The Problem

Ares knew something was a miss with her mother, she just never expected this...

Chapter One: The Problem

Under normal circumstances I'd never classify myself as a stalker, but there was something odd about the man living next door. It isn't something I've just deduced overnight, and no, this bizarre hobby isn't an obsession either. I liked to think of it as a healthy dose of curiosity about the man known to the world as Leonardo Todd.

For months, I've kept tabs on the strange man, and I knew his every move like the back of my hand. I could even do it with my eyes glued shut. Spying on a man twice my age wasn't something to be ashamed of, but to be safe I kept all my actions hush-hush. I wasn't sure what I'd do if Mr. Todd got wind of me tracking his actions like some psychotic ex-girlfriend. I watched him for so long that I complied enough information on him to make a small, but extensive itinerary, something that would make even the brightest cop at the Police station salivate for like a starving wolf.

#1: Mr. Todd staggered in his apartment every morning at six. I had no clue where he worked, but from the early hour, and the black bags drooping from his eyes to his jaw, I concluded his choice of employment was a hard one. Sometimes though, a thin sheen of sweat glistened like beads on his brow, and a crimson liquid mottled and stained his clothes. A dummy I was not; I knew darn well what that red fluid was. I saw it plastered on walls and merged in the pavements borderline the slums enough times to know. It was blood, and I bet my life it wasn’t Todd’s.

It was someone's. But who?

The theory he butchered someone in cold blood crossed my mind more than once, but I couldn't be sure. The first time he tripped in his apartment sweaty, bloody, and tired was a coincidence. But five times in seven days? That was suspicious and anything but normal. It was the first clue I garnered on the mysterious man, and it made him an instant danger. It was the sole reason I vowed to pay this close attention to him; he had become my #1 priority from day one.

#2: Mr. Todd vanished down a narrow hallway spouting from the kitchen, and I was sure it led to his bedroom. His apartment stood similar to mine, the only difference was he had the balcony every hopeful tenant craved the instance Sr. Albert croaked three months prior.

#3: A prominent knock hit his door sometime between 8 PM to midnight. If I was careful I'd hear the man’s sluggish voice vibrate from his bedroom to the living room, and he’d demand to know who had the balls to visit him at such an hour. At first, I hadn’t seen anything wrong with that picture. My blood bubbled and boiled when people disturbed my house at night, but that wasn’t the strange part. No, the strange thing was, there was no answer. It was almost as if a wicked ghost was playing a horrible, horrible trick on the man. Mr. Todd slammed the door as he stalked out his bedroom and down the hall, and he’d pause as he reached the unpainted door to his abode. His hand strayed to the end table nestled against the wall-I never caught a glimpse of what laid there in wait, then he’d yank his hand away as if a fierce flame scorched him. A few, painstaking seconds ticked by before the man forced the door open, only to show a busty haired woman striking a seductive pose. Dressed in cheap gaudy clothes, she'd ogle the man as if he was a rare piece of prime stake.

Most times I wanted to gag.

But, Mr. Todd was always nice. He’d thaw from his statue like state, close the distance between the woman and himself, run his long, pale fingers down her face and over her crimson stained lips before leading her into the house...and to her doom. I didn’t know it, but I could feel it in my bones. It was intuition, and powerful one. It was the same feeling I got when trouble came my way, it wasn’t something I could hide, or dismiss.  Of the twenty-five women that entered Mr. Todd’s apartment for the past ninety days, not one of them escaped with her life. I didn't know if there was a hidden entrance in his room that somehow gave these women freedom, or any other explanation behind their disappearance other than my working theory: he murders them.

What other theory was there?

Mr. Todd was a hit man for the mob. He had to be, how else could he kill so many chicks near other innocent, poor people and walk away free? The man had connections, people to keep the spotlight from him while he did his dirty work, and powerful ones. It was the perfect, unstable, unpredictable job for a solitary, unstable man. It suited him well.

#4: Mr. Todd strutted the hall in a pristine, tailored suit, and stopped by the kitchen for five minutes. He made a pot of strong, putrid smelling coffee and spent fifteen minutes on his stool downing the entire pot before locking the door on his way out. I never saw him again until it neared six in the morning, and depending on the day of the week, the blood of someone once alive once again smeared his perfect clothes. I never caught a glimpse of his face, but I imagined the strange man to be quite pleased with the result. It just struck me as something he would enjoy. He was peculiar that way.

