Chapter three: Morning
This is the third chapter of the Son of Sam story. Warning, this contains scenes of murder and misogyny.
Chapter 3: Morning
“...Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” - Stephen King
Misha didn't even remember arriving home when he awoke the next morning. One moment he saw red across the ground, and the next moment he was here in his bed. As he stared at the ceiling, his mind was running at full speed as he tried to piece together the rest of yesterday. Had it all been a dream or did it actually happen? Had it been simply a morbid dream, or was Misha now a genuine criminal? No matter how hard he thought, he couldn't pick apart the truth and only ended up with his head throbbing and stomach growling. With a sigh, he stood up to pull on an over shirt before trekking to the kitchen.
Misha wasn't particularly concerned about wandering around in only one black sock, red boxers and a large white shirt. The baker lived alone and there wasn't a single judgmental gaze around to tease him over his body or rather curious fashion sense. Rubbing his eyes, he put the kettle on as he usually did when he woke up. His morning routine was very basic: Get up, make coffee and breakfast. Then he would shower and get dressed for work. It was always in that order, as it had been for years. At this point, he was almost mechanically going through these motions every morning. This time, though, he slumped into a chair with a cup of coffee without even thinking of making anything to eat.
"What a night," he croaked sleepily, "Misha, you need to stop drinking like this..."
His eager coffee consumption at this point was becoming a futile attempt to sober up. No matter how much of the bitter-sweet liquid he downed, his once-present sense of clarity refused to return to him. The only real good it was doing was weight rather heavily down on his bladder. And multiple trips to the bathroom later, Misha's mood was sharply spiraling down. He buried his face in his hand, sighing heavily. He wanted to go back to the days that he didn't feel sick, he didn't forget entire evenings and he didn't have nightmares. He just wanted to go back to being himself.
He was gripping the handle of the mug far too hard, knuckles going white and fingers trembling, but his grip refused to go slack. He just continued to think about when he was a baker who had no blood on his hands. Misha was sicked and ashamed of himself because of what he had done, or dreamt. Regardless of reality or a dream, it was a repulsive act of hate. After a bit longer, continuing to mull over his thoughts, he made a choice to stay home for the week. He couldn't handle the walk home and the familiar sights. He didn't need to be reminded of everything.
"Misha...you may relax for a bit..."
He was too tired to argue with the voice this time, nodding and resting his head against folded arms and the table. It wasn't comfortable, but all he needed was the support. While he had only just woken up, he found himself slipping off again into an uneasy and dreamless sleep. His body felt weightless, and darkness wrapped around him.
It felt as if Misha had fallen into a void.
* * *
Seven months passed by Misha and life had settled back into a normal routine. The dreams had stopped plaguing the poor Russian, and before long, they were nothing but distant memories. Better days were now filling his time, ones with Misha smiling at work and seeing the skies starting to blush blue. The grey weather had finally started to retreat, raising a flag of surrender to the singing spring. Birds darted around the people, trilling to one another in greeting and celebration of the new found life in the land and air. Blooming joy decorated what it could with colour, the flowers leaving a happy and delicate scent. Of course, the tail0end of winter still was lingering around in the chilled breezes, but it was clear the seasons had changed. With the arrival of the sweetest season, the romance of the young came hand in hand. Misha saw men and women come in and out of the bakery, intending to buy sweet treats for one another. It always made him smile, but a tinge of jealousy tinted that kind expression every time. He was always glad to see them leave, even if more would come to replace the last couple who left.
However, just as quickly as spring came, it vanished. In its stead, Summer crept upon everyone with a graceful, warm gait. The animals remained and so did the flowers, but the grand sunshine had finally replaced the cold that had playfully clung to spring. Moscow was alive and smiles decorated the citizen's faces. Even Misha had that spark of joy, brought on by the weather.
July was beautiful. Misha felt so good, working and simply living. It had been wonderful, sleeping and dreaming in his bed. He was sleeping and dreaming like a sane, normal person. Because of this, his proficiency at work was increasing and because of that, he and his bakery were getting a rather spectacular reputation. His profits, his customer numbers and everything; they were growing rapidly. He had never even dreamt that he would make so much money as a simple Moscow baker in his entire life! He was becoming a rich man, a talented baker and as he observed and gathered from the stares he garnered, a highly desired man. He saw th looks the ladies gave him, young and old alike. But he never really saw a reason to humor any of them.
