"Think you can take me?" I arched an eyebrow.
"Are you doubting me?" She answered.
//
Natalie Perkins, born in London. The FBI is after her for the assassination of fourteen men. All of them brutally murdered one day of the week, all of them left wi...
I get overwhelmed so easily My anxiety creeps inside of me Makes it hard to breathe What's come over me Feels like I'm somebody else
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I missed Zayn. I had been missing him all week because he was traveling. He always traveled, therefore I had told him to come to my place tonight because I knew we were both free. Plus, I needed to talk.
Talking to him was one of the best things I could do when I felt conflicted. He was good at both listening and giving advice, and I appreciated him always trying to help me through my problems. Still, I somehow knew we would either end up or start it having sex. That was a fact.
I was sitting on my couch. Well, actually, I was sprawled on my couch, because I was upside down with my head hanging close to the floor and my legs bent over the backrest. I wasn't looking at anything specifically, just lost in my thoughts and doing all the usual overthinking I did when something didn't feel right. Nothing felt right at the moment. The FBI was one step away from discovering my identity and my anxiety was all over the place.
Harry Styles was following me, and I was already failing to achieve my main goal. Everything was so fucking frustrating and it was in times like this I wished killing wasn't illegal.
How the hell did he found out about the warehouse? The D.M.G. assured to me that place had been abandoned and untouched for more than a decade now. I was surprised it was still standing. In fact, it was really well cleaned and in perfect state. I thought maybe the D.M.G. was confused about it being abandoned, but the place was deserted 24/7.
The FBI knowing of its existence forced me to change my whole plan and location choice. Now, I needed to contact the D.M.G. - which was no easy thing - to tell them I needed a new place.
Besides, the agents had followed me after the whole episode with Desmond happened. My Toyota didn't have a plate because I had pulled it off in case this happened, which meant it would take the FBI longer to track me. But I wasn't naive, I knew there were other ways of searching for a car, and they would eventually come up with my whereabouts. I was complete and utterly fucked.
My mind still couldn't process over the fact my flawless thought-through plan had been figured out. It wasn't that hard, because the pattern was easy, but no one was ever supposed to know my gender, my name, my appearance or the places I had chosen. They had discovered absolutely everything except for my name, and now I was practically doomed. My brain ached with the mere thought of going to jail.
I had never in my nine years of second life been any close to the police like I was now. I was so fucking clueless about why the CIA was so interested in my case, enough to contact the FBI instead of the cops. I was kind of like a regular killer, wasn't I?
I also knew how prisons worked. It was all about your ranking. The hierarchical triangle in prison worked according to your strength, fighting skills and reason why you were sentenced. If you had been sent to jail for robbing a candy shop or something akin, then you were way down in the triangle and absolutely nobody respected or cared about you. Now, if you were someone like me, who had a body count of more than a hundred corpses, you were highly respected and idolized. My body count was on 233, I would've ruled prison.
