On the state borderline of Vermont and Massachusetts, in the middle of the vast forestry is a lone lakeside cabin on the perimeter of Serenity Hills, a small mountain town that is anything but peaceful. Inside the cabin in the living room is Brayden Jenkins, a cynical young man whose whole life has revolved around intimidation and death. All of his uncle's numerous assorted firearms from the gun case on display are laid out on the coffee table as he sits on the couch doing his weekly routine of cleaning each one and checking for defects. He checks his wristwatch and sees it is past one in the morning. She should've been here by now, he thinks to himself. Looking to his left at the front door, only silence fills the room with whipping winds whistling outside the windows.
Suddenly, as if on cue, somebody rings the front doorbell. Brayden immediately gets up, and when he opens the door, there she is. Michaela, with really long orange hair and blood-stained hands, is standing on his doorstep. She's breathing heavily and distorted. Her head is bowed, gazing at her own two mud-covered white sneakers. In her left hand, she is carrying a plastic shopping bag full of snacks from the convenient store in town, and in her right, she grips tighter onto the bloody pocketknife. So tight that her knuckles are turning white.
"You're late," Brayden reprimands her, "What took you so long? Does being on time mean nothing to you?"
Michaela doesn't respond. Her head is bowed with her pale, overly freckled face is drawn to the floor, and her whole body is trembling.
Brayden tries reaching one hand out to pull her inside before someone sees them, even though they're in the middle of the woods on the outskirts of town. But before he can touch her, she lifts her head up and tilts it to one side. Her eyes, like twin blue moons, once empty and void of purpose, are now staring at him with a glow of pure malice.
A vindictive serial killer's smile crosses her lips as she says, "I did good, didn't I?"
As if to add dramatic effects to the moment, a flash of lightning strikes in the surrounding forest, merely a few trees away from the cabin hideout. Thunder booms directly overhead almost instantaneously. There's a severe storm brewing and coming in from the west, but it pales in comparison to the one raging inside of her right now.
Brayden can tell that she has done something bad. Really bad. Was it a mistake to give her the knife in the first place?
The winds are starting to pick up, rustling all the tree branches and blowing Michaela's long orange hair to one side. Brayden doesn't think twice when he grabs her by the arm and quickly drags her inside. He makes sure to clutch her wrist of the hand that's holding the knife in case she tries to stab him, and judging by the crazy look in her eyes, she just might.
Once she's inside, he notices splatters of blood in her hair as the strands glow bright orange under the artificial yellow light and flow behind her as he pulls her inside and slams the door shut. Her clothes, mostly the sleeves of her light blue blouse, also have bloodstains, and it looks like washing them out is no longer an option. Brayden is going to have to let her borrow one of his shirts again. At this rate, he'll need to go clothes shopping for both of them.
Still dragging her, he leads her into the living room and has her sit on the couch. She drops the plastic bag onto the floor in front of the couch, and it falls over with boxes of cookies and crackers tumbling out. He then releases his grip on her arm, but she surprisingly doesn't make a move like he expects. Either she's too tired or her sanity is gradually returning. Brayden is standing in front of her, his tall figure looming over her and his shadow cast over her small body. After a moment, he holds out his hand and asks, "Michaela, can you please give me the knife?"
Since he's giving her a choice by asking her instead of telling her as well as using the word "please" in his question, hopefully she won't feel the need to be hostile. While avoiding eye contact, Michaela slowly lifts her arm up towards him and releases her grip on the knife's handle, allowing Brayden to grab it from her calmly and gently. If he were to snatch it from her, she may have second thoughts.
The blade is slick and coated in blood. Keeping the murder weapon isn't a wise idea, but they're already low on resources as it is, and, somehow, since it has always been with Brayden growing up, parting with it just doesn't sit right with him.
He looks back at her and she's shaking like a leaf. Unintentionally, he grabs one of the blankets laying on the couch, unfolding it and draping it over her shoulders. She looks up at him again, but her serial killer's smile fades along with the overwhelming glow of malice in her eyes, which is but a small blue glimmer now. She's reverting back to her normal, pitiful self.
Brayden heaves a sigh and decides to go wash off the blood from the knife in the kitchen sink. Walking over there with the open floor plan of the room giving him access to continue monitoring her behavior that is getting worse, and he knows damn well why.
