《Kiss to kill me》


 Chapter 1

    The blood smelled like rust, warm and metallic, thickening in the cold air as it soaked into the pavement. It pooled around my sneakers, creeping towards the curb as if it had somewhere important to be. I had read that the human body contained about five liters of blood, but standing there watching it spill out of her felt like much more.


    The streetlight above flickered, bathing the alley in a sickly yellow glow and turning her skin waxy, almost plastic looking. The girl - because that''s what she was, just a girl - lay crumpled against the wall, her hair fanned out like an ink spill. Her face was frozen in a half-surprised, half-pleading expression as if she was still deciding whether this was real, whether she was dying. I wondered if she could see me, if her pupils were still working if somewhere in that broken body she was screaming.


    I couldn''t hear over the ringing in my ears.


    It hadn''t been planned. Of course, it hadn''t. I didn''t do things like this. My fingers clenched into fists, and my nails dug into the palm of my hand, just as they had dug into my wrist as a child when the world didn''t make sense and the numbers didn''t add up. Five steps to the door. Counting the tiles in the kitchen. Organize the books by size, color, and weight. Follow the rules and everything will be safe.


    But there was no time for rules tonight. No time to count, no time to think.


    For a moment I walked, gripping the straps of my rucksack too tightly, lost in the buzz of intrusive thoughts - did I lock the door? Did I leave the cooker on? And then she was there, grabbing my sleeve, her voice high and reedy, asking for something, money maybe, directions, something I couldn''t hear because my brain was already shattering the moment into sharp, jagged pieces. A stranger.


    Touching me. Close. Being way too close.


    I didn''t even remember doing it. My fingers wrapped around the cold metal of my key, the one I always kept between my knuckles when I walked home, and then there was movement, the sharp crack of impact, the stumble, the gasping inhalation that never quite turned into a scream.


    She hit the floor and I stood over her, still clenched, still waiting, still counting the seconds between each shallow breath.


    It shouldn''t feel like this. Guilt. That was what I should feel. This was what normal people felt. I could almost hear the therapist''s voice from years ago, the one my mother forced me to see after I started pulling out my own hair - ''What are you feeling right now, Kathy?


    I didn''t know how to put it. The adrenaline, the sharp clarity in my head, the absolute, all-consuming silence. For the first time in years, the noise in my brain had stopped. No endless counting, no repetitive cycles, no urge to scrub the skin off my hands until they bled. Just silence.


    I exhaled slowly, watching the steam curl in the cold air.


    The girl was still.


    I crouched beside her, as I had seen people do in the films, and pressed two fingers to her throat. Her skin was clammy, her lips already a strange shade of blue. No pulse. Nothing.


    A dead girl, in a back alley, in the middle of the night. And I was the only one here.


    I should run. I had to run.


    But my knees stayed bent, my hands in my lap like a child sitting through a lesson. A quiet pulse of contentment blossomed deep in my ribs, curling around the edges of my thoughts, caressing them like a warm hand sliding down my spine.


    I pressed my lips together and stared down at the body.


    Something was wrong with me. I had always known that.


    And yet, as I reached forward and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers barely trembling, I realized something else. I wasn''t afraid. The body was still warm.


    I didn''t know why I was touching her. Maybe to prove to myself that she was real, that I wasn''t trapped in some fever dream my mind had conjured up to punish me for being the way I was. But when my fingertips brushed the cooling skin of her cheek, I didn''t wake up. I wasn''t jerking upright in bed, gasping for breath, reaching for the bottle of pills I sometimes took but mostly ignored.


    No. I was here. She was here. And she was dead.


    The alley stretched around me, dark and silent, like a confessional without a priest. The world hadn''t stopped for her. The cars in the distance still hummed through the city streets. The neon flicker of a failing motel sign still blinked on and off, an artificial heartbeat, steady and indifferent. A cat scampered across the pavement a few yards away, pausing to look at us - at her, at me - before slipping into the shadows.


    Nothing had changed.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    I could still feel it, that slow, curling thing inside me. A warmth that spread beneath my ribs, melting into the spaces where fear should be. There should have been fear. That would have been the right reaction. Panic. Horror. The kind of sickness that made you collapse against the nearest wall and vomit up everything you had eaten that day. Instead, there was clarity.