They were beautiful, tossing their hair like waves of golden wheat over their shoulders. Eyes of every colour followed him, keeping an eye on his every move. But when he saw their hourglass beauty, he never really saw them. All Misha could think of was the sound of metal withdrawn from flesh. He only felt disgust when he saw their advances, seeming to only be simple desperate grouping around in the dark for love.
"Hello, sir..."
He was snapped out of his thoughts as two girls approached the counter, one with black hair and the other was a very fake blond. They were smiling sweetly at him, leaving Misha with a vile taste in his mouth that stung like vomit.
"Do you know when you are getting off work?" the taller blond inquired, folding her arms as if to draw more attention to her rather unshapely breasts.
The other giggled, tossing her hair and playing dimly with a few stray strands.
"...No, ma'am." he calmly responded, trying to keep up a smile.
They pouted, glancing at the clock. It was already getting late and almost time for the store to close. Misha noticed this as well, but was more than willing to work later to avoid the two barely-legal bimbos with nothing but cobwebs in their skulls. Not even a year ago, Misha may have agreed, but it was as if the memories of then had vanished and all that remained was unflattering disdain for the women.
"Are you interested in making a purchase?"
It bothered him how hesitant they were to answer that, the one with black hair slowly nodding as she picked something out. He was very quick to make the transaction, almost shoving the bag into her face.
"Please have a nice day." His smile was disgustingly sweet.
They giggled again and with one more ridiculously dumb flip of their hair, they left. Misha, this time, wasn't disturbed or guilty as he thought of them as corpses in a ditch.
Normally, he wasn't as morbid as that, preferring to keep his thoughts pleasant. But the more he dwelt on it the more they seemed to deserve it. They were useless wastes of space and had no real purpose in the world. That is, of course, if you didn't count the purpose of existing to simply stand around, twirl their hair and giggle like outright dumbasses. Thinking about the lowest of the low, Misha's usual inclinations were starting to dim and fade into the background. A need had suddenly filled him and it told him what he needed to do. That voice that he could only figure as his subconscious told him absolutely everything. It had been so long since he felt this way and had heard that voice...but now it was starting to come back.
He closed the bakery a little bit early that night. Humming, he headed to where he was being told to go with a cheery tune in his heart. This day would soon mean as much to him as any holiday, birthday or anniversary. July 29th would be something he, and the entire city, would never forget.
* * *
He was out until the sun had long since gone down. He was sitting on the curb, watching a mother, father, daughter and friend arrive home from a family trip around Moscow. He knew the two girls, eyes following them more closely than the others. They were laughing with the parents, telling jokes and stories about their day out and clearly having quite a good time. As the parents went to go inside, the daughter paused and clapped a hand against her pocked before patting herself down.
"Ah...my phone is in the car. I'll be right back."
"Hurry up, we have dessert inside!"
The girl headed back to the car, friend following along behind and teasing her for being so absent minded. The parents were now inside as Misha approached, carrying a rumpled brown paper bag. He knew these were the girls from today. Vacant, ditzy expressions and bodies that could have been attractive if you weren't looking close enough.
"Oh~! Look, its the cute baker!" one cooed, blushing as she spotted him.
He continued to approach, not saying a word in response to her. While the blond seemed excited for him to be there, her friend was warier. After all, he hadn't been too eager to go out with them in the first place, so why was he here now?
"Now, what is this...?" she said slowly, eying the paper bag with some degree of suspicion.
Before either girl knew what was going on, three shots were fired from a handgun barely as big as a slice of bread. The blond was screaming in pain after the trigger was pulled, a noticeable wound on her thigh. Blood was staining her skirt and trickling down her leg, rapidly pooling on the concrete. Then she turned to her friend to see if she was okay. She started to scream even louder at what she saw. Black hair was splayed everywhere, face frozen in pain and eyes, glassy and gazing into the beyond. The shot had hit her chest and she was beyond the help of any medical aid. Blood, hot and red, was splattered across the pavement like rose petals. And while he knew he should feel disgusted, horrified and ashamed, Misha only felt satisfaction. With one dead, and the other screaming, there was nothing in his memories that matched such a feeling of relief like the one he had now. Without a single word to either the corpse or the girl, Misha then stored the gun in the bag once more and turned to flee.
