His breath was ragged, forced puffs of air between his clenched teeth, sweat glistening on him in the moonlight. A man’s body laid at his feet, blood pooling on the ground from a bullet wound located in his chest. Slowly his breathing calmed as he watched the way the body just sat there, fresh pickings for anything hungry enough to come near the area.
He wiped away the sweat on his brow with the bottom of his shirt, cringing at the smell of blood and dirt on him, knowing he’d need to bathe. He couldn’t help but pity the poor fucker, lazily kicking the fresh corpse, grimacing at the way the limp body gave way to the toe of his boot, blood bubbling out of the gaping wound like soda out of freshly popped can. He felt warm blood splash onto his leg, quickly cooling in the chilly night air, beginning to feel like he had dunked his leg into river water.
He lingered around the body, almost feeling a sort of pity, squatting down and reaching into the bloodied mess of a hole he had left in this poor man and feeling around until he dug out the bullet, tossing it into a bush.
“Least I could do for ya,” he mumbled to the corpse, wiping his hand off on his pant leg before he heard someone calling his name.
“Cyril,” a woman’s voice rang out. It was marked with exhaustion and a nondescript accent, her words muffled by a cloth mask, her sharp eyes glaring pointedly at the other.
“Charlotte,” he responded, as if it was a greeting, avoiding her stare like a dog being reprimanded for chewing a slipper.
“Stop rendezvousing with the corpses and hurry back to the van,” she continued. “We already have another target, you can’t just sit around making out with every dead body you stumble upon.”
“I wasn’t making out with it.”
“Well you were doing something God frowns upon either way.”
“Do you really think God looks at either of us anymore?”
“Bastard better be. I don’t do this shit to not have a nice seat in Hell.”
Cyril couldn’t help but laugh at her words, standing up and shaking his head. He watched her turn around sharply on the balls of her feet, her head cocking to the side as if to tell him to follow her. He didn’t say anything, he merely did as he was told. He didn’t have it in him to fight anyways. Neither of them did.
As they reached the van he tiredly climbed into the cleared out back, the only seats being the front two, the bed of it being split into two basic areas, a spot to sleep, and a spot to store supplies. They took turns driving while the other rested, though rest was still a hard pressed luxury to them both. It was hard to come by when your life consisted of murder and torture.
He slipped his boots off, tossing them in the far corner, frowning at the streaks of red they left, not saying much as he got cozied up under a blanket, the hard floor of the van uncomfortable but he could live with it until they could stop at a motel for the night. He tossed about thoughts in his head before hearing the sound of the driver seat door close.
“Hey Lotte?” He started.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Aren’t you tired of all this?” He continued, not giving much thought to her protests. “It’s getting kind of boring isn’t it?”
There was a pause as the van started up, the rumbling of the engine pulsing through Cyril’s back, leaving him with the knowledge he’d be in serious pain later. The noise almost drowned out the sound of Lotte sucking in a breath, as if bracing for a punch. “So what if it is? You and I both could use the cash.”
He looked up at her for a moment before letting his gaze settle back on the blood streaked upon the van wall. “I guess you’re right about that.”
He half heartedly closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep, though he knew it’d be a while before he could actually doze off, the sharp pain of every bump as Lotte drove striking right into his spine. It was a miracle he could still bring himself to work every day, but he had to do what was necessary to survive in this life.
Eventually exhaustion gripped into him, dragging him to sleep, though it wasn’t really restful. He eventually was awoken with a sharp pain in his side, the heel of Lotte’s shoe pressed into his gut. He lazily banged on the floor of the van.
“Uncle, uncle,” he huffed out. She moved her foot, watching him sit up, a groan escaping him as he did. “God, you’re such a bitch.”
“You deserve worse.”
“So what? Didn’t have to give me a surprise kidney transplant.”
“Stop whining.”