    A stillness I had never known, not even as a child, not even when I sat in my room for hours, arranging my books in perfect symmetry, aligning the edges of the paper, counting my breaths, waiting for something inside me to click into place.


    All my life I had been waiting. For something.


    But it wasn''t numbers or patterns or perfectly scrubbed hands that had stopped the noise.


    It was this.


    I closed my eyes and breathed in through my nose. Rust. Asphalt and sweat. And something else - something sweet, almost syrupy, like the smell of overripe fruit left out in the sun too long. It was under my nails. Dark, sticky crescents lined my cuticles, staining the soft skin beneath. I rubbed my thumb against my index finger, feeling the stickiness, watching it smear, clinging to me like an old lover.


    I should have been repulsed.


    Instead, my pulse fluttered, and a shiver ran down my spine, not from cold, not from shock - something far worse.


    A light flickered on in an apartment window above, a rectangle of gold cutting through the darkness. My breath hitched, my body already tensing, bracing for the sound of footsteps, the slam of a door, the scream of discovery.


    But no one came.


    The window closed. The alley remained empty.


    And I was alone again.


    My hands twitched, my brain already working through the steps, clicking through the routine like an old, familiar song. There was a process to it. A rhythm. I just had to follow it.


    1. Clean up the mess.


    2. Erase the evidence.


    3. Make it disappear.


    Simple. Logical. No different to scrubbing the bathroom sink until it shone, until I could see my own reflection staring back at me through the porcelain.


    I looked down at her body, my mind already rearranging the scene, picking apart the puzzle, breaking it into manageable pieces. A girl in, her mid-teens. Blonde. Thin. Dressed like she was meeting someone, maybe sneaking out after curfew. No ID in sight. No purse. Just a phone, the screen now splintered against the concrete, the light still flashing with a missed call.


    Someone would look for her, miss her.


    The realization settled in my chest, dark and warm.


    I could leave her. Walk away, fade back into the night, let someone else find her, let someone else deal with the aftermath.


    Or I could finish this.


    A slow breath in. A slower breath out. My fingers flex, curling into the fabric of my sleeves.


    Control. That''s what this was about. What it had always been about.


    For once in my life, I wasn''t spiraling. For once I was in control.


    I hovered over her body for too long. That was mistake number one. The second was that I liked it.


    The third? Well, I hadn''t got there yet. But I would. I always have. My mind cataloged mistakes like a collector hoarding antiques - lining them up, dusting them, admiring the way they fit together in a perfect, grotesque display.


    I told myself to move. My brain screamed it, a sharp, pulsing demand cutting through the silence. But my body refused, frozen in place, rooted to the pavement as if waiting for something.


    For what? A sign? Some divine condemnation?


    I could hear my mother''s voice, thick with contempt, slurring through the walls of my childhood bedroom - You''re a burden, Kathy.


    Maybe she was right. Maybe she always had been.


    I swallowed, my throat dry, my lungs suddenly too tight in my chest. The euphoria, the warmth, the strange, thrilling rightness of it all was already fading, leaving me hollow, brittle, splintering from the inside out.


    I had to leave.


    I forced myself to take a step back. Another. Another. The toe of my trainers smeared through the blood, drawing it in long, thin streaks across the pavement. Sloppy. Another mistake. Another thing to obsess over later is to pick apart and analyze and hate myself.


    But later didn''t matter. Just now.


    I squatted, fingers trembling as I reached for her phone. The glass bit into my palm as I lifted it, pressing my thumb over the flashing screen. The message was still there. A text.


    Where are you?


    My pulse skipped.


    I turned the phone over, and slammed it against the pavement once, twice, three times, until the screen went black. I shoved it under a dustbin, kicking a few stray pieces of rubbish over it for good measure.


    Not perfect. But better than nothing.


    The air felt colder now. Or maybe that was just me, the adrenaline wearing off, leaving only the ghost of it behind - a dull, static hum under my skin. I wiped my hands on my jeans, half registering the way my fingers were shaking, but I wasn''t afraid of what I''d done. Not afraid of getting caught.


    I was afraid of what would happen when this feeling - the stillness, the control, the perfect, intoxicating silence - was gone. Because I already knew the truth. It wouldn''t last, as it never did.


