I don’t necessarily have any passion in life.

Something that moves me, something I can’t live without, something I want to make my life’s work. There’s nothing like that out there for me. Jenny often shares her hopes about making it as a film director. And I hate to bring her up, but my mother was once an avid seamstress with a love for designing. Even the devil himself has a strong suit for football.

What do I have? Nothing. No dream job, nothing I want to pursue. It feels like I’m floating through life as a passenger in my own body. I have no desires, only a wish to live as comfortably as I can. I guess that’s why I picked out a business major. Life in a cubicle doesn’t sound too bad.

The lecture hall receives far more students today than usual. This usually happens after a test, when the results pool in and the professor offers a revision of the questions. I’m certain I did good. Accounting may not be my fort, especially one this advanced, but I do still have confidence.

This is the part where I sit on my throne above and spectate everyone below. The overzealous amount of chatter, the same familiar faces, the same clique of giddy girls. It's the giddy girls I mostly focus on. Their chatter, mannerisms, everything.

"She's not even that pretty.” “What a bunch of useless arguments.” “I wish they'd shut up.”

These sound like my thoughts, but they don’t belong to me. I turn only to see Colt already seated with his computer out, observing the same group of girls. Was I so caught up in my own world that I didn’t see him coming?

“You’re very easy to read.” Colt says to me, his attention now back to his computer. Despite it being so early in the morning, he looks so . . . put together. His hair is tidy, neatly combed – His clothes smooth and straight, not a wrinkle in sight. And he had the time to get himself a cup of coffee.

I look down at my pajama pants. Why do I suddenly feel so self-aware?

It seems like the conversation between us has died out, until he revives it. “I feel the same way sometimes.”

“Of course, you do.” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Colt sighs, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him so worn out.

“None of these people mean anything to me.” He says again.

Why is he telling me this?

“I don’t know why I'm telling you this. I guess after a while, it becomes exhausting.”

I think back to all the times I encountered Colt before that day behind the shop. The life of the party, a friend to all. Always willing to help. Then of course, there are his looks, his charming smile. I guess that’s why he always had so many flock to him without much effort. Even the universe seemed to be a friend of his.

But I’ve since come to understand that that benevolent image isn't the real him, it's just a personality he puts on. The real Colt Bradshaw is right here next to me, cold and withered and empty. And exhausted.

Yet he’s been blessed with so much. How can someone this perfect be so imperfect?

Class begins with talk of our test scores. They’ve already been issued out, so I scramble over to the student portal to see my results. A seventy-nine. Not bad, but I was convinced I would do better. I even pulled an all-nighter the day before the test.

I try my hardest to dispel the disappointment. This is just more incentive to do better next time. But then I catch a glimpse of Colt’s computer screen, where his test score currently is on display. A perfect hundred.

It really isn’t fair.

___

I don't get any rest after class. This is somehow much worse than walking in on a murder scene. It's the worst possible outcome.

Not only does Colt want to see me, he wants to see me in his home.

Off campus. Away from prying eyes, where I have reasons to believe my life will be in jeopardy.

Will there ever be an end to this madness? I’m sure he knows I don’t have enough gall to go the cops. He knows he’s already gotten into my head. What then does he want from me? To steal the little will I have left? To bring me misery?

I just want my life to go back to normal.

Now I’m hauling my car over to the Bradshaw residence, which is only ten miles away from campus, and sketchily located in the middle of a lot of greenery.

It’s the only home around the place, and while that should suggest that it’s outdated, the house is actually quite furnished. A modern home with an extensive driveway and a gate to keep outsiders away. To keep me away.

There’s a buzzer outside the gate that lets Colt know of my arrival, and soon I’m welcomed into the residence, dragging my car along with the rest of my sanity.

Somehow, I’m not at all surprised that he comes from wealth. It should have been obvious just from his modish car alone, which now stands next to my beaten down sedan. What an interesting way to highlight the difference between us.

I ring the doorbell once, hoping that he doesn’t answer, hoping that he’s too busy for me. But he’s there in seconds, with a pair of glasses and a kimono robe over his bare chest.

So he’s visually impaired. That actually makes me feel better.

Colt allows me in without a greeting, which I’ve noticed he does often. His home, although big, is actually quite simple. There's nothing out of place; no hair, pin, nothing. Everything is tucked away nice and neat. Even his shoes are filed in a straight line.

Suddenly, I'm reminded of the fact that he dropped me off at my very messy apartment.

I take my shoes off before Colt ushers me into the living room, where my image of him becomes somewhat . . . humanized. There are portraits of him as a child, smiling, tooth missing. Others of him as a teenager, still smiling, but no tooth missing. There’s one of him with a baseball bat, another one of him in a football helmet. All smiling.

