Creative Writing

The days following my departure from the club and my rejection of the life I once held dear were oddly vacant. My routines, polished and perfected over years, felt hollow. Each gesture, once a mark of discipline and propriety, now seemed a thin veneer over an emptiness I could scarcely define. I felt a tug in the pit of my stomach - a sense of absence that made itself known in my now echoing home, absent of her laughter, absent of purpose. ...

The days following my last encounter with Jessica were marked by a sort of mechanical rigor. I resumed my usual routines, each step performed with the care of a well-rehearsed actor. My attire was flawless, my tie tied to perfection, my shoes gleaming, and my hat perched precisely. Yet, for all the care I took, each movement felt empty, hollow—a pantomime of the man I once was. Determined to reestablish my place within familiar surroundings, I made my way to the club. Alistair, Cecil, and Reginald were bound to be there, and I told myself that their company would restore my sense of equilibrium. They were, after all, the same companions who had taught me how a gentleman navigates the world—surely, they would remind me of what I had momentarily let slip. ...

Four days had passed. Four days, seven hours, and an immeasurable eternity of minutes during which I found myself staring at my phone with an odd desperation that, had anyone seen me, would have surely prompted questions about my sanity. Alistair, of all people, had been the cause of this silence, and though he was family, I was prepared to sacrifice our thinly held allegiance if it meant I’d hear from Jessica once more. And then, at last, I did. ...

It was with no small amount of trepidation that I prepared for this New Year’s Eve gathering, an informal get-together of a combination of my friends as well as Jessica’s friends and castmates. This was a venture so profoundly outside my usual realm of gentlemen’s clubs and hushed parlors that I found myself rehearsing conversation as if I were an actor in her play. And yet, I was determined. The thought of Jessica, her face lighting up with approval for my efforts, was an image I couldn’t easily cast aside. ...

The kitchen filled with the smell of scrambled eggs and buttered toast. Morning light streamed through the windows, catching on the clean countertops and casting soft shadows across the floor. Edgar moved easily through the space, humming as he worked, sleeves rolled up, hair still a little damp from his shower. He set the table with care—plates, forks, napkins folded into neat triangles. Two settings on one side. Two on the other. He placed his father’s chipped green university mug at the usual spot, and his mother’s floral teacup just beside it. ...

The computer was a bust. Even if someone had read her message—if it even sent—she hadn’t known the address. No street name. No house number. Just trees. Just nowhere. It was a long shot. It was always a long shot. Okay. She couldn’t stay. That much was clear. She was not sleeping in a house with three corpses. One of whom thought they were dating. She moved to the window. ...

The light clicked on. Nicole startled—visibly—but Edgar smiled as he stepped into the room. “Sweetie,” he said gently, “you forgot to turn on the light.” She was sitting at the desk, blinking at the screen like she’d been caught doing something mildly embarrassing—ordering shoes, maybe. Or checking work emails on vacation. “Oh,” she said, her voice tight. “Yeah—I just… couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d check in on work stuff real quick.” ...

As soon as Edgar stepped out and the door clicked halfway shut, Nicole jumped up and locked it. The deadbolt slid into place with a quiet, merciful thunk. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then laughed—soft and nervous. “Thank god he wants to sleep in different rooms,” she whispered. “Like I’m getting any sleep tonight.” Her hands were shaking. She pressed her palms hard against her thighs. Like pressure could force the fear back in. It didn’t. ...

Edgar stood slowly, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his slacks. “You two don’t worry about cleanup tonight,” he said, nodding warmly to his parents. “I’ll take care of it later.” He collected the used plates—his, Nicole’s, and the still-full ones across the table—and stacked them gently in the sink, careful not to clink them too loudly. His father hated that. He turned back toward the dining room. “Don’t stay up too late, okay? Early morning tomorrow.” ...

Nicole froze. Edgar’s parents were dead—undeniably, grotesquely dead. They sat perfectly still—hands folded in their laps, clothes neatly pressed, faces waxy and wrong in a way her brain refused to name. They looked like a memory someone had dressed up and posed. “Dad, Mom,” Edgar said, smiling warmly, “I’d like to introduce Nicole. The girl I’ve been telling you about.” He gestured toward her as if they were simply hosting guests. ...