The Next One

Chapter Trois

July 8th, 2017

6:30am

By the time I made it back to the hideout, it was almost morning. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, and the sky was the color of crimson. Grayish clouds moved back and forth, dancing across the heavens. The sad thing about the heavens, was that I probably didn't deserve to go there.

Finally, I had arrived at my destination. I tapped on the wide metal door and stepped inside.

Chalky paint fell in fragments. The walls adorned with graffiti of every kind. My favorite one was the graffiti that said 'Fuck the police', because it was true, especially in Max's case. The police may be clever, but none of them have ever been able to find this place. It was hidden in plain sight practically. Blocked off from the public. Some say this used to be a shopping center, but all I know it from was the stories left on the walls.

Every criminal who has ever hidden in this dump has left a mark on the wall. Be it graffiti, gang symbol, or some piece of cynical artwork. Me? Well, back in the day, I used to be an artist. Before murdering became a hobby of mine, I liked portrait sketching for the police. It was my job, before y'know, the incident.

So that's what my mark on these walls were. Spray painted pieces of art on black empty spaces around the hideout. Anyone with a brain would call this graffiti, but I called it art. The walls were adorned with portraits of my victims, their eyes crossed out. The only one without crossed out eyes, was the portrait of Max, which sat further down the hallway. It was sickening to look at, I nearly gagged when I looked at it. Sometimes I believed my art was too accurate for my own good.

My footsteps echoed on the cement floor. From the outside, this place looks like nothing. But in here, I found a home among the filth and graffiti. Not exactly what I had in mind for my future, but it would do for now. If I even attempted to buy an apartment, or return to my old apartment; I'd get arrested immediately. Public appearances had to be short, to the point, and only if completely necessary.

The streets were crawling with police, there was no use risking it if there was no purpose in venturing out. I only really left the complex when I had a new victim or needed food. Or both. I called those murder-snack runs.

"Home sweet home." I kicked the dusty floor. "Ahh, it's good to be back."

I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, careful to watch my step on some of the broken steps. My living quarters was on the second to the top floor. Didn't want people getting in, so I secured it with a lock I had stolen off someone's bike. Super secure. Yep.

It kept the place secret, and nobody usually could get in.

To be quite frank, if someone decided to spend the night in my home, my building, then I would not care to mind. As long as they kept themselves away from my private living quarters on the fifth floor, then they'd be the next victim in my game. Didn't want that. I was an understanding person, just don't go through my private objects and memorabilia.

My living quarters was small. Secured by the locked door, was the floor of what used to be offices. Each office was separated by glass. It was the nicest floor in the entire building, I must admit. I selfishly took the office that had a couch in it. The one on the end. The placard read 'Yelapis Jessinerr". Quite the unique name, and the perfect place for me to rest.

While the office was small, the couch taking up most of the room, it was quite spacious. I added some pillows I had stolen from the nearby Target to the couch, and a blanket I stole from that same Target. Basically, besides murder, I was charged with robbing a Target. It was during a period of time where I didn't have any cash, and my credit card had been declined, so I spent a few months robbing. Then when I got back into killing, I got my cash off the bodies of the victims. Being paid for ending someone's life? Now that was a stable job. Now most of my objects were bought from the local LOOP gas station.

The rest of the room had the essentials. A fresh change of clothes sitting in the corner, a backup bag to snatch in case of a police invasion, various weapons spread across the small desk, ammo, toiletries, and the most important thing of all, my plush bear, Mr. Ferguson.

"Now this," I muttered to myself, "Is the life."