Quinn

Quinn

          It’s a short name and no one questions it. Last name Jones, easy and generic. I chose it on the drive to Tennessee. I needed something vanilla, something to blend in. I decided to settle in the middle of a college town. It seemed like a place that I would be able to avoid connecting with anyone. All kids care about these days are themselves and the other millions of people they don’t know on social media. It’s pathetic, but I thought I could use it to my advantage.

I got an apartment at the first place I could find that cared more about money than the people that live there. It makes for shady neighbors, but everyone keeps to themselves. I got a job at a diner that let me walk with cash every night. No health benefits, but what do you expect? I stocked my fridge with boxed wine and sandwich condiments and accepted my fate after being run out of town by a lobbyist’s wife. He wanted a hot, young girlfriend. I wanted a lavish lifestyle. A year and twenty-one days of acting like I wanted to be with him, and then the dumbass got himself caught and ruined it for both of us.

          It was a bit of an adjustment shifting from fancy dinners and French wine to mass production chardonnay and ramen noodles, but it turns out, being a sugar baby doesn’t come with a severance package and times are tough. After a traumatizing unravelling, I needed to get the fuck out of dodge and lay low. I declined offers to go out for drinks after work with my co-workers. I avoided walks around the neighborhood, because it wasn’t exactly friendly. I steered clear of making eye contact in the grocery store. I promised myself I wouldn’t get close to anyone, because it’s proven to be bad business practice.

Going home with cash every night was all I needed to keep me happy. Once I had enough saved and the dust had settled, I would choose a new city and start again. I had a plan and a routine, and I didn’t deviate. But the funny thing about a plan is that when you least expect it, someone throws a wrench in it. For me that someone just so happened to be some schmuck from the diner. Of course this would be my fucking luck. Karma.

It was a Wednesday night. I was coming home from a dinner shift. I made a hundred and seventy-five bucks that night. Not bad for a college town diner on a weekday. But not as sweet as a Gucci bag left in your highly coveted ocean view apartment. Ugh, anyway, I unlocked the door and made my way inside. Instantly, I could smell that something was off. I’m a clean freak. I kept that shit hole clean as a whistle, and I knew how it was supposed to smell when I walked in. It’s one of the only things that brought me comfort. There was a must in the air. My senses heightened. I was instantly irritated. I needed to find the smell. I checked the trash, wasn’t coming from there. I opened the fridge to check for spoiled leftovers, wasn’t coming from there. I went to run the sink’s garbage disposal, and as soon as it was in view, I noticed the bedroom door was closed. I never closed my bedroom door before I left the house. 

          My stomach clenched and nearly fell out of my asshole. Adrenaline flooded my system, and fight or flight suddenly became a real Sophie’s choice. The best-case scenario was obviously flight, but I would have to take off with only the clothes on my back and the hundred and seventy-five dollars in my pocket, never knowing if there was actually anything to be afraid of on the other side of that door. Fight was the less appealing option, but I had a hefty pile of cash stashed in that bedroom that I really didn’t want to part with, and I’ve never been one to do things the easy way. Why start now? Momma didn’t raise no bitch.

I grabbed the largest, sharpest kitchen knife I had and slowly started making my way to the bedroom door. I didn’t know who or what I was about to find, but I was sure they could hear me coming by the sound of my heartbeat. I planted myself in the doorway and braced for impact as I shoved it open.

Fucking Jerry?!

          “Heyyy!” he endearingly greeted me like we were in a relationship. His six top teeth doing their best work, he was happy as a ham and laying on my bed in a pile of my panties.

 “Jerry, what the fuck are you doing here?” I could feel the heat flushing my face. Shocked and mad as hell, the adrenaline started pumping harder.

He sat up quickly grabbing handfuls of stringy satin and lace and said, “I knew you wore panties like this. You just look like one of those fancy girls. I told Darrell, and he said that you looked like you probably wore granny panties and a chastity belt because you’re so quiet and stuck up. I can’t wait to tell him I was right!”