    I left because it was the logical thing to do.


    Because I had to. Not because I wanted to.


    The alley stretched behind me like a secret, dark and silent, sewn into the city''s veins, hidden between neon lights and the hum of traffic. I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets, and curled my fingers into fists, my nails biting into my palms. Grounding. That''s what my therapist would have called it.


    I almost laughed. If only she knew.


    My breath fogged in the cold air as I slipped through the streets, weaving between groups of people whose faces were blurred by distance, by indifference. No one noticed me. No one ever did. I had perfected the art of being inconspicuous, having been a nuisance to most of the people around me in my childhood.


    Blonde hair, but not too blonde. Eyes too light to be brown, too dark to be blue - something in between, something forgettable. Clothes plain enough to blend in, movements precise but unobtrusive. A shadow, a whisper, a girl with no sharp edges, nothing to remember.


    It was how I survived. It was how I kept myself from crying every day. But tonight something was different.


    A hum in my blood, an itch just under my skin. Like a song without words, looping over and over, endless, insistent. My mind latched onto it, fingers tightening around the melody, unable to let go.


    I had to scrub my hands raw. I had to wipe my phone, burn my clothes, rearrange my books, check the locks five times - 9 times - count my steps from the door to my bed and back again until the numbers felt safe and my brain stopped screaming.


    But most of all, I had to do it again. The thought hit me like a shock of ice water, sudden and electric, spreading through my ribs, my throat, my very core.


    I had been waiting for this.


    I hadn''t even known, not really, not in words or thoughts or plans. But the second it had happened, when my hands had closed around her, when her pulse had fluttered and stopped when her body had gone still, I knew.


    My fingers twitched. A low, shuddering exhale curled past my lips.


    I could stop. I could go home, lock the door, crawl into bed, and pretend this was a mistake, a one-off. I could cry over it, mourn it, feel guilty, tell myself I was a monster, and go through all the motions of someone who regrets something.


    But I wouldn''t. I already knew that. It felt too good. And no one had ever taught me how to walk away from the things that made me feel good. It made me smile.

 Chapter 2

    I went home because that¡¯s what I was supposed to do. Peel off my clothes. Scrub my hands raw. Wipe down every surface. Arrange the books on my shelf until their spines are aligned just right. Check the locks. Then check them again.


    But it was Friday. And Friday meant the bar.


    I did not want to go. I told myself I wouldn¡¯t. I paced my apartment, watching the clock inch toward nine, chanting inside my head that I could break the pattern. I could stay in. I could sit still.


    But I couldn¡¯t. Because it was Friday and I had to.


    My therapist used to tell me that routine could become a prison. She¡¯d sit across from me in her soft gray sweater, speaking in that carefully even tone, and say, You have to break the circle, Kathy. You can¡¯t Break free from it if you isolate yourself.


    I had tried. I had forced myself to skip certain things. I had rearranged, removed, delayed, and battled myself. But it never worked. The pressure only built, growing and twisting inside my ribs until it was unbearable until I had to fix it or I¡¯d unravel completely.


    The bar was part of the cycle now. I hadn¡¯t meant for it to be, but it had slipped in like a silent infection, and now it was a rule.


    Not because I wanted to socialize.


    Not because I enjoyed the drinks.


    So at 8:45, I put on my coat. At 8:50, I locked my door. At 8:51, I unlocked it, then locked it again¡ªthree times, then four, then five, until the click felt right. At 8:55, I left my apartment. At 8:59, I arrived and waited outside so I could walk through the door at point 9.


    The air was thick with liquor and bodies, warm and electric, pulsing with some invisible rhythm I didn¡¯t move to. The same bartender nodded at me, already pouring my usual drink¡ªgin, neat. The same faces hovered in their usual places.


    And then there was him, Sitting alone, legs spread in that lazy, self-assured way, fingers curled loosely around a half-empty glass. On my usual seat. He looked like he had been there for a while. Not drunk, not yet, but loose at the edges.


    His gaze caught me instantly And held me.


    I should have looked away. But something about his stare unsettled me, like he already knew me like he had been waiting for me to arrive.