That was why I never bothered him. I didn't have the gall. I was careful to stay out the mercenary's way if I got wind of him nearby, and it had all paid off so far. “Thank goodness for that. I don’t think I’d be able to keep a poker face ‘round that guy.” With the cool, cheap cream carpet on the bedroom floor holding my weight steady, I stole a peek behind me and zoomed in on the door. The faded, chocolate wood basked in the dim gold light coming from the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling by several pieces of bright, pink yarn. Carly, at the time, didn’t have the audacity to go to the store and buy rope. Perhaps she didn’t feel like walking down the street alone, or she had no money in her purse, but she rummaged through the dresser until she discovered the perfect solution to her problem: yarn. Luckily, I didn’t care what the woman did. To be honest the yarn added a tad bit of character to the dull, cheap room-not that anyone beside Carly and yours truly would ever lay eyes on it to judge. That would happen over my cold, dead body. It was one of the reasons I had no friends. I didn’t want to have anyone over at my place"teenagers these days would laugh at the sight of my poor, poor, living space. The cold, less homey feel of prison cells didn't call for Ares-Lane Sierra Hawkins just yet, and neither did embarrassment.

The gold rays of the bulb sparkled like glitter the longer I stared, and I shook my head and tore my gaze. It was almost as if it was a King Cobra trying to hypnotize me before it struck to kill...it was also idiotic. Getting snared by something as preposterous as a light went to show how listless and dull my life was. I should be parading the small city 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 was the unhealthy, unwarranted highlight of my teenaged life, and I didn't despise myself for it.

The urge to flick the light off was strong, but I refrained. As attractive as it was, having the lone bulb out of commission would get me caught faster than if it stayed alight. My mother would no doubt get suspicious.

So I left it alone. It was unmoving in the air, and no angry vibrations rocked the ground to its core. Nothing out of the ordinary happened to show that Carly was storming down the hallway and on her way to bust me for my illicit activities.

Good. I had time. Silent like a cat, I dropped to the floor and pried open the small flap nestled at the bottom of the putrid, yellow wall. I found it by accident three months ago, and it was how I spied on Mr. Todd.

“Let’s see what the idiot’s up to today.”

The first thing that met me as I peered into the tatty fold was the lone, white and black checkered recliner pushed to the farthest corner of the room. It sat still next to a large sofa-something Mr. Todd had yet to use, and the large couch sat snuggled against the large, foreboding window that gave a clear, concise view of the parking lot. I knew this because the same lone window sat motionless inside my apartment, shattered. Carly had to patch the large, 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 prior.

The secret window into the man’s abode sat at the furthermost wall in his apartment somewhat hidden by the recliner, and didn’t stand out enough for me to be noticed. If I ever found a way into his house (not anytime soon, perhaps) I would have to find another way to…increase my methods of prying on him.

He was too captivating and unusual to let go just yet.

The bright, white rays of Mr. Todd’s expensive lights shone bright in his living room, but I was used to it. Having the hurtful blare prickle my eyes night after night for three long months was enough to make me immune to the pain. The apartment was silent, not a peep or badger of sound rang out. It was so quiet that my steady, soft breathing thundered like drums in my ear. Frowning, I stole a quick peek behind me. Everything in the man’s place stood out-the bright lights, the checkered sofa, the shiny counter tops in his kitchen. It all added to the mystery surrounding the older man. It gave his place character; it gave him a persona that didn’t suit him at all. But as I glanced at my meager living space, the only thing out of the ordinary that stood out was a black, beeping machine stationed atop the cracked, dull dresser. The unflashy, unattractive red numbers read five thirty-far from the time the man should be out of bed.

Crestfallen, the rush of excitement pumping hot in my veins collided with a violent thump in my stomach, and I took one last sweep of the man’s place before backing away from the not so secretive flap.

“This sucks,” I stood and flicked my clothes free of lint. “I was hoping to see something juicy.”

Discouraged for the moment, yet not swayed from spying on the mysterious man, I made short work of pushing the creaking bed against the wall. It wouldn’t do for Carly to stumble upon my well-kept mystery; I wasn’t sure what I’d do if my mother ever found out.

And just in time too, becuase the lengthy, moss green beads strung from the archway on the adjacent wall rattled in sync, and Carly Hawkins made her grand entrance.