This fucking psycho is fucking elated. “Jerry, how the fuck did you get in here?” I was trying to stay calm. The guy obviously has a few screws loose.

          “Well, my cousin washes dishes at the diner, so I had him meet me outback with your keys, while you were busy workin’, so I could make a copy. I just really wanted to know about your panties, and I was going to leave before you got home, but the time just got away from me, I guess!”

MOTHER FUCKER. The fucking dishwasher is his cousin? Of course. And I stash my belongings wherever I can find space because the owners are too cheap to install lockers. Son of a bitch, I should have known better. Am I being Punked? Where the fuck is Ashton Kutcher?

          “Jerry, you need to leave. Now.” The heat had officially consumed my whole body. I could feel my blood boiling.

“I could stay and make you supper! You must be so hungry after workin’ all night. I make good spaghetti. And we can talk and get to know each other! You’re really pretty and I always felt like we had a little spark.” The man is out of his fucking mind. I lost it.

“Get the fuck out of my fucking house, you sick piece of shit!” I blasted toward him reaching to push him out. When I did, he pulled me in and hugged me tight, smelling my hair with his fists still full of panties. Before I had time to think, I drove my knee straight into his tiny little dick and pushed myself away from him. As he began to fold forward falling to his knees, I came up with the knife into his torso. And just like that, the carpets were covered in blood. The fucking worst. That was going to be a bitch to clean. He stared at me with shock in his eyes as he gasped for air. I could hear his blood aspirating in his chest. I caught my breath as I watched him desperately take the last of his.

          Once he finally gave up, I sat on the floor next to him as his blood continued to spill. I needed to calm down and think. Of course my world would get rocked just as I was settling into my routine and accepting my new temporary. Fucking Jerry. And his fucking cousin?! That mother fucker looked me dead in my face and told me to have a good night as I clocked out of work. Demented little shit. I looked at Jerry and winced. The top of his head coated in greasy hair, littered with dandruff. Not surprising. He doesn’t come off as the showering type. Or, I guess I should say ‘didn’t come off’. Past tense. He’s dead. And I had to figure out what I was going to do with his body. This was a first for me. Didn’t see this one coming.

          I thought back to every bit of true crime media I had ever consumed. I needed to consider DNA and phone tracking and anyone who may give a shit about this dirtbag. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the cousin began to wonder what happened to Jerry, especially knowing where he was going and what he was doing. The dumbass would be stupid to report anything, being as he was an accomplice, but I couldn’t bring myself to give the idiot that much credit. Fuck me. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but I’m not cut out for life behind bars, and I certainly didn’t want unflattering pictures of me in a jumpsuit circulating in the media. I had to move quickly.

          Jerry smelled horrible. His greasy, poor-hygienic stench was accompanied by nature running its course. It turns out people also shit themselves when they die. Disgusting. Makes sense, but for some reason, I wasn’t expecting it. They usually don’t mention that part in the true crime documentaries. I pushed Jerry over to get his shitty ass off my carpets as quickly as possible. I wanted to cry as the dread of how much work this was going to be set in, but I couldn’t. I was on a clock.

My brain started working in hyper-speed as I searched for how I was going to get the fuck out of all this. I didn’t have any power tools or a garage or commercial grade chemical dissolvents. I was fucked. I was vaguely familiar with the area but hadn’t been in town for long enough to really know the ins and outs. I didn’t have anyone to call. Then suddenly, BINGO. I had an idea. I was taking a page from Jerry’s playbook.

