Page 41 of Toxic B!tch
Elle isn’t just a woman. She's a canvas. And I’m the artist.
The city hums in the background, distant and irrelevant. Here, there is only focus. Planning. The slow, meticulous process of shaping the inevitable. My art is not spontaneous; it is deliberate. The tools, the setting, the execution—every element must be perfect.
She locks her apartment door and steps onto the sidewalk, headphones in, head dipped slightly. A creature of habit. I know from checking her out on Spotify that she listens to the same playlist every morning, the same mix of indie pop and soft grunge, the bass line thrumming faintly from her earbuds when I am close enough to hear. The world around her is a blur, lost to her in favor of the curated soundscape she uses as a shield.
She doesn’t see me as I follow at a distance, my presence blending seamlessly with the city’s rhythm. Elle never senses the weight of my gaze as she crosses the street and heads toward the coffee shop on the corner.
I slip inside behind her, pretending to study the menu on the wall above the counter. The air smells like espresso and caramel, a warmth that contrasts with the crisp morning air. She orders a vanilla oat milk latte with an extra shot of espresso. The barista knows her name. They exchange pleasantries, her voice soft, her laugh light. She is polite but distant, existing in the periphery of connection. She doesn’t linger, her steps purposeful as she heads for the door, coffee in hand.
I watch from across the street as she steps back onto the sidewalk, cup in hand, lips pressing against the lid as she takes a sip absentmindedly. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes scanning the storefronts like she’s not really seeing them.
I follow at a pace just behind her own, letting her slip ahead when necessary, catching up when I can. I know the exact moments she’ll pause—at the bookstore window, her fingers ghosting over the titles in the display through the glass. Yet, she never goes inside. At the florist stand, she breathes in the scent of lavender but never buys a bouquet.
She moves with routine precision, predictable, down to the minute. This is what fascinates me the most. The unconsciouspatterns. The little details that make her real, that make her… mine.
At the office parking lot, she lingers. Her fingers trace idle patterns on her phone screen, scrolling but never really engaging. I remain at a distance, just another unseen presence in the early morning rush, close enough to notice the way her shoulders tighten when a colleague brushes past her on the way inside.
She’s aware of the world only when it forces itself upon her.
When she finally moves, she does so with the same quiet hesitance, slipping between the rows of cars and into the glass doors of the lobby. I don’t follow. Not yet.
Today isn’t the day.
Instead, I memorize the way she vanishes into the building, my pulse steady, anticipation burning slowly in my veins.
Soon.
For now, I have a different role to play.
By noon, the city shifts, the energy thick with movement, chatter, and life. I weave through the streets, the thrumming of my motorcycle beneath me grounding me in the present, even as my mind drifts between the lines of my double life.
Malik.
His name is a whisper in my head, softer than anything I should allow myself to feel, but persistent. He’s an anomaly in my world, a presence that doesn't fit the sharp edges I surround myself with. A builder, a healer. A man who crafts with his hands rather than destroys.
I park outside the takeout joint where the scent of spiced lamb and fresh bread seeps into the air, a stark contrast to the cold sterility of my basement workspace. I step inside, placing the order I know by heart. "Lamb gyro, extra tzatziki, side of falafel."
The cashier nods, already familiar with the routine. It is such a small thing, this exchange, but in a life built on illusion and control, these moments tether me to something almost normal.
As I wait, I pull out my phone, hesitating before letting my fingers glide over the screen.
Me: Where do I find my favorite bear today? Got something that'll make your day.
The response comes almost immediately.
Malik: 245 5th Avenue, near the old Willow Bookstore.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Me: Be there soon. Prepare for feast mode.
It's a brief conversation, insignificant to anyone else, but to me, it's something rare—a connection that doesn't demand blood as its price.
The low growl of my motorcycle cuts through the quiet street, a steady, familiar vibration beneath me. I ease off the throttle as I approach the house Malik mentioned, my pulse steady, my mind sharp. The scent of damp wood and old paint curls through the air, carried by the breeze, but something else lingers beneath it—something stale. Somethingrotten.
I recognize this place before I even come to a full stop.
I killed a man here.