Her skin was as pale as the moon-a contrast to the rich brown that dusted my scarred body-and glistened with water.  Waves of long, chestnut hair glued to her body like a second skin as she turned, and the bones of her hip jutted out in pride. She twisted and stretched like a lazy cat, and I got a clear, unobstructed view of her sagging breasts.

My eyes glued shut and I willed the vision of the woman to go away. My cheeks heated with fire, and I turned quick. One would think I’d get used to seeing her naked"after all, I’d been living with the woman my whole life-but I couldn’t help it. I hated seeing my mother nude. Perhaps it was a child thing. Seeing her wilted and bare made her seem…vulnerable in a way. Weak.

“Mom!” I shouted, humiliation trembling in my voice. “What are you doing?” I knew my face was as red as a tomato, and I dare not open my eyes even though I knew the flaky, yellow wall would meet me.

There was a pregnant pause.

“What does it look like?” Carly said in a soft voice, though I knew the woman well enough to recognize the laughter laced in her tone. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle seeing your mama naked.”

Disgust crashed in my stomach and I quivered as if cold. “Mom, I’m fifteen. I don’t want to see anyone naked, especially you.” It was the truth. I dared not get a glimpse of anyone unclothed; heck, I didn’t even look at me when I was that way!

“Too bad.” Carly hummed, her bell-like voice sounding close. “’Cause I like flaunting what my mama gave me!”

Moonlit long, bony arms snaked around my torso and a pair of pale hands made a quick grab for my flat chest. I squawked like an old dying buzzard as Carly pulled me flush against her body, smothered, and trailed her breasts against my back.

My eyes popped open and I squealed with fear. Wrestling out the woman’s hold quick, I dove off the bed, and put as much distance between us as possible. With wide eyes I gawked at her and backed up until the cool wood of the bedroom door kissed my back.

“A…are you trying to scare me for life?” I asked, tendrils of horror dripping from my voice.

Carly grew silent before bursting into a fit of giggles. She fell on the bed in a graceful mess, not deigning to reign in her amusement. “You…are so funny!” She wheezed between laughing, her damp hair soaking the flimsy white sheets. “You get that from your father.” Her laughter faded fast, and a sad haze clouded about her “He was shy too…”

I looked away fast and feasted on my fat lip. The sudden silence had morphed into poison, and it was all that man's fault. While my mother despaired at the mention of him, I burned and boiled with anger. I hated that man; wished Carly would never mention him at all. He was better where he belonged, dead and gone. Far from me, and far from my mother.

…but even in death, he continued to plague us. He couldn’t leave us alone.

I chanced a glance at my mother and almost felt bad for having those thoughts. My heart drummed to a pathetic, mournful beat in my chest, and guilt nipped at me. I debated on whether to go through with it, but Carly made the decision for me. Slow like a snail she rose from the bed, her lips twitching in a deep frown, and the wrinkles she tried so hard to cover with makeup bulged and sagged along her forehead. Her wavy hair pasted to her skin, and her dark, chocolate eyes flooded with unshed tears. Her feet made not a sound as she trekked to the dresser to clothe herself when I caught sight of it.

“Mom,” Carly's gloomy eyes held my gaze, “what’s that on your arm?” I pointed to the ink-like drawing embedded just underneath her elbow. I had no clear visual, but from the look of utter horror on Carly’s face, whatever it was wasn’t good. Quick, she clasped the elbow and blocked my view of the tattoo, and a frown of disapproval marred her lips.

“Nothing.” She answered in a hurry, backing into the dresser. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“It’s a tattoo.” I watched her with narrowed eyes, and took the first of many steps toward the bed. “It’s no big deal.” Stopping by the footrest, I motioned to her elbow. “Can I see it?”

She spun fast, her wet hair swaying behind her. Stray water droplets sunk and soaked to my clothes, but I paid it no mind.

“No.” Carly said, her voice terse and chilling with cold. “Get outside, I need to change.”

I scoffed, finding the notion funny. Here I was trying to gain insightful information, and my mother was dodging all my questions. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a typical Carly-Ares conversation. A classic day in my mundane existence…

“You’ve changed with me in here.”

“I thought you didn’t like to see me naked?” She countered.