He frowned but didn’t say anything else, sitting up, pulling his knees up to his chest as he looked for where his boots might have tumbled off to, finding them under a shovel that was wedged between a heavy box full of their clothes and a locked trunk equally heavy that Cyril never questioned Lotte about. He didn’t want to know, in all honesty. He fished the boots out and slipped them on, sliding out of the van, stretching and hissing in pain as his back popped.
He looked around to get a bearing on his surroundings. They had stopped at a bar, probably a few miles from the main area of the town, the forests they had just previously been in not far behind them, but still suffocatingly close.
He shook the feeling off, just walking along a rocky footpath up to the bar, clearing his throat. He sure as hell looked a mess but he knew deep down no one would question him. It was about three in the morning, most fuckers in this place would already be completely plastered, he didn’t have to worry too much.
Lotte slipped him a note detailing the person he was looking for before she returned to the van to get a bit of rest herself. He couldn’t blame her. He shook his head as if to clear his brain of any thoughts before walking into the building, the smell of alcohol and smoke filling his nose and making him feel sick, but all the same it felt better than the smells of the forest and dead bodies.
He read over the note two, three times, his eyes half heartedly scanning the crowd within the bar, most people gone but those who lingered equally if not more tired and deeply sad as him. He looked down at the bar before him, bordering on hanging his head, ordering a beer before his eyes hooked onto the guy he was supposed to be hunting down.
Y/N.
He grit his teeth, frowning. He was a pretty cute guy, Cyril had to admit, and he seemed to be looking after a buddy at the bar, not so much drinking his heart out. It was almost a pity the poor guy had pissed someone off hard enough to get his life put at stake like this. Though he didn’t feel bad for long. The pay was good, and he couldn’t turn down a job that would help out Lotte.
His jaw clenched as he heard glass clink onto the counter in front of him, his eyes snapping to look at the beer placed before him. He let his thoughts drift away as he sipped the drink, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Why was he even admiring a guy he planned to kill? It was counterproductive and stupid, but he could indulge himself for just a moment, couldn’t he?
He clicked his tongue in thought as he pulled the glass away from his lips, letting his eyes drift once more. He could pretend his life was normal just for one night, it wouldn’t hurt anyone. It wasn’t like the poor guy was going to survive anyways.
Cyril couldn’t really place what was so alluring about the man anyways, was it his eyes, his hair, his body? He placed his head in his hand, a sigh leaving him. What was he going to do when all this was over? He just continued sipping the beer he had bought, not wanting to keep Lotte waiting too long but also not wanting this job to go by too fast. He averted his eyes a second time as he tried to build up courage to talk to the man, feeling like a school girl trying to talk to her crush. It was almost pathetic.
He ran a hand through his hair, grumbling to himself before standing up, turning to face the man before realizing he was gone. He grit his teeth, annoyance ripping through him like a chainsaw. Of course, lingering about too long would only cause issues for him in the end.
He shoved his hand in his jean pocket, rummaging about for a few bills, slapping them on the counter to pay for his beer before heading outside, figuring if anything the dude had gone outside.
There Cyril found he was right, watching Y/N help their friend into a cab from just outside the doors of the bar, his hands in his pockets before he pulled out a cigarette that had been sitting loosely in his pocket, an odd thing but something that had happened nonetheless, and a lighter. He held the cigarette up to his lips, placing the filter between them and lighting it, letting it smolder momentarily before taking a drag, feeling the smoke fill his lungs as he closed his eyes for a second to savor the feeling, putting the lighter back in his pocket.
He slowly exhaled the smoke as he walked over to the other man, averting his eyes for the most part. He knew Y/N was aware he was approaching, and he didn’t seem too nervous about the man. Why would he be? It’s not like Cyril had done anything yet. Cyril watched him adjust his pose, finding a sort of humor in it.
“I hope you don’t mind me talking to ya so suddenly,” Cyril began, looking the other man up and down, the other taking notice of his behavior, a silence lingering uncomfortably long between them before he spoke up.
“Only a bit, I suppose.”
“You look a bit nervous.”
