The apartment door clicked shut behind Carl, a hollow echo swallowed by the oppressive stillness of 1829 Holloway Drive, Apartment 4C. The air hung heavy with the sour tang of spilled milk and the acrid bite of cigarette smoke, a lingering shroud from the night's chaos. He slumped onto the couch, its worn fabric groaning under his weight, and drained the last of the milk from the carton, the rancid aftertaste coating his tongue like a bitter memory. The single lamp flickered, casting jagged, claw-like shadows across the walls, while he lit a cigarette, the sharp hiss of the match slicing through the silence. Smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils, blending with the faint, metallic scent of blood that still clung to the corners, a ghost of his recent sins.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to the zoo with Faith, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. But it was the memory of his first zoo visit at nine that seized him, vivid and visceral. The air had been thick with the earthy musk of elephant dung, the damp rot of the hippo enclosure, and the raw, wild scent of lion fur carried on a warm breeze. He could still hear the deep, resonant roar of the lions, a sound that vibrated in his chest, the splash of water as hippos wallowed, and the rustle of leaves under his small feet as he trailed his parents. His tiny hands had clutched a notebook, the scratch of his pencil frantic as he poured out paragraphs—lions as kings of the savanna, hippos as silent terrors, elephants with memories spanning lifetimes. That fascination had been pure, untainted, a child's wonder etched into every stroke. Now, that memory twisted into something painful, the realization dawning that his epilepsy fueled that intensity. Rage surged, hot and volcanic, his fist slamming against the armrest with a dull thud that reverberated through the room. The anger morphed into a manic joy, a grin splitting his face as he imagined those animals again, only to collapse into a crushing sadness that squeezed his chest. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks, the salt mingling with the smoke's bitterness on his lips, his sobs a quiet, broken rhythm in the dark. The letter from Faith, crumpled in his pocket, lay forgotten, lost in the tempest of his emotions.
But plotting—that was his refuge, his mastery. The chaos crystallized into purpose as he turned his mind to his next victim: his quantum mechanics professor, Dr. Ellis. He needed his work to be real, to make sense of the madness within him. The equations, the insights on exotic matter—they had to hold weight, to validate his fractured mind. He spent the night hunched over the table, the scratch of his pen a relentless whisper against paper, the room thick with the sour stench of sweat and tobacco. By 7 a.m., his plan was a grotesque tapestry—luring the professor with a fabricated breakthrough, a secret too tantalizing to resist.
He rushed to college, the morning air biting with the tang of wet asphalt and exhaust. The halls were deserted, save for Dr. Ellis sipping coffee, the rich aroma clashing with the sterile scent of polished floors. Carl's footsteps echoed, urgent and unseen, as he cornered the professor. "Professor, I've found a way to prove exotic matter," he said, his voice low, urgent. "It's extremely important. You mustn't share this with anyone. It's a secret between us. I need your guidance to solve some problems—the prototype's ready, my experiments are solid."
Dr. Ellis's eyes widened, the coffee cup trembling in his hand. "Carl, that would mean…"
"Yes, Professor—a Nobel Prize, for both of us," Carl pressed, his smile tight. "Please don't tell anyone. Meet me at the end of the street tonight to see my work."
The professor nodded, a greedy glint in his eye. "Well, I always believed in you, Carl. I just don't get how you barely scrape average grades. You're sharp, smart."
Carl shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Duh, that's a long story, Professor. Maybe we can discuss it later."
Dr. Ellis walked to his class, smug in the belief he'd manipulated an average student into handing him a prize. But Carl—the demon within—returned home, the air now heavy with his growing anxiety. The creak of the floorboards sounded like accusing whispers. What if they find me? What if Faith finds out? The paranoia clawed at him, the room's shadows twisting into judgmental eyes, the lingering blood-scent amplifying his dread. Overwhelmed, he fumbled for his medicine—Depakine, Xanax—swallowing them dry, the bitter taste a lifeline. Exhaustion dragged him into a fitful sleep, the clock ticking like a countdown in the dark.
He awoke before dawn, the air cold and silent, the faint drip of a leaking faucet the only sound. Dressed in his best suit, he met Dr. Ellis at the street's end, the professor's footsteps crunching on the wet pavement. "Did you tell anyone?" Carl asked, his voice a hiss.
"No," Dr. Ellis replied, oblivious to the trap.
They hurried back to the apartment, the door's click sealing their fate. Carl gestured to the table, strewn with nonsense scribbles—philosophical drivel masquerading as physics. Dr. Ellis frowned, his voice tinged with disappointment. "That's philosophy, not physics, my son." He turned to leave, but Carl's hand closed around the decorative bat, its wood smooth and cold. With a sickening crack, it struck the professor's skull, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. Dr. Ellis crumpled, and Carl bound him with rope, the coarse fibers biting into the man's wrists, tape sealing his cries into muffled whimpers.
Hours later, Dr. Ellis awoke, his eyes wide with terror, the room's air thick with the sour reek of fear and the metallic tang of blood. Carl sat across from him, reading his own chaotic notes, tears streaming down his face. "I didn't choose for it to be like this," he sobbed, his voice breaking. "It's sabotaging my life. I don't want it—I just want to be normal. I need my work to be real, to make sense…" The professor thrashed, his muffled screams a desperate plea, the chair creaking under his struggle.
Carl's hand brushed his pocket, finding Faith's letter. He unfolded it, the paper crinkling softly, and read:
"Carl, you are perfect . I love you—your gentleness, every moment we share. Your mind, your heart, they shine despite everything. We'll overcome the epilepsy together, hand in hand, forever."
The words washed over him, a warm tide against the cold chaos, soothing the raw edges of his mind. For a fleeting moment, he believed he could change—his work didn't need to be real if Faith believed in him. He stood, intending to untape the professor, to seek redemption, his hand trembling as he reached for the tape. But Dr. Ellis yelled through the gag, a guttural, panicked sound that shattered the fragile calm, echoing off the walls like a death knell. Rage flared, and Carl's hand found the pink-handled dagger. He hadn't wanted this—if the professor had stayed silent, he might have spared him. But the scream sealed his fate. With a swift, brutal thrust, Carl drove the dagger into the professor's eye, the wet squelch mingling with the man's final, choked gasp. Dr. Ellis slumped, a lifeless heap, blood pooling on the floor, the room now a charnel house of despair.
Carl stared, the realization sinking in—the world wouldn't give him passes, wouldn't accept his illness. A dark resolve settled over him—he would become oblivion, doom itself, and make everyone pay. A knock at the door jolted him. His neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, her voice sharp through the wood. "What, Carl? Loud music even at night?"
He shoved the body behind the couch, the rustle of fabric masking the thud, and opened the door just enough to show his face, the air outside carrying the faint scent of rain. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Henderson. It won't happen again, I promise."
"Goodnight, Carl. Maybe someday you'll learn to respect your neighbors," she snapped, her footsteps retreating.
The door closed, and Carl returned to the room, the silence deafening, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood, the sour reek of sweat, and the faint, lingering musk of his childhood zoo memories now tainted by death. His skin prickled with a cold resolve, his pulse thrummed with a dark hunger. He sank onto the couch, the letter crumpled in his fist, and decided to channel his insights into murders. The plotting began anew, his mind spiraling toward bigger targets—professors, peers, anyone who dared question his fractured genius. The room filled with the imagined scent of fear, the sound of their future screams a symphony in his ears, as he sketched his next move in the deepening abyss.