Chapter 3: Morning
“...Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” - Stephen King
Misha didn't even remember arriving home when he awoke the next morning. One moment he saw red across the ground, and the next moment he was here in his bed. As he stared at the ceiling, his mind was running at full speed as he tried to piece together the rest of yesterday. Had it all been a dream or did it actually happen? Had it been simply a morbid dream, or was Misha now a genuine criminal? No matter how hard he thought, he couldn't pick apart the truth and only ended up with his head throbbing and stomach growling. With a sigh, he stood up to pull on an over shirt before trekking to the kitchen.
Misha wasn't particularly concerned about wandering around in only one black sock, red boxers and a large white shirt. The baker lived alone and there wasn't a single judgmental gaze around to tease him over his body or rather curious fashion sense. Rubbing his eyes, he put the kettle on as he usually did when he woke up. His morning routine was very basic: Get up, make coffee and breakfast. Then he would shower and get dressed for work. It was always in that order, as it had been for years. At this point, he was almost mechanically going through these motions every morning. This time, though, he slumped into a chair with a cup of coffee without even thinking of making anything to eat.
"What a night," he croaked sleepily, "Misha, you need to stop drinking like this..."
His eager coffee consumption at this point was becoming a futile attempt to sober up. No matter how much of the bitter-sweet liquid he downed, his once-present sense of clarity refused to return to him. The only real good it was doing was weight rather heavily down on his bladder. And multiple trips to the bathroom later, Misha's mood was sharply spiraling down. He buried his face in his hand, sighing heavily. He wanted to go back to the days that he didn't feel sick, he didn't forget entire evenings and he didn't have nightmares. He just wanted to go back to being himself.
He was gripping the handle of the mug far too hard, knuckles going white and fingers trembling, but his grip refused to go slack. He just continued to think about when he was a baker who had no blood on his hands. Misha was sicked and ashamed of himself because of what he had done, or dreamt. Regardless of reality or a dream, it was a repulsive act of hate. After a bit longer, continuing to mull over his thoughts, he made a choice to stay home for the week. He couldn't handle the walk home and the familiar sights. He didn't need to be reminded of everything.
"Misha...you may relax for a bit..."
He was too tired to argue with the voice this time, nodding and resting his head against folded arms and the table. It wasn't comfortable, but all he needed was the support. While he had only just woken up, he found himself slipping off again into an uneasy and dreamless sleep. His body felt weightless, and darkness wrapped around him.
It felt as if Misha had fallen into a void.
* * *
Seven months passed by Misha and life had settled back into a normal routine. The dreams had stopped plaguing the poor Russian, and before long, they were nothing but distant memories. Better days were now filling his time, ones with Misha smiling at work and seeing the skies starting to blush blue. The grey weather had finally started to retreat, raising a flag of surrender to the singing spring. Birds darted around the people, trilling to one another in greeting and celebration of the new found life in the land and air. Blooming joy decorated what it could with colour, the flowers leaving a happy and delicate scent. Of course, the tail0end of winter still was lingering around in the chilled breezes, but it was clear the seasons had changed. With the arrival of the sweetest season, the romance of the young came hand in hand. Misha saw men and women come in and out of the bakery, intending to buy sweet treats for one another. It always made him smile, but a tinge of jealousy tinted that kind expression every time. He was always glad to see them leave, even if more would come to replace the last couple who left.
However, just as quickly as spring came, it vanished. In its stead, Summer crept upon everyone with a graceful, warm gait. The animals remained and so did the flowers, but the grand sunshine had finally replaced the cold that had playfully clung to spring. Moscow was alive and smiles decorated the citizen's faces. Even Misha had that spark of joy, brought on by the weather.
July was beautiful. Misha felt so good, working and simply living. It had been wonderful, sleeping and dreaming in his bed. He was sleeping and dreaming like a sane, normal person. Because of this, his proficiency at work was increasing and because of that, he and his bakery were getting a rather spectacular reputation. His profits, his customer numbers and everything; they were growing rapidly. He had never even dreamt that he would make so much money as a simple Moscow baker in his entire life! He was becoming a rich man, a talented baker and as he observed and gathered from the stares he garnered, a highly desired man. He saw th looks the ladies gave him, young and old alike. But he never really saw a reason to humor any of them.