“I saw how you were looking at me in there.”
“Well you don’t seem too offended.”
Y/N frowned hearing that, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a faggot, dumbass.”
“You’re not?”
There was another moment of uncomfortable silence, Y/N fully aware of what this moment would mean for a while. Cyril just stood there, an unfeeling, cold gaze. It chilled the other to the bone, a sort of morbid curiosity about this man springing up from the chill. “You’re that desperate for my number, huh?”
He cracked a smile. “Only a bit.”
Y/N stood there, frozen. That smile, almost uncharacteristic of the other’s features. He had only known this man for a moment but he knew deep inside that smile was a trap, yet just like a trap, so very alluring. He clicked his tongue, thinking. “Do you have a paper and pen?”
Cyril pulled a black Sharpie marker out of his back pocket. It wasn’t entirely obvious why he carried it around, but he always insisted it would be useful. Perhaps this was the use he always talked about.
“Feel free to write your number on my arm,” he offered, handing over the marker and his arm, his hand faced up, fist balled up loosely.
Y/N stared at the marker and the man’s arm, biting the inside of his cheek before taking the marker and uncapping it, fitting the cap snuggly over the end, holding onto Cyril’s wrist. He began writing the digits on his bare forearm, the cool ink causing goosebumps along Cyril’s skin, staring at the numbers. Once Y/N finished he recapped the marker and handed it to the other, looking away. Cyril took it and pocketed it once more.
“There,” he mumbled. “I’m expecting a call sometime this week.”
“I’ll pull through,” Cyril laughed, watching as the other walked away. Well at least there was confirmation, in a sense, that the number was real.
He looked down at the phone number printed on his arm, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the forms of the numbers, smudging the still drying ink ever so slightly on his skin. He frowned slightly as a digit became a bit too warped to read but he still knew what it read, at least.
He got into the van, noticing Lotte was still dead asleep. He grabbed his phone from between the seats and silently flipped it open, adding the contact for future reference before grabbing a wet wipe and cleaning the ink off his arm, scrubbing slightly until only faint traces of illegible ink lingered on his arm. He dropped the ink covered disposable wipe on the floor of the van and started it up, checking he hadn’t woken Lotte up, relieved to see she was still dead asleep.
He leaned deeply into the driver’s seat, sighing, taking a drag of the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers and blowing the smoke out the car window before straightening himself back up and driving to a nearby motel, thankful the night was still, not many people on the road.
✿✿✿✿
It was nerve wracking, in a sense, to call someone who was basically a stranger for the first time, but Lotte was growing impatient, and Cyril knew damn well he couldn’t put the job off that long. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t promise the bugger he’d call him.
His finger was hovering over the call button, the small LED behind the keypad glowing at him as if mocking his inability to complete such a simple task. His fingers shook and he hastily clicked the button, the muted sound of the dial tone ringing in Cyril’s ears before he placed the phone up to one, the volume increasing exponentially.
To some degree he was almost hoping the man wouldn’t pick up, he’d forget the conversation they had at the bar and he’d have enough wits about him to ignore the ringing. Of course, maybe that was hopeful thinking, or maybe God was on his side that day, for whatever that was worth. He heard the click of someone answering before a voice rang in his skull.
“Hello?”
He felt his breath catch in his throat hearing that voice. It was warped and distorted by the phone connection yet all the same he could tell it was him. Though the excitement soon died down as he remembered what was expected of him. He felt his stomach sink before he spoke in return.
“Y/N. This is Y/N, right?” He quickly asked.
He heard a laugh on the other end, not of mockery but of something else, something Cyril couldn’t quite put his finger on. He snapped out of his thoughts over the laugh as the man on the other end continued speaking. “That it is. Can I ask who this may be?”
“Cyril. Volkov. We met at a bar the other day.”
“Cyril? Can't say I remember you.” The tone was teasing, yet it still grated on his nerves. He had to keep a cool head, yet it irked him.
