aurora | 1952

01

November 12th, 1952

The cold air slaps me in the face as the bar door howls open, whipping me into the dim-lit night.

"Better not see you around here again, bitch!" The owner of the tap room kicks me out of the door after I ended a fight with some drunk businessman. He initiated, yet somehow, I'm the one getting thrown out.

Remaining in my unbothered expression, I turn on my heel to face the smug manager. I elegantly brush off my dress and flip him off.

"It was nice seeing you again. Let me know how the wife's doing."

That sure dropped his attitude. As he stands there mustering up what I imagine would be an idiotic retort, I stride away.

Clip, Clop.

My heels project into the night. Fading in and out of street lamps, shivering in the brisk autumn air, I just want to get home with some coffee.

The pumps echo off of the cobblestone sidewalk, scuffing my heel with each step I take further into the night. Pissed, I lift my feet up, and grab the shoes from the back. I can only imagine the looks people are giving me from their windows. House's lights reflect onto the stone, and televisions all repeat the same thing; Queen Elizabeth II this, King George IV that. The news is obsolete. Report on something worth it and I'll pay attention.

I approach the familiar building, and pull down the sketchy metal ladder leading up to my apartment. The metal cuts my bare feet, and bangs against itself with every movement. An old woman quickly pops her greyed head out of a window, cussing and yelling every slur or profanity you can imagine. I give her a taunting wave.

"Nice meeting you, ma'am.!" I yell as I hurry up the next ladder, ignoring the glares and scoffs the neighbors throw at me. I push my chipped window up, and step inside my apartment.

The lights are on, once again I forgot how fucked my bill would be after forgetting to shut my lights off again. And last month they barely let it slide.

I'm greeted by my black cat, strolling up to me, tail straight as a pin up in the air, hair spiked. I reach behind myself to close the window, squatting down to say hello.

After minutes of cooing and purring, I'm alarmed by a noise in the other room.

Shit, not again.

I cautiously look up, scanning my room and quietly tiptoeing. I peer around the corner.

Bathroom, clear.

Kitchen, a man standing and scattering this and that about.

Living room-

Wait, what?

My eyes dart back to the kitchen. My heart hammers in my chest as I stare, racking my brain for any sense. I've only got seconds, and last time I barely escaped with my life.

I sneak to my nightstand, sliding a sharp, worn pocket knife from the surface. I haven't used it in a situation like this, thankfully, I only used it to slice pears and shit. But this is slightly different.

Gripping the small knife with both of my shaky hands, I discreetly step towards the kitchen, watching my feet with each step.

CREEEEAK!

My eyes blink open, wide awake.

The mans head snaps my way, and he immediately scrambles for a knife, yelling profanities at his own manic. His hand flustering over my knife block, he draws the most obnoxious one. Of course. All I can hear is my heart hammering in my chest, and my panicked breathing. Everything is slowly blurring past.

His eyes linger on my own, as if he was looking into my life, for an unsettling amount of time. His eyes are coarse red and puffy, his face looking nauseated. Is this dude high?

I can nearly feel my heart pumping in my throat as my eyes stretch. He charges towards me, knife outstretched, and by nature, I flinch away, impulsively jabbing his side as I clutch my own. Blood scatters all over the damned kitchen, between his and my own. What the fuck?

He collapses to the hardwood floor, his stomach up. My panicked eyes widen at his unconscious form. No thinking whatsoever, I limp to my bathroom and rush through the drawers. Wrapping my side, I flinch with every impact on the slash. My mind runs through every possible scenario, almost adding a pulse to my stress.

He got me good, but I knew better. I'm not going to let them take me down again. No matter what cost.

I grab a rag from my sink, and another from the linen closet. My eardrums bang in my mind, blocking out everything else. It's too quiet.

Not wanting to see what I now realize is the only possible reason he's so still, I gulp with a flinch, bringing my hand to my eyes and forehead. I turn slowly.

I inhale sharply as I approach him, rags in hand, kneeling down. In a desperate panic, I wipe down the floors around the lifeless body. Answerless questions race my mind.

What if the cops come?

What if the neighbors saw?

What if he's not dead?

Who the hell is he?

That last question irks me the most. Why is he here, and who is he? I shake my head at the cloth that's now bathed in blood, and throw it across the room, missing the garbage by a far. That's the least of my problems.

I know how this would work. A young woman acting in self defense against a man? There's nothing the police would believe any less. There's no way to get out of this, I just threw my life away as quickly as that rag. I look at my apartment. What was a crappy room, is now a bloody, crappy room.

A crime scene, if you will.

I hesitantly go back to the still body, my need to know who this guy is taking over. I squint my eyes shut and turn his head up, so it faces the ceiling.

I blink.

Blink twice.

Blink for however long it takes to hit. I don't think the blinking will make it go away, as much as I wish it would. This has to be a dream, right? I couldn't have just killed King Jasper.