    I took three seats away from him in the bar, with a nervous feeling in my stomach and the bartender handed me the drink, his eyes on me as always. The look of pity. My fingers hovered over the glass before touching it. A half-second pause. A thought. Then a sip. The first sip always counts.


    I felt him before I heard him.


    A shift of air beside me. The slow approach of footsteps.


    Then his voice, low and amused.


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem like the type to drink alone.¡±


    I turned my head slightly. Close up, his features were even sharper¡ªdark lashes, a mouth made for sin, and a hint of stubble along his jaw.


    He wasn¡¯t sloppy-drunk. Just tipped enough to be bold.


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± I said. ¡°Drink alone, I mean.¡±


    He smirked. ¡°Then who are you drinking with?¡±


    I met his gaze, steady, even, unflinching.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡°Routine,¡± I said.


    He tilted his head, considering. ¡°That¡¯s a terrible drinking partner.¡±


    I let the silence stretch, sipping my gin, and waiting for him to leave.


    He didn¡¯t.


    Instead, he slid into the seat beside me, casually, like this was inevitable.


    ¡°Adrian,¡± he said, offering his hand.


    I stared at it. Then, against every instinct, every rule, every well-rehearsed wall¡ª


    I shook it and looked back at my glass stoically.


    But even with my distant attitude, Adrian didn¡¯t leave.


    He stayed, ordered another drink, and settled into my space like he belonged there. Like he wasn¡¯t a stranger. Like I hadn¡¯t already decided that he was just another face, another passing moment in a night I hadn¡¯t even wanted to be part of.


    ¡°I feel like I should ask what your name is,¡± he said, lazily stirring the ice in his glass. ¡°But I kind of like the mystery.¡±


    I glanced at him over the rim of my drink. Up close, he had the kind of face that made women reckless¡ªsharp jaw, cheekbones that could cut, lips just full enough to make every word seem like a promise. He had an easy confidence, the kind that came naturally, the kind that said he was used to getting what he wanted.


    I didn¡¯t care for men like that.


    ¡°I think I prefer mystery too,¡± I said, setting my drink down.


    His grin widened as if I had given him exactly what he wanted. ¡°Ah, so you do have a playful side.¡±


    I didn¡¯t. But I let him think I did.


    I knew his type¡ªoutgoing, charming, used to the rhythm of flirtation, the chase, the promise of something easy. He was already leaning in just slightly, elbows on the bar, his whole posture screaming I want you to want me.


    But I didn¡¯t play those games.


    I kept my distance, my voice even, my words polite but cool.


    ¡°I come here every Friday,¡± I said. ¡°Not for company. Just for the routine.¡±


    ¡°Routine,¡± he repeated, swirling his drink. ¡°Interesting word. It seems to be your favorite.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a word.¡±


    ¡°Not to you.¡±


    That threw me off, just a little.


    Before I could respond, my fingers started tapping against the wooden bar¡ªsoft, precise, a rhythm I didn¡¯t have to think about. One, two, three. One, two, three. Over and over. A pattern. A tether. A quiet command my body obeyed even when I didn¡¯t want it to.


    Adrian¡¯s gaze flicked down.


    He noticed.


    Most people didn¡¯t. Or if they did, they pretended not to. Or they obviously marked me with their eyes as a lunatic.


    But he just watched for a moment, then said, ¡°That¡¯s an interesting habit.¡±


    I didn¡¯t freeze. I didn¡¯t flinch. I just exhaled and gave him the answer most men would¡¯ve run from.


    ¡°I have OCD,¡± I said it casually like it didn¡¯t matter. Like it wasn¡¯t something that had dictated my entire life. ¡°You know, the crazy kind. The kind people make jokes about until they actually see what it looks like.¡± I picked up my glass and took a slow sip. ¡°That¡¯s the part where you decide to leave.¡±


    But He didn¡¯t leave.


    He didn¡¯t even smirk or didn¡¯t say something stupid or empty.


    I could feel His whole demeanor changed.


    The flirtation faded, not completely, but enough to make space for something else. Something softer.


    His brows drew together slightly like he was thinking¡ªnot searching for a way out, but actually processing.


    Then he said, ¡°Some people are just stupid.¡°


    For the first time in a long time, I had no idea what to say.