“You sure? I don’t recall you having drank that night. Did you hit your head on the way home?”
“You have a pretty sharp tongue there, Cyril.”
“I get it from my dad.”
“Sounds like a scary guy.”
“You wouldn’t know the half of it.” He let out a chuckle against his will before he continued what he wanted to say. “I got a few days before I gotta head outta town, yeah? Was hoping you’d be down to, I dunno, head to the movies, get lunch together, anything you want, really. My treat.”
“Your treat? Mighty bold of you to say something like that, don’t you think? But... A movie sounds good. I heard there theater downtown’s got a showing for that new horror film, fuckin’, Pet Semetary 2.”
“You’re really into those shitty sequels?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Real funny, Y/N. But yeah, fine, I’ll pick ya up tomorrow at 6. That work?”
“A little earlier than I’d like, but you must be a very busy man.”
“Haha. I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Take it how you please.” And with that Cyril heard the click of the other hanging up, his breath catching in his throat as the dial tone rang in his ear, hesitating before he flipped the device shut, gritting his teeth.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, biting his nails, feeling drool dribble down his digits as he ignored swallowing it down in favor of gnawing on the keratin growing from his fingers. He spit the clippings out, wiping his hand on his pants before standing up.
Lotte was still asleep on the bed across from him in the motel, he had to admit she looked almost peaceful asleep like that. He shook his head before grabbing his jacket and walking out onto the walkway just outside the room, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and staring at it momentarily before shaking his head and flipping it open, taking one out and holding it in his lips before putting the pack away and rummaging around for his lighter. He’d have to buy another pack soon, he thought before finding the lighter, flicking it and holding it up to his cigarette, lighting it before putting the lighter away. He took a drag, a sort of personal disappointment coursing through him.
He promised Lotte he’d stop smoking one day, and he meant it when he said it, but here he was, falling back to those old habits. He tried to remove those thoughts from his head but he couldn’t. He stared up at the tiring late morning sun, coughing up smoke as he exhaled, hissing from the dull pain.
He let himself zone out a bit until he heard the distinct sound of Lotte’s feet hit the floor, as they tended to do as per her usual morning rituals, a thing Cyril had grown acutely aware of and to some extent marked his own passing days with a reminder time still bore on. He dropped the half smoked cigarette on the ground, stomping it dead before walking back inside the room, Lotte’s dead eyes looking up at him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth from regret.
“You were smoking again.”
“What of it?”
“... Nothing.”
There was a silence between them that Cyril could’ve sworn made time stop. “I’m going out at 6 tomorrow.”
She looked away, nodding somberly. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“I won’t.”
✿✿✿✿
Cyril had to admit, every hour leading up to that “date” was almost suffocating, leaving him with more room to think about his actions than he would’ve liked. He was stuck laying in bed for most of it, staring up at the ceiling and gnashing his teeth as eventually at some point his thoughts stopped being about the amoral nature of his actions and more about how badly he needed a cigarette. He needed a cigarette more than he needed water, he was convinced, but every few seconds that he checked for an escape he noticed Lotte a bit too close to the door for him to make a successful exit, leaving him only further trying to distract himself.
Eventually he guessed she noticed his behavior, he could only assume, she was rather observant all things considered. She moved away from the door to the bathroom and he took that as his out, grabbing his coat and quickly heading outside. He took his time enjoying the cigarette, hearing her curse him out from inside the room but paid no attention to it.
After the smoke break, he stepped back in the room and was faced with Lotte’s irritated stare, leaving him to look away in a sort of shame, maybe it was guilt.
“Give me your marker,” she stated flatly, from which he retrieved the marker from his back pocket, mostly thinking nothing of it. He watched in a sort of helpless manner as she uncapped the marker before grabbing his arm, which he didn’t even attempt to pull away, watching as she scribbled the simple word “Fucker.” on it. She had pretty neat handwriting, it was kind of loopy and curly like girls’ handwriting tended to be, real cute if it weren’t for the fact she had written profanity on his arm.
