hall, and he'll pause as he reaches the unpainted door to his abode. His hand strays to the end table nestling against the wall-I never catch a good glimpse of what lies there in wait--then he'll yank his hand away as if a fierce flame scorches him. A few, painstaking seconds ticks by before man forces the door open, only to show a busty haired woman striking a seductive pose. Dressed in cheap gaudy clothes, she'll ogle the man as if he is a rare piece of prime stake.

Most times I gag.

But, Mr. Todd is always nice. He'll thaw from his statue like state and near the woman, run his long, pale fingers down her face and over her pouted, crimson lips before leading her into the house...and to her doom. I'm not sure, but I can feel it in my bones. It is intuition, and powerful one. It is the same feeling I get when trouble comes my way, it isn't something I can hide, or dismiss. Of the twenty-five women that entered Mr. Todd's apartment for the past ninety days, not one of them has escaped with her life.
Maybe there's a hidden entrance in his room that somehow gives these women freedom, but I have no other explanation behind their disappearance other than my working theory: he murders them.

What other theory is there? Mr. Todd is a hit man for the mob. He has to be, how else can he kill so many chicks near other innocent, poor people and walk away free? The man has connections, people to keep the spotlight from him while he soils his hands, and powerful ones. It is the perfect, unstable, unpredictable job for a solitary , unstable man. It suits him well.

Minutes to Midnight

Mr. Todd strolls the hall in a pristine, tailored suit, and stops by the kitchen for five minutes. He makes a pot of strong, putrid smelling coffee and spends fifteen minutes on his stool downing the entire pot before locking the door on his way out. I never see him until it nears six in the morning, and depending on the day of the week, the blood of someone once alive once again smears his perfect clothes. I never catch a glimpse of his face, but I imagine the results pleased the strange man. it just strikes me as something he enjoys. He is peculiar.
That is why I never bother him. I don't have the balls. I am careful to stay out the mercenary's way if I get wind of him nearby, and it has all paid off so far. The day I am forced to spend time in his company is the day the beginning of the end of my life begins.

"Thank goodness for that. I don't think I can keep a poker face 'round that guy." With the cool, cream carpet holding my weight steady, I steal a peek behind me and zoom in on the door. The faded, chocolate wood basks in the dim gold light coming from a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling by several pieces of bright, pink yarn. Mom, at the time didn't have the audacity to go to the store and buy rope. Perhaps she didn't feel like walking the street alone, or her purse might've been empty, but instead of buying it she rummaged through the dresser until she discovered the perfect solution to her problem: yarn. Luckily, Hades and I don't care what she does. The yarn actually adds a tad bit of character to this dull, cheap room-not that anyone besides Hades, mom and I will ever lay eyes on it to judge. That will happen over my cold, dead body. It is one of the reasons I have no friends. I don't want to have anyone over at my place, teenagers these days will laugh at the sight of my poor, poor, living space. The cold, less homey feel of prison cells hasn't called for Aressa-Lane Sierra Hawkins just yet, and neither has shame.

The gold rays of the bulb sparkle like glitter the longer I stare, and I tear my gaze from it. It is almost as if it is a King Cobra trying to hypnotize me before it strikes to kill. Having something as preposterous as a light snare me goes to show of listless and dull my life is. I should be parading the small town with other girls my age shopping, hitting on cute boys, doing anything but sitting in my apartment waiting for my killer neighbor to appear. Mr. Todd is the unhealthy, unwarranted highlight of my teenage life, and I can't despise him for it.
Silent like a cat, I drop to the floor and pry open the small flap nestled at the bottom of the putrid, yellow wall. I found it by accident three months ago, and it is how I've been spying on Mr. Todd.

"Let's see what the killer's up to today."

The white and black checkered recliner pushed to the farthest corner of the room is the first thing that meets me. It sits still next to a large sofa-something Mr. Todd has yet to use, and the large couch snuggles against the foreboding window that gives a clear, concise view of the parking lot. I know this because the same lone window sits motionless inside my apartment, shattered. Mom had to patch the fist-sized, jagged hole in the center with bits and pieces of old sheets we no longer used to shield the result of an Ares tantrum three days ago.

The secret window into the man's abode sits at the furthermost wall in his apartment somewhat hidden by the recliner, and doesn't stand out for him to notice me. If I find a way into his apartment in the near future, I'll have to find another way to...increase my methods of prying on him. He is too captivating and usual to let go just yet.

The bright, white rays of Mr. Todd's expensive lights shines in his living room, but I am used to it. Having the hurtful blare prickle my eyes night after night for three months is enough to make me immune to the pain. The apartment is silent, not a peep or badger of sound rings out. It is so quiet that my steady, soft breathing thunders like drums in my ear. Frowning, I steal a quick peek behind me. Everything in the man's place stands out-the bright lights, the checkered sofa, the shin counter tops in his kitchen. It all adds to the mystery surrounding him. It gives his place a character; it gives him a persona that doesn't suit him at all. But as I glance at my meager living space, the only thing out of the ordinary that stands out is a black, beeping machine stationed atop the cracked, dull dresser. The unflashy, unattractive red numbers read 5:30, far from the time the man should rise from the bed.