They were beautiful, tossing their hair like waves of golden wheat over their shoulders. Eyes of every colour followed him, keeping an eye on his every move. But when he saw their hourglass beauty, he never really saw them. All Misha could think of was the sound of metal withdrawn from flesh. He only felt disgust when he saw their advances, seeming to only be simple desperate grouping around in the dark for love.
"Hello, sir..."
He was snapped out of his thoughts as two girls approached the counter, one with black hair and the other was a very fake blond. They were smiling sweetly at him, leaving Misha with a vile taste in his mouth that stung like vomit.
"Do you know when you are getting off work?" the taller blond inquired, folding her arms as if to draw more attention to her rather unshapely breasts.
The other giggled, tossing her hair and playing dimly with a few stray strands.
"...No, ma'am." he calmly responded, trying to keep up a smile.
They pouted, glancing at the clock. It was already getting late and almost time for the store to close. Misha noticed this as well, but was more than willing to work later to avoid the two barely-legal bimbos with nothing but cobwebs in their skulls. Not even a year ago, Misha may have agreed, but it was as if the memories of then had vanished and all that remained was unflattering disdain for the women.
"Are you interested in making a purchase?"
It bothered him how hesitant they were to answer that, the one with black hair slowly nodding as she picked something out. He was very quick to make the transaction, almost shoving the bag into her face.
"Please have a nice day." His smile was disgustingly sweet.
They giggled again and with one more ridiculously dumb flip of their hair, they left. Misha, this time, wasn't disturbed or guilty as he thought of them as corpses in a ditch.
Normally, he wasn't as morbid as that, preferring to keep his thoughts pleasant. But the more he dwelt on it the more they seemed to deserve it. They were useless wastes of space and had no real purpose in the world. That is, of course, if you didn't count the purpose of existing to simply stand around, twirl their hair and giggle like outright dumbasses. Thinking about the lowest of the low, Misha's usual inclinations were starting to dim and fade into the background. A need had suddenly filled him and it told him what he needed to do. That voice that he could only figure as his subconscious told him absolutely everything. It had been so long since he felt this way and had heard that voice...but now it was starting to come back.
He closed the bakery a little bit early that night. Humming, he headed to where he was being told to go with a cheery tune in his heart. This day would soon mean as much to him as any holiday, birthday or anniversary. July 29th would be something he, and the entire city, would never forget.
* * *
He was out until the sun had long since gone down. He was sitting on the curb, watching a mother, father, daughter and friend arrive home from a family trip around Moscow. He knew the two girls, eyes following them more closely than the others. They were laughing with the parents, telling jokes and stories about their day out and clearly having quite a good time. As the parents went to go inside, the daughter paused and clapped a hand against her pocked before patting herself down.
"Ah...my phone is in the car. I'll be right back."
"Hurry up, we have dessert inside!"
The girl headed back to the car, friend following along behind and teasing her for being so absent minded. The parents were now inside as Misha approached, carrying a rumpled brown paper bag. He knew these were the girls from today. Vacant, ditzy expressions and bodies that could have been attractive if you weren't looking close enough.
"Oh~! Look, its the cute baker!" one cooed, blushing as she spotted him.
He continued to approach, not saying a word in response to her. While the blond seemed excited for him to be there, her friend was warier. After all, he hadn't been too eager to go out with them in the first place, so why was he here now?
"Now, what is this...?" she said slowly, eying the paper bag with some degree of suspicion.
Before either girl knew what was going on, three shots were fired from a handgun barely as big as a slice of bread. The blond was screaming in pain after the trigger was pulled, a noticeable wound on her thigh. Blood was staining her skirt and trickling down her leg, rapidly pooling on the concrete. Then she turned to her friend to see if she was okay. She started to scream even louder at what she saw. Black hair was splayed everywhere, face frozen in pain and eyes, glassy and gazing into the beyond. The shot had hit her chest and she was beyond the help of any medical aid. Blood, hot and red, was splattered across the pavement like rose petals. And while he knew he should feel disgusted, horrified and ashamed, Misha only felt satisfaction. With one dead, and the other screaming, there was nothing in his memories that matched such a feeling of relief like the one he had now. Without a single word to either the corpse or the girl, Misha then stored the gun in the bag once more and turned to flee.