“Come on,” he eventually huffed out, “I got a date in a few hours and now I gotta wash this off?”
“You could wear a long sleeve shirt, and don’t act like it’s a real date.”
“It’s real to me.”
He watched her roll her eyes, looking away and biting the inside of his cheek. Okay, maybe his statement was to some extent immature and a bit stupid, but he could still have his fun, right?
He didn’t think much of it until he stood up and went to wash his arm off. He slowly turned the hot water knob, dunking his arm under the running water, a shiver running up his spine as the water that started cold sent a shock up his arm. He grit his teeth before dousing the inked spot with hand soap, rubbing away the ink before he began scratching away at his arm to get rid of the lingering ink that stained his skin.
Eventually it was faint enough he could rinse off his arm, grabbing a hand towel and wiping away the water, cringing at the slight burning sensation it left on the raw skin.
“Hey, Lotte-” He started.
“Charlotte.”
“Whatever. Anyways, after this whole... Ordeal, I guess, wanna go out drinking?” He asked, silence enveloping the room, as he awaited an answer. He picked at the fabric of the towel nervously, biting the inside of his lower lip. It was almost anxiety-inducing as he stood there, Lotte’s eyes lingering on him, the coldness familiar yet chilling all the same in that moment.
“Sure.” Her answer was rather curt despite the slowness to reply, but it shattered the tension in the air from the anticipation, he had to give her that.
He nodded, disliking the still lingering hostility in the air. It made his head hurt and stomach churn. He wanted to escape the situation but he didn’t have many options, shaking his head before mumbling, “Sorry.”
“You should be.”
That dampened his mood even more, rolling his eyes before he stepped outside the motel, this time to get some fresh air. It was only about 2 in the afternoon, a good while before he had to get ready.
He opted to just take a walk for the time being, relax a bit before the time came. There was a level of shame he felt about the situation, knowing in some deep part of him his actions were wrong, yet truly he didn’t really care. He could have his fun and Lotte would get her money, what more was there to it.
He found himself getting lost in his adventures, the clock hitting 4:30 as he realized he didn’t really know where he was, cursing himself out. He had a decent grasp on directions last he checked, or maybe he just never relaxed enough to get lost, yet here he was grasping loosely to recall where the motel was. He still had to rent a car to pick the other up, get washed, dressed, he was actually boned.
His fear ebbed away rather quickly, however, reminders that this night would end in heartbreak no matter what he did. He felt himself itch for another cigarette, fidgeting with the box in his pocket. He didn’t deny the craving, giving in to himself with ease. It dulled the ache of his emotions, the desire to connect with another on a level that wasn’t skin deep, for his words to not be false promises. He made himself feel sick with his behavior.
Eventually he found himself stumbling into the street the motel was located at, quickly hurrying down to the room he and Lotte were sharing. He quickly got inside, sparing her the formalities of greetings, searching through his clothes for something fitting to wear. He judged all his decisions at that moment in his mental frenzy to get ready as quickly as possible, 6 nearing faster than he would like.
He locked himself in the bathroom, starting the shower, alone with his thoughts for a moment. He knew he still had to hurry, he knew this quite well, yet he couldn't help but feel like he could take his time. Just a bit before he had to rush again.
He felt the water stream down his body, warm to the touch. He lazily cleaned himself, the scent of the soap filling the space between the clean white tiles. It didn’t wash away the harsh stench of tobacco that clung to his body, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care all that much.
He let his body lean against the wall, a shiver running up his spine as the tiles had yet to warm from the steam of the water pouring onto him. He lazily reached for the shampoo, quietly massaging his scalp as he washed his hair, biting his bottom lip.
A strong feeling of paranoia swept over him as he kept his eyes closed, rinsing off his hair. He couldn’t explain why it happened, but he always had a feeling someone was watching him in the shower any time he closed his eyes. Perhaps the movie Psycho had impacted him a bit more than he’d ever like to admit.