He turns the faucet on the hot water setting and steam bellowed above as he pours dish washing soap on the blade. Only the hottest water is enough to clean off blood from a pocket weapon. It's a trick his uncle taught him when he was little.
An awkward silence fills the entire cabin. Outside, the rain has already started as it patters heavily on the windows. Sounds more like a beastly woodland critter tapping the tips of all its claws on the glass over and over again. The television is still showing an old gangster movie that plays on a cheesy rerun channel, and the current scene displays a bunch of mobsters shooting repeatedly in a firefight. Brayden realizes it's probably not the best thing for her to be watching after what she just did. With as much tension in the air as there already is, he decides he needs to ask her, "So, uh, Michaela, was the person you killed someone you knew?"
He uses her name as if to show significance, trying to give the impression that he is interested in her. If she thinks he wants to know more about her, the feelings of comfort and desiring to express oneself will follow, and she will enlighten his so-called curiosity. But that does not happen. About a minute passes and he doesn't hear her reply. He turns his head to look at her, and for the first time, he can't tell what emotion she is feeling. She sits there still like a statue, her hands clasped at her chest like she is praying. But he can say for sure that she definitely knew the person in some way. He saw it in her eyes. Who they were would remain a mystery.
"I did good…I had to have done good, right? …I must have…" she repeats to herself in a whisper as if to reassure herself that the wrong she has committed is the right thing to do, yet there's no emotion in her voice or her face.
Brayden is not unnerved by this, though. He's honestly had more than enough moments in his own life where he didn't like someone and just chose to get rid of them. He totally understands where she's coming from, and an analogous situation happened to her while she was out tonight.
Michaela's eyes are glued to the television, and only then Brayden notices he left his uncle's gun scattered out on the coffee table in front of the girl. It doesn't seem safe or like a good influence, but thankfully they're all unloaded and with the safety on. Even if she does try to grab one and make off with it, she won't get far before realizing the empty cartridge, and only Brayden knows where the extras are hidden. He then glances over at her through the corner of his eye and yells across the room, "You should really take a shower to get all that blood out of your hair."
"I'm too tired…I don't feel like taking a shower now," she says, surprisingly serious.
"How do you expect to not get bloodstains on the pillows?" Brayden inquires.
Michaela responds with, "I'll wrap my hair in a towel."
"If not tonight, then definitely take a shower tomorrow," he sighs again as he is getting down to the nitty gritty of scrubbing the bloody knife.
Once it's clean, he leaves it in the dishrack to dry. He next grabs a spare dishcloth and soaks it in warm water from the sink, ringing it out, and then carries it over to Michaela. She seems in trance from the violent and gory movie flicks on the tv screen, but moments later, when she finally notices him standing over her, she just stares up at his face as he holds out the cloth to her in one hand.
"Here. At least use this to clean the blood off of your hands," he tells her.
She slowly and delicately takes the damp cloth and begins wiping her own two hands with it. She hardly puts any effort into scrubbing, though, like she doesn't want to get clean. Like she doesn't care if her skin is covered in someone else's blood, as if she's marking it as a trophy or a symbol, like a reminder of her actions. That's just gross.
Without thinking, Brayden sits down on the other end of the couch. Many moments of quietness pass after Michaela finishes wiping her hands and holds onto the dishcloth with her hands in her lap. They are both watching the tv just as the movie showing switches over to a less suspenseful scene depicting the mobster's family and their everyday life at home, which is uncomfortably full of swearing and kissing.
However, it doesn't take long until Michaela breaks the silence by wondering aloud, "How come those people are so capable of outflanking the police?"
That's a strange question. Brayden thinks as he just stares at her. Then she turns her gaze to me, and after merely staring at each other for what feels minutes, he asks, "What?"
"It's just…the people in this movie are criminals and killers, aren't they?" she expands her thinking.
"So what if they are?" he inquires.
"I'm curious," she continues, "People who have killed another or are trying to kill another are criminals, right? Criminals have to be arrested by the police and taken to jail. But these killers are roaming freely on the streets, and aside from them constantly looking over their shoulders, they act totally normal while they're carrying guns and knives and other kinds of weapons on them. And they just keep going on killing others."