Then I see more photos, this one of two women, one brunette and the other ginger. I suspect those must be Colt’s parents from the way they embrace him in the photos. With so much love and adoration.

The house is a bit too quiet for my liking. I take a look around the place, unsure if touching is off-limits. “Where are your parents?”

“Not here.” Colt answers, sliding the kimono off his body.

I don’t mean to stare so openly, but it’s kind of hard not to do so when you’re faced with a view that distracting. Chiseled abs, solid chest, rigid back. I guess being part of the football team means lots of physical exercises.

Colt catches me in the midst of staring, and I have to pretend to look at the portraits on the wall. He retrieves an apron from the table and hangs it around his body. I haven’t been this confused in a while. Is he planning on cooking dinner?

Far from it, actually. Colt heads into a room down the hall, where he spends a couple minutes, and later emerges with a black plastic bag. He drags it across the floor, and from the friction, I can tell that it’s heavy. That’s when the smell hits me, rank and rotten and unnatural.

This smell shouldn’t be anything normal, and yet to Colt it seems like it is.

I back away until I hit the wall. I want to scream, but I can’t. I don’t know if it’s the smell that has my voice captive, or the fear that has me crippled. But I just can’t move. Can’t utter a word. Can’t breathe.

“Is that the woman?” I manage, after minutes of trying to gather my senses. “From that night?”

I’m most certain it is even without his answer. He made plans to dismember the body, that’s why he’s equipped with an apron. So the blood won’t stain him.

He wanted me to watch.

My head is spinning in circles. I’ve grown so nauseous that I’m sure I’ll choke from the amount of saliva in my mouth. Then I catch a glimpse of the photos to the side, the ones of his parents. The ones of him smiling.

“What about their lives?” I ask again. “What about their families?”

Colt still doesn’t answer me. I keep pushing. “Don’t you think what you’re doing is wrong? Those people had a life of their own!”

"You’re awfully talkative today, aren’t you?"

It sounds like a warning, and I'm sure it is. But I don't stop. "Why do you do it?"

Colt goes quiet. He looks me straight in the eye, motionless. Cold. Stony. It's almost as if he's gone lifeless. I get a heavy knot at the back of my throat that plunges my heart deep. Because I know I've just messed up.

Colt drops the plastic back to the floor. "Come."

I consider running; the door is at least five meters away from me. But I can't get my legs to move. Even if I manage to do so, I'm quite certain they'll buckle.

Colt doesn't like my hesitance. He cocks his head to the side, as if daring me to do something stupid. Like running. With the amount of oxygen that has fled my system, I don't even think I could handle it. So I take the first step, and then another, until I'm right in front of him.

I can't look him in the eye, neither can I keep my breathing stable. I think he's going to lash out, hit me, make me regret. But he does no such thing. Instead, he reaches for my hand and holds it up in front of him. Then he does something even more bizarre. He intertwines his fingers with mine.

To say I'm beyond baffled would be an understatement. His fingers are callous and rough — a result of chasing a career in football, I surmise. Yet his touch isn't at all gruff, but rather gentle. Soft. Warm.

Colt still doesn't spare me a look as he lays my hand down on the counter. I'm so caught up in my own bewilderment that I don't see the sharp, silver object laying to the side — the same one Colt grabs.

Wait. When did that knife get there?

"Colt—Colt, wait!" He's not listening. "Colt, please—" he swings the blade down on my hand without a moment of hesitation.

For a second, I think I've passed on to the other side, where I've always been destined to be. But then I feel the pain, prickly and sharp. It stings, but it's manageable—and that's only because the knife managed to graze the side of my palm, as opposed to severing the entire hand.

There's still blood, but that's not what I'm worried about. It's Colt. He's smiling.

He grabs my hand again, but instead of intertwining our fingers as he did earlier, he brings my hand up to his cheek, caressing it, even going as far as leaning into it. Then he bites the spot on the side of my palm that was cut and sucks the blood away, all while staring me down, making sure I don't look away.

And I can't. I don't know how to.

"I do it because they’re helpless," Colt starts, his hand still firm around mine, his mouth still on my wounded palm. "They're feeble, weak, vulnerable. I do it for that look in your eyes."

It's only now that I truly see how quivery I've become. My chest isn't in any better condition either; I'm surprised I haven't fallen over from a heart attack. And the tears, I don't have to feel them to know they've already begun falling.

Colt finally lets go of my hand. "Go home, Dalia."

I don't think twice. I’m out the door and in my car in the blink of an eye. As I drive home towards what I used to think was safety, all I can think about is the knife, the body bag, the putrid smell.

And the fact that Colt Bradshaw isn’t human. That has just been made evidently clear.