I ground my teeth. “I don’t, but"“

“Baby, if you can’t handle seeing me naked, how are you going to handle a man?” She teased, switching to normal. The dresser draw screeched as it opened, but it had nothing on the loud thumping of my heart in my ears. My eyes widened at that statement, and I sputtered fast as if my tongue was on fire. “I…I…ahh!” I stormed to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it as I made my way out the bedroom, embarrassment growing hot in my belly.

It didn’t help that I heard my mother’s girlish giggles at my reaction and hasty, animated departure.

“I’m not ever going to see a man naked!” I screamed, wanting to get the last word. But Carly’s fitful giggles grew, and slighted, I stormed the small hall and made my way into the shabby apartment I shared with my maternal guardian. Ten-fifteen paces from the bedroom door led to the kitchen-a small, cramped space that was a disaster zone yesterday evening. Two counters existed…three in total if you counted the one that burned to the ground, and they remained charred and smothered in soot. The once teal counter-top now sported a thin sheen of black, and there was a large space in between them that once belonged to a stove, and their brother. I had nothing to say…except my little cooking spree was a complete disaster.

The fridge looked uncomfortable in the very corner of the kitchen. It was yellow, and ugly, and far too small for my liking, but it supported Carly and me, and was at least large enough to hold the six gallons of milk we went through every three days.

There wasn’t anything out of the usual; dull cabinets fell unattractively from the ceiling, further fueling the cheap, uncomfortable feel of the place, and a rusty microwave that-thank the lord worked, even if it was fifteen years old sat atop the counter. I heard it was a gift from my baby shower, thus my mother refused to part with it.

I allowed my eyes the single freedom of roaming the small kitchen, and would’ve cringed at the mess it was in, but to think about it any longer was to feel guilty, and I was not about to waste time on something that held no value to me at all.

Weaving around the kitchen I made my way in to the run-down living room. The brown, tattered couch Carly procured from the goodwill store sat in the center of the miniscule space-it was the ugliest thing in the house thus far. White, long strands of fur-perhaps from a large canine, or obscenely hairy feline stuck out from the creases and corners of the couch. Large, jagged holes in the cushioning-showing the once dull, pale sponge material stuffed inside-was now black with muck, dirt, and mold. Soot and burns covered the legs of the loveseat-Carly said it gave it character-I proclaimed it junk. The couch was junk, nothing more, nothing less, and it was the ugliest piece of junk Carly had fallen for. So it stayed, much to my chagrin.

My rear kissed the vinyl floor after I crossed the room. There was a puny coffee table squeezed between the couch and the far wall"and a 32” television nestled atop it. The picture quality was horrible at best-but it worked, for now. A black remote with popping blue buttons sat motionless on the edge of the table, and I reached for it, my thumb hot on the power button.

With no result.

I frowned, and pointed the remote to the black machine again, my finger frantic on the contraption.

“Why isn’t it working?” I huffed, frustrated. I shook the remote fast, willing it to work, but no matter how much I tried it refused to take my side of the story.

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

“Please don’t break it.” Carly's tired voice floated from the kitchen. “It’s the only one we have.”

I glared at the remote for long, painstaking minutes before letting the cold mechanism slip from my fingers. “Oops!” The word slithered from my lips, and I felt no remorse for doing exactly what I was told not to do. The black contraption thudded to the floor, and a crafty snicker clamored from my throat as a sharp intake of breath whooshed from the kitchen.

“ARES!” Large doses of anger tinted Carly's voice. A stampede headed my way fast, and I flew from the floor as my mother stormed to the couch; I was smart enough to recognize when my life was in danger.

“I said not to break it!”

I shrugged. “It’s a piece of crap.” I swallowed the insult hot on my tongue and danced around the ugly furniture as Carly made a grab for me, and stopped as my back hit the counter marking off the kitchen.

Carly stopped. The frown of dislike on her face said it all, but I didn't care. The woman inched her way from the couch and toward me, and sensing more danger, I did the same. Slow and cautious, I tiptoed around the counter. I felt like a rat eyeballing the big bad cat before it came in for the kill, and planned to make a mad dash toward the bedroom (where I could lock myself in)--but something large and blue caught me unawares.

Staggering, I caught my footing and noted the hindrance responsible for my almost capture. A dark blue, patchy, tatty cloth kept its body intact, and a rusty, large-teethed zipper sealed its old lips. It looked as if it had just rolled in from the junk pile, and I turned to my mother, confused.