Brayden asks, "And your point is?"
She stares at him. Michaela is making about as much sense as a five-year-old kid's logic trying to process after having discovered what adultery is. It soon hits Brayden that she's really looking for an answer to this thing that seems to be deeply puzzling her. It frustrates him and he clenches his fists out of being annoyed, but then he decides to along with the conversation.
"Uh, first of all, those people are part of a very discrete underworld network of groups of families with particular ethnic backgrounds dating back a couple hundred years when immigrants were still piling into the U.S.," he takes a huge inhale before continuing, "And they can get away with their crimes like killing because it's virtually not possible to track them all down."
"How do they do it, though?" she questions.
Brayden sighs before speaking again, "I don't know. Something to do with police records, I guess. Besides, they're more in the big city. We're in a small town. There's a significant difference to how much ground they can cover."
"But if the police had those records, they could arrest those criminals?"
"Like I said, it's not possible."
"Why, then?"
"What is it about this that's making you so interested, anyway?" Brayden really doesn't need to ask, but he feels like he should.
Michaela pauses to think of what words to use to respond, "Don't you think it's wrong to let a killer not be in jail? I mean, they committed something unforgivable. And if they're unwilling to atone for their sins, what should they do?"
He can tell right off the bat who she's talking about, "Well it's not like you're in the clear, either. You've probably got as much blood on your hands as I do," he states, finally fed up with this.
This only makes Michaela tense up even more. Her eyes are wide as if she has just come to a horrifying realization, and she can no longer make eye contact with me. At the same time, the conversation stops, to Brayden's relief, and he looks back at the television but doesn't really pay any attention to the movie's plot.
Minutes pass like this, and the awkwardness is only growing. He cannot help but feel he's made things worse for the orange-haired girl sitting a mere few inches away. Being considerate of someone else, he doesn't like it. It sickens him to his core.
Suddenly, Michaela whispers, "I don't want to go to jail."
"Don't tell anyone else what you did," he added.
"But surely someone will find the body eventually, and there will be evidence. Then the police will get involved. It's only a matter of time."
"Go into hiding, then."
"But the people I live with will realize I'm gone and report me missing."
"Leave town."
"With what money? And even then I'd still get caught."
"Change your identity."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Well, I don't know what else you want from me!" Brayden finally snaps.
He glances back at her, and he sees she has become a shaking nervous wreck. The sclera in her eyes are all red and watering up, trying to hold back the tears.
She knows what she did was wrong, but it didn't matter to her at the moment. This girl has a good sense of judgement between what's right and what's wrong, but it gets clouded up when she gets emotional. And when it does, eradicating the source of her problem is the only thing on her mind.
It's not particularly different from Brayden when he was little. He still remembers the way it felt when he was hit. Even the aftershock of how he'd stab or shoot the bastards.
"Even so, I appreciate it," Michaela comments unexpectedly.
"What do you mean?"
"You know. You've let me stay here for these past few days. It's really nice having someone else to talk to, don't you think?"
He's baffled, but I still reply, "I'm used to being alone. But I guess…it can get boring here sometimes."
"Right."
Silence takes over again, and we are left with our own thoughts. She must be wondering how much longer she has until the worst case scenario, and it's making her shudder with fear. She's squeezing her crossed arms in her shaky clenched hands, and a look of sheer terror fills her face with her lips slightly parted and shaped into a small O. Her bright orange bangs create a dark shadow over her eyes that grow wider with each horrible new thought that pops into her head.
Brayden glances through the corner of his eye and notice the situation is finally taking a toll on the poor girl. He's a sucker for watching other people suffer, but for whatever reason, it sits like a rock in his gut when it's her. So he decides to take a different approach, one he's not used to. Regardless, he sucks it up by swallowing his revulsion and says, "Look, if you need to get something off your chest at some point, it's not like I'm going anywhere."
Michaela loosens her grip and lowers her arms when she turns her gaze to him, "…You'll really listen?"
"I'll try. Maybe only get the gist of it." he leans his right cheek into the palm of his hand.
A glimmer of hope sparks in her eyes, as if his selfish, purposely neglectful answer is what she's been waiting to hear her whole life.