    Adrian didn¡¯t look away, Didn¡¯t shift uncomfortably like most people did when they heard something they weren¡¯t equipped to deal with.


    Instead, he just tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was an unsolved riddle.


    ¡°So, is this your therapy?¡± he asked, nodding toward my fingers still tapping against the bar. ¡°Or am I part of an experiment now?¡±


    A flicker of amusement curled at the edge of his mouth, but his tone was careful like he was feeling out the limits of the conversation.


    I exhaled, slowly but couldn¡¯t help but smile. ¡°You are the therapy?¡±


    His brows lifted, intrigued, playfully pouting ¡°We only just met. I don¡¯t even know your name.¡°


    ¡°That¡¯s how therapy works, doesn¡¯t it? You tell a stranger things you¡¯d never tell anyone else.¡±


    His grin was sharp, but his eyes softened. ¡°Then tell me something you never told anyone else.¡±


    I should¡¯ve laughed. Should¡¯ve dismissed the whole conversation before it got too deep, too close, too real. But there was something in his expression that made it impossible to pull away.


    Instead of answering, I let my fingers move again¡ªtapping out their familiar rhythm against the wood. One, two, three. One, two, three. The sound was barely there, but it felt right, like resetting a balance that no one else could see.


    Adrian didn¡¯t interrupt.


    He watched.


    And then, slowly, he reached out and took my hand.


    A small touch, deliberate but gentle. He didn¡¯t squeeze, didn¡¯t try to still my fingers, didn¡¯t even lace his fingers through mine.


    He just held his palm toward my fingers and rested it on the wood.


    My breath hitched, but he didn¡¯t say anything. Just turned my hand over, his thumb brushing against my palm as if tracing invisible lines.


    A silent question. A quiet challenge.


    I answered without thinking.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    Right there, against his skin.


    Adrian¡¯s lips parted slightly, but he didn¡¯t pull away. Didn¡¯t break eye contact.


    Just let me tap. One, two, three. One, two, three. My rhythm, my rules, my control.


    And he let me have it.

 Chapter 3

    The warmth of the alcohol spread through my limbs, dulling the sharp edges of my mind. The night air outside was crisp, cutting through the remnants of our drinks like a blade. We didn¡¯t say much as we walked, just let the weight of the evening settle between us. Adrian had his hands in his pockets, his stride easy, unbothered. I, on the other hand, counted each step. One, two, three. One, two, three. A rhythm to keep me grounded.


    The market square was empty at this hour, the shops closed, the cobblestone streets slick from the light drizzle that had passed earlier. The old fountain in the center still gurgled softly, the only sound apart from the occasional rustling of trees. We sat at the edge of it, the stone cool beneath us.


    Adrian stretched his arms out behind him, tilting his head back. ¡°I like this,¡± he murmured. ¡°Being out here when the world is quiet.¡± I exhaled slowly. ¡°Fewer people. Less noise.¡±


    ¡°Less bullshit.¡± That made me laugh, just a little.


    For a while, we just existed¡ªhe relaxed, me tapping absentmindedly against the stone of a fountain. His eyes flickered to my fingers but he didn¡¯t comment this time. Then, out of nowhere, I asked, ¡°Have you ever done something stupid?¡±


    He smirked, running a hand through his dark hair. ¡°Oh, all the time. I think that¡¯s just being human.¡± I turned to look at him. ¡°Have you ever¡­ hurt someone with it? I mean, by accident?¡± His expression shifted slightly, not alarmed, not suspicious, just obviously considering. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said finally. ¡°Of course. Everyone does that at some point.¡±


    My heart pounded.


    ¡°But it¡¯s not like I wanted to. I¡¯m not proud of it is what I¡¯m trying to say,¡± he added. That part stuck in my head. It¡¯s not like I wanted to. I swallowed. The alcohol made it easier to say things I normally wouldn¡¯t. ¡°Nobody ever listened to me like this before,¡± I admitted.


    Adrian turned his head to look at me, really look at me, like he was searching for something beyond the words. ¡°Maybe they weren¡¯t the right people.¡±


    The words settled over me like a strange kind of comfort. ¡°This is getting too deep for this time¡±, he started laughing loudly with a chuckle that made me laugh too, but I immediately turned my head down to silence it by pressing my lips together. I suddenly remembered what I had done before the bar. The so-called ¡°hurt by accident¡±. But in my case, it was a full-blown unalivement, which I almost spilled to a complete stranger.


