Crimson and Steel

She ordered a BLT. 

What the hell? 

She always orders a hamburger with no onions. 

Always. 

Rain or shine. Without question.

Is she mad at me? 

Something’s definitely wrong. Something’s off. 

A change in routine means that she knows something. 

Is she doing this to mess with me? To drive me crazy?

I open my mouth to speak, but she turns her head away from me to look out the window. She can't be admiring the view. All there is to look at is a peeling metal bench, rusty pick-up trucks, and melted snow that had turned into an unappealing gray slush. 

I want to cry out. I want to take her by her thin shoulders and demand for her to tell me what’s wrong. 

“Why did you order a BLT? What do you know? What have they told you?” 

I don't say any of that.  

That wouldn't be “normal.” Whatever that means. 

You can't get angry at someone when they change their usual order. Or so I'm told. 

I walk back to the kitchen, retying my apron until it feels like someone is hugging me tightly around the waist. I watch her. She’s still gazing out the streaked window. Her long red hair, almost down to her waist, is loose, not in her usual complicated braid. 

Another change. 

First the BLT and now her hair? 

She doesn't feel my eyes on her. She never does. 

“What are you doing standing around, Trina?” 

My boss, Matt. The idiot who owns the diner. He’s staring at me, waiting for a response. 

I’m committing the ultimate sin of a waitress: being still. Not buzzing around, like a fly, hopping from table to table, at the customers' beck and call, my only purpose on this Earth to serve them crappy food and watered down soda. 

Matt has a drop of sweat balancing precariously on the tip of his large nose, his beady little eyes focusing on me. He’s still waiting for me to explain why I’m not breaking my back for a two-dollar tip. 

As if that lazy neanderthal ever worked a day in his life. Matt is sitting in his closet-sized office, his computer screen open to a sports gambling site. 

I smile at him and apologize. 

I have to keep my cool around him. If I lose this job, everything will be ruined. 

With a rare feeling of confidence, I square my shoulders and walk back towards her. This will be the day I finally talk to her, ask what her name is, and most importantly, ask her why the hell she ordered a BLT after only asking me for a hamburger these past six months. 

I stride up to her table and open my mouth. 

“How, um, c-come y-you…” 

No, no, NO!

She looks up at me sucking the straw of her water with two and a half lemons, and I see it in her eyes. 

My stomach swoops. It’s over. All of this work for nothing. 

She pities me. The look is unmistakable. Her pink lips turn downward, and her light brown eyes shine with the horrible, condescending emotion that makes me sick.  

We can't go on like this. 

Without waiting for her to respond, I spin around, my mind working furiously. 

“No breaks today,” Matt says from his throne, a black office chair, it's stuffing leaking out like intestines. “It's just too busy.” 

Only two booths out of twenty are occupied. 

“I quit,” I tell him flatly and untie my apron. 

The look on his face when I throw my apron at him makes me grin. 

Matt chucks it back at me, the black fabric soaring through the air and landing at my feet.  

“You can't quit.” 

My eyes travel to the silver knife on the stainless steel prep table. The silver kitchen tool would be camouflaged if not for the bright red tomato juice dripping down the blade. 

How would the weapon look with another darker stain? How beautiful would the colors crimson and steel look together? Blending and mixing like the most beautiful work of art ever created. 

No. 

Matt deserves to live his sad little life in his failing diner, making just enough to pay the minimum on his credit card to satisfy his gambling addiction. 

Besides, I have another death to plan. 

It isn't my first.

***

Dear reader, 

It's done. I won't tell you the details. I'm keeping that for myself. But I will tell you that I printed out the instructions on how to make a BLT and left it on top of her body.  

I couldn't help but have the last word. 

Even if those words weren't spoken out loud. 

Anyway, I'm writing to tell you that you're in danger. Probably. You need to be careful. I'm not the only monster out there. I’ve met a few, and they're worse than me. They actually kill people who don't deserve it. 

And I do care about you. Truly, I do. 

So be alert, unlike her. Don't pity people who have much less to lose than you do. 

Someone could be watching you.  

Right now. 

Right this very second. 

I'm not telling you this to scare you, well, maybe a little. A healthy dose of fear is good. If she had been more alert of her surroundings, maybe she would have felt my eyes on her, my footsteps behind her, my breath on the back of her neck…

I will say no more here. It isn’t safe. For either of us.

Just be careful who you trust. Watch out for the people whose eyes stay on you for a little too long. Or a person who's just a little too nice. 

Maybe it's the grocery store check out lady who always winks when she gives you your change. Or maybe it's your helpful neighbor who has a key to your house to water your plants when you're away. It can even be someone you've never spoken to, someone who is easy to overlook. 

Those are the ones you have to watch out for.

Or so I’m told. 

Maybe they're behind you right now. 

They could be outside your window. 

Or in your house. 

Maybe it's me. 

Maybe you should go check. 

I’d love to have a little chat with you. We don't even have to speak out loud. 

After all, I have found that words are meaningless, I'd rather hear your final breath.