The streets of Los Angeles, winter 1953, lay desolate under a bruised sky, the kind that promised storms and delivered dread. Holloway Drive stretched empty, its asphalt slick with the first spits of rain, reflecting the occasional flicker of a neon sign from a shuttered diner. Few cars prowled the night, their headlights cutting through the gloom like wary eyes. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet concrete and gasoline, a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of Carl's throat as he stood at the window of Apartment 4C, 1829 Holloway Drive. Thunder growled in the distance, a low, guttural threat.
Inside, the apartment was a cocoon of shadows, the only light spilling from a single lamp that cast jagged patterns across the walls. Carl set the phone down gently, the receiver still warm from his murmured goodnights to Faith Monroe. Her voice lingered in his ears—soft, honeyed, sending kisses through the line before they both promised sleep. He smiled, but it was a smile that didn't reach his eyes. The room smelled of stale coffee and cigarette ash, the air thick with something unspoken, something coiled.
A muffled groan broke the silence.
Carl turned, his gaze sliding to the corner of the room where an old man sat bound to a chair, his wrists chafed raw against rope, his mouth sealed with silver tape. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, pooling in the creases of his weathered face. Mr. Harold's eyes, wide with terror, darted frantically, his chest heaving as he tried to scream through the gag. The chair creaked under his futile struggles, a rhythmic scrape against the hardwood floor.
Carl's smile widened, slow and deliberate, as he reached into the waistband of his trousers. His fingers closed around the dagger—a wicked thing, its blade gleaming, its handle painted a garish pink, absurd against the gravity of its purpose. He stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his weight, and leaned in until his breath grazed the old man's ear. The scent of fear—sweat and copper—filled his nostrils.
"Don't worry, Mr. Harold," Carl whispered, his voice a low, velvet menace. "I'm quick with it."
Harold's muffled pleas grew frantic, his body jerking against the ropes. His eyes screamed what his mouth couldn't, but Carl's expression remained serene, almost tender. He drew back, the dagger catching the lamplight as he raised it. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he plunged the blade into Harold's stomach.
The sound was wet, obscene—a soft rip followed by a gurgle as blood welled around the wound. Carl twisted the dagger, carving upward, and Harold's body convulsed. His insides spilled forth, a grotesque cascade of glistening organs, slick and steaming in the cool air. Intestines unraveled like coiled snakes, slumping to the floor with a sickening plop. Blood pooled beneath the chair, thick and dark, its iron scent overwhelming the room.
Harold's eyes fluttered, his breath hitching in shallow gasps as life bled out of him. Carl stepped back, wiping the dagger on his trousers, and lit a cigarette. The match flared, briefly illuminating his face—sharp cheekbones, hollow eyes, a smile that was all teeth. He sank onto the couch, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. The aquarium beside him bubbled softly, its fish darting through the water, oblivious to the carnage. Carl's gaze drifted to them, his smile softening as he watched their mindless dance. The room was quiet now, save for the drip of blood and the distant rumble of thunder.
Hours Earlier
The morning had dawned gray, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. Carl sat in a corner booth at Millie's Coffee Shop, the air thick with the aroma of burnt coffee and frying bacon. The jukebox hummed a faint Sinatra tune, barely audible over the clink of porcelain and the low murmur of conversation. He sipped his coffee, black and bitter, his eyes fixed on the door.
Faith Monroe stepped in, and the room seemed to pause. She wore a dress straight out of a fashion plate—a deep emerald A-line with a fitted bodice, the skirt flaring at her waist, adorned with delicate white lace at the collar and cuffs. Her auburn hair was swept into a soft chignon, a few curls framing her face. She carried herself with a grace that turned heads, her heels clicking softly on the checkered floor.
Carl stood, his heart quickening as he crossed to her. Their lips met in a gentle kiss, chaste but warm, and he pulled out her chair with a flourish. "You look like a dream," he murmured, and she blushed, her smile radiant.
They ordered coffee, the waitress bustling away, and settled into the booth. Carl reached across the table, his hands enveloping hers, her skin soft and warm against his calloused fingers. "I'm glad you're still here," he said, his voice low, almost fragile. "Things haven't been… easy."
Faith's eyes softened, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "I'll always be on your side, Carl. No matter what."
He exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. The conversation turned to his recent diagnosis—temporal lobe epilepsy, a shadow that had left him feeling brittle, less than whole. "It makes me feel weak," he admitted, his gaze dropping to their joined hands. "Like I'm broken."
"You're not special because of that mind you have," Faith said firmly, leaning closer. "But in spite of it, my lover." Her words were a balm, and he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it softly.
The talk shifted to Kayo, the little rock pendant Carl had given her for her twentieth birthday a week ago. Faith's eyes sparkled as she touched the necklace, nestled against her collarbone. "He's my son," she said with a laugh, "and we're having far too much fun."
Carl grinned, his first real smile of the day. "You'll be a hell of a mother someday."
Her gaze turned wistful, and the conversation drifted to marriage. Carl squeezed her hands, his voice earnest. "Soon as I get a job, Faith, I'm proposing. We'll get out of here, live together. Damn what our families think."
"I'm waiting for that," she said, her voice bright with anticipation. "Eagerly."
They lingered over small talk—movies, music, the weather—until Faith glanced at her watch and sighed. Another kiss, and she was gone, her perfume lingering like a promise. Carl sat back, savoring the moment , then he got home where the phone buzzed , it was his mother Leila ,
"Carl , How are you? " Her voice was warm, tinged with worry.
"I'm fine Ma , everything is under control " he said, his tone soft, almost boyish. "Exams are wrapping up soon. I'll be home after."
hey chatted briefly, her voice grounding him, and he hung up with a smile. He went out again but this time with a purpose on mind , He hailed a cab, his destination a retail shop on Sunset Boulevard.
There, among the racks of overcoats and the hum of fluorescent lights, he spotted him—Mr. Harold, his old high school basketball coach. The man was older now, his hair thinning, his frame stooped. Carl's pulse quickened, but his face betrayed nothing as he approached, feigning surprise.
"Coach Harold! Didn't expect to see you here." His voice was warm, disarming. They exchanged pleasantries, Carl's laugh easy as he brought up the past. "Remember how you used to rib me for being too skinny? Kept me off the starting lineup."
Harold chuckled, his guard lowering. "You turned out fine, kid."
"Funny thing," Carl said, his tone casual. "We're having a little reunion tonight, honoring the old days. Old classmates, you know—Jimmy, Pete, the gang. We'd love for you to come." He rattled off names, lies slipping from his tongue like silk. "It's at my place. 1829 Holloway Drive, Apartment 4C."
Harold hesitated, his life a lonely one since his wife's death, his two married kids distant. Carl pressed gently, his smile coaxing, until Harold nodded. "Alright, son. I'll stop by."
Carl gave him the details, his heart thrumming with anticipation. Hours later, Harold arrived, stepping into the apartment with a tentative smile. The door clicked shut behind him.
And Carl struck.
The bat came down with a sickening crack, Harold crumpling to the floor. Carl worked quickly, binding him to the chair, the rope biting into the old man's flesh. The room filled with the scent of fear and blood, the storm outside building to a crescendo.
And now, as Harold's life ebbed away, Carl sat on the couch, the aquarium's glow casting ripples across his face. The fish swam on, and he smiled, the dagger resting beside him, its pink handle gleaming in the dark.