    He shifted slightly, his knee brushing against mine. ¡°We could meet again tomorrow,¡± he said, voice smooth, almost teasing. ¡°Same time, same bar.¡± A pause. Then, ¡°As a routine.¡± That made me smile again.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Or,¡± he continued, tilting his head, ¡°do you have another routine for Saturdays?¡± I hesitated for a split second too long.


    His lips twitched like he¡¯d caught it. Like he knew there was something there, something behind my careful pauses and measured words.


    ¡°Why?¡± I asked, tilting my head slightly.


    Adrian opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, I let out a dry, breathy laugh. ¡°Wait, let me guess,¡± I said, smirking. ¡°You got drunk in a bar, saw a hot girl, thought maybe tonight¡¯s your lucky night, and somehow¡ª¡± I gestured between us. ¡°¡ªthis happened instead. And now you¡¯re here, doing some free therapy session with a lunatic instead of getting laid.¡±


    His brows flicked up in amusement, but I could see the way his jaw tightened just slightly like he wasn¡¯t used to people putting words in his mouth. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I said before he could respond. ¡°You¡¯re free to go now. No hard feelings. I got caught up in things. My fault.¡± I flashed him a smile that didn¡¯t reach my eyes. ¡°Have a good night.¡±


    Adrian leaned back slightly, watching me with a look I couldn¡¯t quite read. I exhaled sharply. ¡°You don¡¯t have to be nice about it either. I get it. You¡¯re a nice guy. You don¡¯t want to hurt my feelings, but it¡¯s fine. I¡¯m good.¡±


    For the first time tonight, he actually seemed startled. Not offended. Just almost a bit thrown off. Like he hadn¡¯t expected me to pull the rug out from under him first. For a moment, he just stared at me, fingers flexing slightly against the stone of the fountain. Then, without a word, he pushed himself up, brushing off his jeans.


    I felt a strange pang in my chest as he took a step back. But then, he turned again. Met my eyes.


    And with that same smooth, unreadable expression, he said, ¡°See you tomorrow. At Nine.¡± And just like that, he walked away.


    ¡°Listen,¡± I called after him, my voice sharper than I intended. ¡°I won¡¯t be there.¡± He didn¡¯t stop walking.


    ¡°I could be a killer, you know,¡± I added, folding my arms across my chest. And well, that wasn¡¯t even a lie. It was meant to be sarcastic, biting, something to put distance between us before it could get whatever the hell this was turning into.


    Adrian lifted a hand in a lazy wave, his back still turned to me. ¡°Don¡¯t mind.¡± I blinked as he kept walking.


    ¡°You don¡¯t even know my name!¡± I yelled, feeling some strange frustration bubbling up in me, a mixture of disbelief and something I didn¡¯t want to name.


    He didn¡¯t stop. Didn¡¯t even slow down.


    ¡°I¡¯m Kathy. My name is Kathy.¡±, I don¡¯t know what the hell is driving me right now.  That made him turn. Walking backward now, his hands tucked into his pockets, his smile¡ªGod, that smile¡ªstretching wide and easy across his whole face.


    ¡°See you tomorrow at nine, Kathy.¡±


    And then he was gone in the shadows.


    For a moment, I just stood there, the cool night air pressing against my skin, my heart pounding against my ribs in an uneven rhythm.


    One, two, three. One, two¡ªshit. No.


    I shook my head, exhaling hard as I turned in the opposite direction. I needed to get home. I needed to reset. This was a joke. A fluke. A random encounter that meant nothing.


    And yet as I walked, counting my steps, feeling the usual urges creeping up at the edges of my mind, something was off. The sharp, crawling need to fix everything in my head, to make sure the world was in its right order¡ªit was still there but muted.


    Almost dulled, like something else had distracted it, like something else had taken its place.


    A ridiculous thought bloomed in my head. One I immediately pushed down, buried, and denied.


    But as much as I wanted to pretend otherwise, my heart was doing something it hadn¡¯t done in a long time. Or had it ever?