“What’s with the suitcase?” I pointed to the bulging sack. I circled the old bag, and my breath hitched in my throat when I saw the smaller, less neglected version of the mother sack sitting right behind…along with two cream backpacks. “What’s…going on?”

A deep, broken breath flitted from Carly’s lips, and she fiddled with her fingers. Her gaze traveled everywhere but at me, and I tightened my arms on my chest. My mother got like that when she was nervous and had to tell me something that would wake the sleeping, raging beast in the pit of my stomach.

“Mom?”

Carly's lips quivered as she forced a nervous smile. “You might want to sit down for this, honey.” She prompted, motioning me over.

My tree roots for feet failed to uproot.

“Ares please.” She begged, tucking a wad of chestnut hair behind her ear. Then she wiped her pale hands on the sides of the perky, pink long sleeved blouse and matching pants-her uniform for Marty’s Cleaners-and I bolted straight as it clicked.

“You’re going to work.”

She nodded slowly.

“But it’s Thursday. You don’t work on Thursdays.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause between us. The woman chewed her rosy lip and fidgeted on the spot, struggling with herself, before motioning for me to sit on the couch again. “Please baby, come sit.”

I didn’t want to, but I decided to humor her. The inherent curiosity about what was going on overruled my first reaction: to get pissed then, and ask questions later. Not to mention, I was the prime topic. I just knew it.

Slow, like a prisoner marching to the blood-covered guillotine, I made my way to the couch and sat as far from the woman as possible. I didn’t know if Carly took offense to my blatant choice of seating, because the instant my rear kissed the couch, Carly slipped to sit too. Her brown eyes found her lap, and she fiddled with her thumbs still. “You…you remember the Alexander Family, don’t you?”

A scoff broke from my throat. “Who doesn’t? Aren’t they one of the richest families in Central?”

“Yes.” Carly said, facing me. “They will be hosting an enormous gala in a week"“She fished a hand in her pocket and pulled out a hardened, black envelop with small, gold, elegant writing. “And I’ve been selected to work for them.”

I thawed at once. “That’s great mom. So that’s what the suitcases are for!” I said, excitement foaming in my voice against my will. “So when do we leave?”

Carly stood. Even though she just relayed good news to me, she still looked unhappy. “I leave in an hour.” She stated in a slow, somber voice.

I went as stiff as a rock. “What do you mean you leave in an hour?” I asked, suspicious. I wasn’t sure if I should be worried at the information my mother was throwing my way, or peeved. “You have both our suitcases packed…and my backpacks, clearly I’m going with you.”

But the older woman shook 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?”

Carly's silence spoke volumes, and dread coiled tight in my stomach. A stone cold feeling trickled down my spine at the pace of a snail and paralyzed me to the spot. My mother chewed her bottom lip and looked far sorrier than she'd ever been, for what I didn’t know.

But I'd hate it. That was a guarantee.

 

Author's Note

I cut out a good bit of the introduction, I thought it would be better to show more of the main character's personality rather than just write about it, and I thought the cut was necessary. Perhaps it is easier to jump into the story rather than deal with the long shabob in front, (I think I spelled that wrong.)

Reviews

[NAyersman]

I agree with Cher that this isn't really framed in diary format that your concept is about; it's just written as a first-person narrative. Nonetheless, it's interesting. I'm curious to know the deal with Mr. Todd, but for some reason, the dynamic of Ares and her mother held no draw for me. Main character just seems like your standard overly agressive angry teen.

[Wickers]

First and foremost, thank you to you, and Cher for the review! This is exactly why I thought it prudent to post the story online, so that I can get opinions and criticism to make my writing better. And yes, I do agree with you both that it doesn't follow a diary format, and more of a story. It was written primarily in story format-of which I struggled between first and third person points of view( and I still do), and for some reason I thought it would be easy to frame it as a Diary. Of course, I didn't really do that, so I'll be sure to fix it. I've been working on this for a LONG time and since I'm being so indecisive about a lot of things you can probably tell that it is slowly driving me insane. I'm glad you fine individuals think it's interesting-I had worried about that from the get go, but now that I have gotten some great criticism I feel a bit more confident making my changes and posting the rest of the story online! So, once again, thank you so much for the review! I really appreciate it! And keep reading!

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Interesting beginning to the story, though something about the way this is written makes me suggest you have it framed as a story and not a diary. Or perhaps diary entries interspersed with narrative?