The original version of this story was posted to my Instagram as a series of pictures, each released ten minutes after the other. The original Instagram posts show a sketchbook and it gives the story a level of morbidity and, as such, as the ideal way to view this story. - Charlie Chitty.
I am out of ink. I am out of ideas.
Until now, when I decided to write this story down.
You know, I used to be interested in the lives of people. As a novelist, I have to be. But that was a very long time ago, when I wasn't serious about my craft and also much less... poetic, I suppose, is a word that would fill this spot well.
Sorry, pen's gone again. Sometimes the liquid in the cartridge takes a little while to settle.
There we go. Right back at it again.
Tonight, this story is brought to you by Jennifer Hunnings. She's 25, female, a c-cup, lives on a medium sized council estate in Surrey and her blood type is Type-A.
But here I am, getting ahead of myself.
I arrived by car at about noon. It's a nice car as you can imagine, much nicer than this squalid housing estate. The company look after me.
I'd give you the make and model, but I've never been one to brag. Besides, I've been told that the information might lead to the checking of camera footage that might very well lead to my arrest.
That said, it was probably a dummy camera that I saw, crossing over the road towards Jennifer's place of residence.
Probably.
The estate looks as if it was built in the 1980's with prison-like windows and rusted numberpads. Brambles and knotweed. Two used nappies in the grass, propped up against a large shopping trolley coated in slimy moss.
How very foul.
I dusted down my dinner jacket and knocked on the door of Apartment 5 in three succinct raps and adjusted the ribbon on the bouquet.
I can come around in many different forms.
Sometimes holding a bottle of window spray, sometimes income tax forms. Once, I even brought an eviction notice. None of those would work today. I checked.
She opened the door in a low-slung pyjama top and tracksuit bottoms. Perhaps this would be easier than I first thought.
I proffered the flowers and introduced myself as Richard, the man she had met last night on OkCupid. I explained away the difference in my face as surgery after a yachting accident. People will believe anything that's wholly unbelievable.
"The doc did a great job on my facial reconstruction though."
"Well aren't you going to come in?" she said, raising up a lingering smile.
She shut the latch as I admired the shabby hallway. Definitely could use new wallpaper. The old wallpapaer was peeling in segments. I can't stand it when-
"Tea?" she said.
"Yes please." I said.
"Sugar?" she said.
"How many do you take?" I said.
"Two." she said.
"Then that's how many I'll have." I replied.
There's a reason why I asked. We'll get to that in a moment.
We had dinner and made small talk. The weather, the unfathomably hot summer we're having and oh it just keeps failing. It's crusted in the pen barrel by the looks of it. I'll give it a quick shake. There we go. Back on course.
We sat in front of the TV after dinner, watching some dreadful show.
I got to ask her a few little questions though, and I found out three little extra facts about her.
- She's a Virgo.
- She's had three previous boyfriends.
- She has a sister named Susan.
Those facts make me tingle.
After her show was over, I offered her another cup of tea. I poured in the powdered tranquilizer and measured out the sugar carefully to hide the taste.
Handing it over to her with a smile, she was out for the count in a matter of minutes.
I took out the syringe and removed some of her blood before leaving quietly into the evening stillness.
Then I got home. Then I wrote this. About her. With her.
And with just enough words to use up her insides.