Page 2 of Done Waiting

Exiting the building, the cool breeze rolls across my heated skin. Sneering at Jimmy as I toss him on the ground, I say, “It’s your lucky day, Jimmy boy. You get to live a little longer.” Pulling Randy’s gun from the waist of my pants, I shoot him in the kneecap to ensure he can’t go anywhere, even though he’s tied and bound. “I need something from you before I kill you.”

He howls from the pain, jerking around like a fish out of water before he finally loses consciousness.

Although there is seldom anyone this far out in the wilderness except the three clowns I just shot, I survey the area. Once I’m sure it’s clear, I grab my backpack before heading back inside.

After plugging in the ancient heater, I turn it on high, then move the old cans of gasoline right beside it. The heater has a rancid smell coming from it and is clearly a fire hazard. Wrinkling my nose, I remove the lids from the gasoline cans, then kick one over haphazardly.

Walking over to Chad, I remove the lighter fluid from my backpack. Standing, I pour it over his dead body, then drag him to one of the ancient couches, slumping his body over as though he passed out. Then I do the same with Randy, putting him on the other dingy couch.

Swiping two empty beer cans from the table, I wrap their hands around the cans, glad rigor mortis hasn’t set in.

Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I walk back to the heater, knocking it over with my foot.

“See you in hell, assholes,” I say as I walk past Randy and Chad’s corpses. As my gloved hand grabs the doorknob, I give the disgusting man cave one final disgusted look before pulling the door closed behind me.

My eyes dart around as I move to Jimmy. Nothing is amiss. I hoist his unconscious body over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes before heading to the tree line.

The flames flicker inside the building, smoke rolling out of it, as I walk amongst the trees, heading in the direction of my truck hidden nearby.

Once I reach it, I throw Jimmy into the extended cab, grab the tape from my backpack, and tape his mouth shut.

Jumping inside my truck, I pull off my gloves, throwing them inside the plastic bag that sits on the floor. Putting my key in the ignition, I start my truck. Metallica’s “Fuel” fills the cab of my truck. Smiling, I open the console beside me, grab my pack of cigarettes and the lighter, and then shut it. Cracking the window to let in the cool night air, I light one up while watching the flames leap higher into the sky. Taking a long drag of my cigarette, I gleefully watch the building burn.

Once the roof caves in, I smile, then put my truck in gear and press the accelerator. A sense of calmness washes over me as my cigarette dangles from my lips.

I take a different route than I normally would, choosing the long, secluded road that will eventually lead to the mountains, where I’ll take Jimmy, torturing the newest member of the Falls Creek Police Department.

Too bad you became friends with her dad, Jimmy Boy. It made you a target.

1

MADISON

Tears course down my cheeks as I stand at my father’s graveside, the leaves falling from the trees around us, floating on the breeze. My gaze tracks to a brown, withered maple leaf scampering across the ground, dead and pathetic looking. It looks like I feel. Alone and lifeless.

My dad was my best friend. Now that he’s dead, I’m bereft, a hollow shell of who I used to be.

God, I miss him.

My mother stands on the left side of me, her arm wrapped around my shoulders, but I barely feel it. I think she squeezes me, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s hard to feelanything.

My father, Michael Jacobs, only forty-three years old, is gone. Although I didn’t witness the motorcycle accident that claimed his life, the horrific condition of the crumpled bike haunts me day and night. I hope his death was instantaneous. The thought of him suffering nearly kills me.

Like a bad dream, my mind goes back to that fateful day I found out he was dead, every detail clamoring inside my head.

A day I wish I could forget.

Or better yet, one that never happened.

My cell phone rings as I walk inside the empty apartment I share with my boyfriend, Ben Cromwell, and my best friend, Chloe Jenkins. Both are working at Rizzo’s Bistro until 9:30 p.m. tonight so all is quiet and still in the apartment.

Flicking on the lights, I set my purse on the table beside the doorway. Retrieving my phone from it, I smile when I look at the screen. “Hi, Mom.”

Instead of her normal greeting, hysterical crying greets me.

This can’t be my mom. She seldom cries, let alone sobs hysterically.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” My feet are rooted to the spot, and I hold my breath, desperate to hear what has caused my normally unshakably calm mother to lose her mind.

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