          I rummaged through his pockets and found his wallet and keys. Jerry’s address was printed clearly on his ID, and I had access. There are no cameras on the apartment complex property, because they’re cheap and would rather turn a blind eye to nefarious activity. Plausible deniability. I never thought I’d be so grateful for such lack of security. I submitted a fake ID when I moved in, and I paid rent in cash. Same goes for the diner. They’re just trying to make ends meet. They care none for who you are and what you do if you’ll put your head down and work. It’s almost like I manifested this. I grabbed my stash of cash, packed a small go bag, and left everything else as it was. I wouldn’t miss the place, and I had already sold all my valuable possessions the last time I got run out of town. I checked for signs of life in the dark parking lot, and when the coast was clear, bolted to my car and headed to Jerry’s place.

          His house was fifteen minutes away. It was a run-down mobile home on the outskirts of town, down one of those old, windy roads that land you smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Not so cozy and secluded in the woods, the house was dark and decrepit. Perfect. I slowly made my way through his junkyard garden scanning for anything that could be of use. Nothing appealed to me, so I made my way inside.

 I had to draw blood. My DNA was all over Jerry and the apartment, so I needed to paint a picture. I carefully poked around the kitchen looking for a knife trying not to leave behind any fingerprints. I didn’t have much luck. Jerry must not cook. Well, ‘didn’t cook’. Past tense. He’s dead. And he was going to cook me dinner? Anyway. I made my way to the bedroom where he had a collection of pocketknives on a bedside table. Perfect. But I could smell his dirty sheets. Gross. I wanted to vomit, but I had to stay on task. Then I realized that vomit would be a nice touch, so I went ahead and did that on the floor next to the bed.

My face oozing, I flung myself onto the bed, ripping and rolling around, being sure to leave skin, hair, tears, and saliva. I ripped out a handful of my hair and left that sprinkled in there as well. It hurt like a bitch. I got up and reassessed the place. I needed to sell it. I punched and kicked the walls from the front door to the bedroom, leaving scuffs and scratches, dents and holes. Once I was satisfied with the damage, I grabbed a kitchen towel to bite and headed back to the bedroom. I’ve watched enough television to know what cuts produce the most blood. I was going to have to move quick and try not to pass out. I sat on the bed, pulled my shirtsleeve down over my hand, and grabbed the biggest pocketknife on the bedside table. I shoved the towel in my mouth, took a deep breath, and ripped the knife across my wrist.

Fuck me, that shit hurt like a butt cheek on a stick. An overwhelming amount of blood began to surface so I quickly and strategically started dripping and smearing blood throughout the house. I covered the bedroom and the walls staging it to look as if I had fought while being dragged out of the house on the way out the door. I started to feel faint as I hit the top step and closed the front door behind me.

I covered the wound with the towel and ran to the car. Once I was in, I locked the doors and sat there for a minute trying not to pass out. I still had to get out of there for all this to work, so I focused on staying conscious. I thought about all the potential diseases I was going to contract as I held the dirty kitchen towel against my arm. Karma, but maybe it wasn’t all bad. I giggled to myself as I realized that the odds of me pulling this all off were actually pretty decent. Lightheaded, but good enough to make it out of the city, I took off and never looked back.

When they find Jerry in my apartment, they’ll start digging. Fortunately, there’s not much for them to find on me. I’ve kept my identity under lock and key, and I’ve done a good job at staying out of the database. If the authorities even remotely do their job, they’ll be able to conclude that Jerry was an obsessive creeper that did God knows what with a girl and now she’s nowhere to be found; presumably dead, but they won’t be able to find a body. They’ll give up quickly because there simply won’t be sufficient evidence to solve the case, and no one will be breathing down their neck to find me. As far as Jerry being dead is concerned, they’ll determine that the sketch-fest could have been stabbed by any number of individuals, given the circumstance and location of his remains. It’s a dead end and this case will go in the box with all the other unsolved murders.

          I’m proud of my work, but for obvious reasons, I’m lacking in the validation department. I’ll have to settle for a pat on the back. I needed to get this off my chest, so here it is, confession written out. To whomever finds this message in a bottle, I’m sorry for the trauma dumping. Do with this what you will. You’ll never find me.

          Love,

          That Girl