Crestfallen, the rush of excitement pumping hot in my veins collides with a violent thump in my stomach, and I sweep his place a last time before backing away from the not so secretive flap. "This sucks," I flick my clothes free of lint as I stand. "I was hoping to see something juicy."

Discouraged for the moment, yet not swayed from spying on the mysterious man, I make short work of pushing the creaking bunk-bed against the wall. It'll not do for Mom to stumble upon my well-kept mystery; I'm not sure what I'll do if she ever finds out.

All of a sudden the lengthy moss green beads strung from the adjacent archway rattles in sync, and Carlotta 'Lottie' Hawkins makes her grand debut.

Her skin is as pale as the moon-a contrast to the rich brown that dusts my scarred body-and glistens with water. Waves of long, chestnut hair glues to her like a second skin as she turns, and the bones of her hips jut out in pride. She twists and stretches like a lazy cat, and I get a clear, unobstructed view of her sagging breasts.

My eyes glue shut and I will the vision away immediately. My cheeks heat with fire, and I turn quick. You'd think I'm used to seeing my mother nude by now, after all, I've been living with her my whole life. But I can't help it. I hate seeing her naked. Perhaps it is a child thing. Seeing her wilted and bare makes her seem... vulnerable in a way. Weak.

"Mom!" I shout, humiliation trembling in my voice. "What are you doing?" I know my face is as red as a tomato, and I dare not open my eyes even though I know the flaky, yellow wall will meet me.
A pregnant pause cuts the air.
"What does it look like?" Lottie says in a soft voice, though I know her well enough to recognize the laughter laced in her tone. "It's not my fault you can't handle seeing your mama naked."

Disgust crashes in my stomach and I quiver as if cold. "Mom, I'm fifteen. I don't want to see anyone naked, especially you." It is the truth. I dare not glimpse anyone unclothed; heck, I've yet to see my body in that state!

"Too bad." Lottie hums, her bell-like voice sounding close. "'Cause, I like flaunting what my mama gave me!"

Moonlit long, bony arms snake around my torso and a pair of pale hands makes a quick grab for my flat chest. I squawk like an old dying buzzard as Lottie pulls me flush against her body and smothers, and trails her breasts against my back.

My eyes pop open and I squeal with fear. Wrestling out the woman's hold quick, I dive off the bed and put as much distance between us as possible. With wide eyes I gawk at her and back up until the cool wood of the bedroom door kisses my back.

"A...are you trying to scar me for life?" I ask, tendrils of horror dripping from my voice.

She grows silent before exploding in a fit of giggles. She falls on her small bed in a graceful mess, not deigning to reign in her amusement.

"You... are so funny!" She wheezes between laughing, her damp hair soaking the flimsy white sheets. "You get that from your father." Her laughter fades as fast as it comes, and a sad haze clouds her. "He was shy too...."

I look away fast and feast on my fat lip. The sudden silence circling the room has morphed into poison, and it is all that man's fault. While my mother despairs at the mention of him, I burn and boil with anger. I hate that man; wish Lottie will never mention him at all. He is better where he belongs, dead and gone. Far from me, and far from my mother and brother.

...but even in death he continues to plague us. He can't leave us alone.

I chance a glance at my mother and almost feel bad for having these thoughts. My heart drums to a pathetic, mournful beat in my chest, and guilt nips at me. I debate on whether to comfort the woman, but she makes the decision for me.

Slow like a snail she rises from the bed, her lips twitching in a deep frown, and the wrinkles she tries hard to cover with makeup bulge and sag along her forehead. Her wavy hair pastes to her skin, and her dark, chocolate eyes flood with tears. Her feet makes not a sound as she treks to the dresser to clothe herself when I catch sight of it.

"Mom," Lottie's gloomy eyes holds my gaze, "what's that on your arm?" I point to the ink-like drawing embedded underneath her elbow. I have no clear visual, but from the look of utter horror on her face, whatever it is, isn't good. Quick, she clasps the elbow and a frown marked with disapproval mars her thin lips.

"Nothing." She answers in a hurry, backing into the dresser. "It's nothing for you to worry about."

"It's a tattoo." I watch her with narrow eyes and step towards her bed. "It's no big deal." Stopping by the footrest, I motion to her elbow. "Can I see it?"

Lottie spins fast, her wet hair swaying behind her. "No." Her voice is terse and chilling with cold. "Get outside, I need to change."

I scoff, finding the notion funny. Here I am trying to gain insightful information, and my mother is dodging all my questions.

"You've changed with me in here before."

"I thought you don't like to see me naked?" She counters.

I grit my teeth. "I don't, but-"

"Baby, if you can't handle seeing me naked, how are you going to handle a man?" She teases, switching to normal.

The dresser screeches as it opens, but it has nothing on the thumping of my heart in my ears. My eyes widen at the statement, and I sputter as if my tongue is on fire. "I....I..."

I storm to the door, yank it open, and slam it as I make my way out the bedroom, my belly growing hot with humiliation.

