Page 29 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I scolded myself out loud as I washed it down with water and a pink Starburst flavor packet.

Now I have to pee.

But I can’t leave. Obviously.

What if he shows the moment I duck into the 24-hour bodega to beg for access to their questionable bathroom that probably requires a key chained to a hubcap?

No. I’m committed.

So far, I’ve jotted down twelve license plates (two might be duplicates—I got distracted by a cat). A pigeon flapped too close and scared me.

I’ve received four updates from my mother, now on chapter thirty-seven of her fairy smut saga and apparently thriving.

According to her, the shadow prince can make multiple replicas of himself—each with fully functional, anatomically accurate parts.

Of course he can.

Sebastian sent me dating profiles while on his own date. That tells you everything.

He’s either asleep or mid-quickie with someone from his roster.

We couldn’t be more different about sex.

Sebastian talks about it nonstop. I avoid it.

We balance each other out.

I stare out the windshield. One leg jiggling. My silver dollar flips steadily over my knuckles as I watch the apartment across the street.

Mariela’s fire escape is still. No movement. No lights.

I don’t know what I’m expecting.

Part of me wants him to show—just to prove I’m not losing my mind. To catch something. A threat. Evidence.

But the other part is terrified.

Because if he comes… what then?

What if he sees me?

What if he walks up, smashes the window, drags me out by the hair?

I picture it so vividly it feels like memory.

Glass shattering. Blood. Fingers knotted in my hair.

Adrenaline would hit fast. Enough to keep me silent. Enough to fight.

I’d grab the knife and swing. Hope for pain. Hope for blood.

I spiral too far into the daydream down to the exact choreography.

Low first. The thigh. Then the gut. Then maybe up—fast and frantic—like I’m trying to erase his face from the inside out.

It’s a coping mechanism.

Maladaptive daydreaming.

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