I knew it!
Brian rolls his eyes at this fake out. It’s one of the disconcerting things about waking up in an underground room with no windows. Even though we both know intellectually that six a.m. is just way too early for a groundhog to see a theoretical shadow, we’re more willing to believe the TV when we don’t have any other daylight signals.
“Can we negotiate about this alarm?” I say. “You have an internal alarm, and I didn’t know you’d be getting up at Vampire Coffin Time every day.”
“What the fuck is Vampire Coffin Time?”
“You know… the time vampires need to be in their coffins just to be safe.”
“You made that up.”
“I did not.” Okay, I really did, but my logic is sound.
“I’m going to go run,” he says. “And no, you asked for the alarm, you get the alarm. Look on the bright side, at least you won’t miss the breakfast spread anymore.”
I sigh. I do love the breakfast spread.
When Brian goes back upstairs, I burrow back under the covers and fall asleep again. I jolt awake and turn to the clock to make sure I haven’t missed breakfast and let out a relieved sigh when I learn it’s only nine-thirty. Only nine-thirty in the middle of winter.
Great.
I just want to hibernate through this whole ordeal. I was not designed for winter and enjoy absolutely nothing about it. Even snow. I can watch snow on TV, thank you very much. I don’t need to be in an arctic tundra to have this magical experience.
I scoot up in bed to find a note in Brian’s handwriting. It reads, “Six more weeks, Killer.”
That fucking groundhog. I looked it up, and the groundhog has only predicted early spring twenty-one times since 1886 when this ridiculous tradition started.
Brian must have caught the real groundhog weather prognostication while I was sleeping. There are no bullet holes in the TV at least. I admire that level of restraint in a man.
FORTY-EIGHT
brian
I like to have a schedule.A solid morning routine. There are two types of people in this world who have a solid routine… social media influencers… and serial killers. I don’t really think of myself as a serial killer though. Serial killers aren’t ambitious enough. I mean, why not monetize your passion? Why live in a trailer out in the sticks surrounded by far too much taxidermy, when you can live well and make solid money from your natural blood lust?
I get it… sometimes we have a “type” and an OCD-level ritual about it, but get some cognitive behavioral therapy guys... and evolve. You make more money that way. If I only killed women who looked like or somehow reminded me of Linda, I wouldn’t have the nice life I have today.
Maybe I don’t obsess about the latest designer whatever, but the truth is, I do like nice things no matter how much I may deny it to myself and others. Maybe I can’t bring myself to spend that much money to buy a Patek Phillippe. Maybe I try to convince myself the Longines watch on my wrist was specifically for a job, and I wear it only as a trophy. Or maybe I’m trying to slowly acclimate myself to nicer things, which is probably closer to the real truth.
Congratulate me on my growing self-awareness.
I want to give Mina nice things. And god knows I have plenty of money sitting in banks and investments all over the world—especially since I’ve been able to take higher and higher contracts, and my reputation has grown among the evil and unsavory. So why not use some of it? Whynothave nice things? In the endless mental scrolling of the list of things I fear Mina will get tired of eventually, her figuring out that my “lack of materialism” is really just down to laziness is now on that list. And maybe I think if I start driving a sexier car and wear nicer clothes, I’ll look and feel less like a wild animal. Then maybe I’ll feel worthy of her, and the bone deep fear that I’ll lose her someday will go away.
Every morning I get up at six a.m. Mina is usually still sleeping at this time—at least before I granted her wish and set the alarm. And I guarantee she went right back to sleep as soon as I left.
I actually kind of like that she sleeps late. It lets me get more things done and have some Me Time. I like having a partner in crime, but sometimes I like to plan alone. I like to run on the treadmill alone. I like to think alone. I’m not exactly the most social guy.
So I get up at six, do a quick run on the treadmill, slip back downstairs to take a shower and get dressed, and then by seven-thirty every morning I’m across the street from Uncle Martin’s house with a large black coffee to spy on this kid for fifteen minutes until he goes to school like a fucking weirdo. I’m the weirdo, not him.
I don’t know why Aidan’s safety has become my primary life concern all of a sudden. It’s unnatural. I saw a video online once about a male tiger whose mate died and then he actually raised the cubs successfully to adulthood by himself. He hunted for them and left the meat. He protected them. Hefuckingparented. Male tigers are not monogamous, nor are they paternal. And yet, here he was, like a pathetic lovesick schmuck dragging these cubs around like it was normal.
I am that male tiger right now. This kid isn’t even mine—or Mina’s. But her wanting me to spare his life somehow translated in my brain into “Watch over him until he reaches adulthood and make sure no harm ever befalls him. Promise me, Brian!”
So this is my life now. Fucking great.
I am torn between the civilizing acts of nicer watches and stalker babysitting and just being the wild animal I was meant to be.
I perk up as I hear Aidan’s excited six-year-old voice coming through the listening devices I planted in the kitchen. I’m bothered that Uncle Martin never sweeps for listening devices. I want to take him aside and explain that you can’t be a kingpin of a criminal enterprise unless you sweep. But, if he swept I wouldn’t be able to engage in my questionably sane morning routine. So, I keep this deeper wisdom to myself.