It doesn't help that I can hear my mother's girlish giggles at my reaction and hasty, animated departure. "I'm not ever going to see a man naked!" I scream, wanting to get the last word. But Lottie's fitful giggles grew, and slighted, I storm the hall like a hurricane and make my way through the shabby place.

My rear kisses the vinyl floor after I cross the room. There is a puny coffee table squeezed between the couch and far wall, and a 32' television nestling a top it like a bird. The picture quality is horrible, but it works, for now. A black remote with popping blue buttons sits motionless at the edge of the table, and I reach for it, my thumb hot on the power button...with no result.

Frowning, I point the remote to the black machine again, my finger frantic on the contraption. "Why isn't it working?" I shake it fast, willing it to work. But no matter how much I try, it refuses to take my side of the story.

A faint creak sounds from the hallway, followed by loud, hurried footsteps. I shake the remote once more, tempted to throw it to the nearest wall.

"Please don't break it." Lottie's tired voice floats from the kitchen. "It's the only one we have."

I glare at the remote for long, painstaking minutes before letting the cold mechanism slip from my fingers. "Oops!" The word slithers from my lips, and I feel no remorse for disobeying. The black contraption thuds to the floor, and a devious snicker clamors from my throat as a sharp intake of breath whooshes from the kitchen.

"ARES!" Large doses of anger tints Lottie's voice. A stampede heads my way fast, and I fly from the floor as my mother storms to the couch; I am smart enough to recognize when my life is in danger.

"I said not to break it!"

I shrug. "It's a piece of crap." I swallow the insult hot on my tongue and dance around the ugly furniture as she makes a grab for me, and stop as my back hits the counter marking off the kitchen.

Mom stops. The frown of dislike on her face says it all, but I don't care. She inches from the couch and toward me, and sensing more danger I do the same. Slow and cautious, I tiptoe around the counter. I feel like a rat eyeballing the big bad cat before it comes in for the kill, and plan to make a mad dash toward the bedroom (where I can lock myself in) but something large and blue catches me unawares.

Staggering, I catch my footing and note the hindrance responsible for my almost capture. A dark blue, patchy, tatty cloth keeps its body intact, and a rusty, large-teethed zipper seals its old lips. It looks as if it has just rolled in from the junk pile, and I turn to my mother, confused.

"What's with the suitcase?" I point to the bulging sack. I circle the old bag, and my breath hitches in my throat when I see the smaller, less neglected version of the mother sack sitting right behind...along with a cream backpack. "What's...going on?"

A deep, broken breath flits from Lottie's lips, and she fiddles with her fingers. Her gaze travels everywhere but at me, and I tighten my arms on my chest. My mother gets like that when she is nervous and has to tell me something that will wake the sleeping, raging beast in the pit of my stomach.

"Mom?"

Her lips quiver as she forces a nervous smile. "You might want to sit down for this, honey." She prompts, motioning me over.

My tree roots for feet fails to uproot.

"Please." She begs, tucking a wad of chestnut hair behind her ear. She wipes her pale hands on the sides of the perky, pink sleeved blouse and matching pants-her uniform for Marty's Cleaners-and I bolt straight as it clicks.
"You're going to work."
She nods slowly.

"But it's Friday. You don't work on Fridays."

There is a long, uncomfortable pause between us. The woman chews her rosy lips and fidgets on the spot, struggling with herself before motioning for me to sit on the couch again. "Please baby, come sit."

I don't want to, but I decide to humor her. The inherent curiosity about what is going on overrules my first reaction; get pissed now, ask questions later. Not to mention I am the prime topic, I just know it.

Slow, like a prisoner marching to the blood-covered guillotine for beheading, I make my way to the couch and sit as far from the woman as possible. I don't know if Lottie takes offence to my blatant choice of seating, because the instant my rear kisses the couch, she slips to sit too. Her brown eyes finds her lap, and she fiddles with her thumbs still. "You...you remember the Alexander Family, don't you?"

A scoff breaks from my throat. "Who doesn't? Aren't they one of the richest families in Central? Sr. Alexander owns Little Central, doesn't he?"

"Yes." She says, facing me. "They will be hosting an enormous gala in the main city in a week," she fishes a hand in her pocket and pulls out a hardened envelop with small, gold, elegant writing. "And I've been selected to work for them."

I thaw at once. "That's great mom! So that's what the suitcases are for!" I say, excitement foaming in my voice against my will. "So when do we leave?"

Lottie stands. Even though she just relayed good news to me, she still looks unhappy. "I leave in an hour." She states in a slow, somber voice.

My body stiffens like a rock.

"What do you mean?" Thick clouds of suspicion colors my voice. I'm not sure if I should worry at the information my mother is throwing my way, or burst from rage. "You have both our suitcases packed and my backpacks, clearly I'm going with you."

But the older woman shakes her head. "No, you're not. I can't take you with me."

"Well then if you're going alone, why are my things packed too?"

Lottie's silence speaks volumes, and dread coils tight in my stomach. A stone cold feeling trickles down my spine at the pace of a snail and paralyzes me to the spot. My mother chews her bottom lip and looks far sorrier than she's ever been, for what I don't know.

But I will hate it, that is a guarantee.