She then looks back at the TV screen as the movie showing reaches its climax. For a moment, she holds her breath during the fight scene. No guns this time, just bare knuckle. Poorly produced actions, but to her is authentic and relatable, and then one of the main characters gets killed off. Anything but a realistic death, with heart-wrenching last words from the victim and overdramatic effects.
Then she suddenly asks, "Do you think things can ever go back to normal after this?"
Unfortunately, he has no answer. All the more aggravating in the end.
No longer in the mood to keep talking, Brayden stands back up and starts to gather an armful at a time of the guns still resting on the coffee table to put them away. The case that stores them is right in the living room.
He can sense Michaela's cold and vacant eyes staring intently at me as I begin to stock each gun to their proper shelf, drawer, and hooks. He feels quite uneasy and a shiver runs up his spine, but he doesn't let catch on to the fact that he's getting nervous.
Once he finishes, he makes sure the case is closed and locked, jiggling the handles a few times to ensure its security, and then he takes a glance out the window. The storm's really whipping up out there. Winds howl outside, and another flash of lightning crashes in the darkness, briefly lighting up the outlines of the surrounding trees. He doesn't see how anyone can make it through, especially in the dark, dark woods. He sighs upon my reluctant decision to let Michaela stay the night again.
Then he turns to look back at her. She hasn't moved from her spot on the couch. Her face is drawn back to the television screen (did he just make it up that she was eerily glaring at him before?) with her eyelids half shut. She blinks several times very slowly, and her head looks like it's ready to collapse forward as it keeps dipping forward but catches herself every time.
"You should probably get some sleep," Brayden says, pointing his index finger towards the hallway where the bedrooms are, "You can stay the night here. There's no way I'm not letting you out in this storm. So get to bed now."
She yawns loudly, "But I…I don't think I can…stand up right now."
"Well I'm not carrying you to bed, if you think that's going to happen," he practically shouts, and he can tell how exhausted she is, but he still doesn't hold back.
"It's fine," she tries to reassure, "I'll just sleep right here tonight," and as she says it, she shifts her body sideways, pulling her legs up onto the couch and laying her head on one of the throw pillows. She starts curling her body, wriggling her legs around beneath the blanket she's still tucked under. Her knees bend just enough to reach her chest, and then she closes her eyes and immediately drifts off. She's making herself quite at home, it seems.
It infuriates him, but all Brayden does is let an irritated "Tch!" escape from my lips before he walks over to turn off the television with the remote control. Pressing the power button, the screen fades to black during a cliché movie scene where the hero (or anti-hero) confronts the bad guys.
He takes one last look at Michaela who is already sleeping soundly, barely budging and getting blood on the throw pillows. A small smile crosses her lips. She might be feeling better, and he can't help but wonder what she's dreaming about, but then he shakes off those thoughts, disgusted with himself.
Stifling a yawn, he decides to go to sleep, too. He walks over to the entrance of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, and he flicks the light switch to the living room off before he continues to his bedroom. Leaving the door open so he can keep any activities in the living room within earshot, the light of the hallway seeps into the room. It doesn't bother him, and he realizes how tired he is after another entire day of being agitated from thinking and worrying about her.
He plops down on his stomach onto the bed and shuts his eyes slowly, trying to convince himself nothing will go wrong in the night. Not that it has yet, but his better judgement keeps screaming that she might try to get into the gun case if he lets his guard down. It's a rough fifty-fifty chance. But he's so sleepy that his mind succumbs to sleep within seconds, and the dream he is met with is the same recuring one that is more of a recollection from his childhood.
Brayden was just a little boy when it happened, and it happened on a regular basis. He watched from a close distance, shovel ready in hand, as the sensibly insane gunman pinned his victim to the ground. They were in the middle of the forest, so no one could hear them scream. The targeted man was bleeding profusely from the head, with barely any energy to grip the ankle of the heavy boot that had stomped on top of his chest.
The gunman who just happened to be Brayden's uncle, stared into the poor bastard's eyes like how a predator sees its prey. To him, his job was also a sport, but instead of wild animals, he was hunting people. And he always inquired while aiming the barrel of his rifle at the target's head before finishing the job, "So tell me, what does it feel like now that you're going to die?"
But whether they answered or not, with a curse or a whimper, things always ended with a loud BANG!
And young Brayden always got a front row seat.