Dissonance

This story contains mental health, minor violence, substances and swearing.

At this hour, there was an uncanny silence in the street. Although it wasn't the cold that caused my chest to tighten, I repositioned my coat and pulled the collar up to protect myself from the chill. Once more, I was following her.

Despite the uncertainty in her stride, she walked with purpose. This had become a habit—something that provided purpose to my meaningless existence. I told myself it was curiosity when I followed her for the first time. After following her for weeks, I could not ignore the fact that it had turned into another obsession.

I couldn't stand the monotony of my life: get up, go to work, return home, and repeat. Nothing was altered, nothing changed. Aside from this. She made my life feel alive and gave me an excuse to get out of bed. I had to solve a new puzzle with each step she took, and that prevented me from being completely consumed by the emptiness. 

Her long black coat fluttered in the wind as she moved gracefully. When she was by herself, as she frequently was at this hour, she exuded confidence and poise. She might appear normal to others, but I knew differently. I had seen her.

My footsteps were muffled by the city's hum, so I maintained a safe distance. I accelerated to keep up with her as she rounded a corner and briefly disappeared. My heart pounded, and I felt a rush of adrenaline. This was exciting—the risk of getting caught, the thrill of observing her unknown. I knew exactly what she did and where she went. 

She went to a café by the library and ordered the same herbal tea as she always did. In the trash, I discovered her abandoned cup. It had her name on it: Clara.

At the library, across from an apartment where a cat often lounged, Clara would always sit by the window that kept the cat in sight. On her way to work, she would frequently stop by the fountain in the park and dwell on it. I felt as though I controlled these areas in her life.

Tormented coursed through me, the thought of last time my curiosity pulled me this deeply. I just managed to get out. Isabelle, the last woman I loved, was suffocated by my darkness when the truth came to light. I was unable to let her go. When I grabbed her, I could still see the fear in her eyes.

But now there was Clara. Her stormy gray eyes held an intensity, framed by thick lashes, a birthmark resting just above her collarbone. She was everything Isabelle had been and I admired that.

She deviated from her evening routine and crossed the street while walking along the road. Instead of going to her apartment, she ventured deeper into the city's underbelly, to a neighbourhood I rarely visited. The buildings were old and derelict, with dark, abandoned windows. What exactly was she doing here? She paused at the entrance to a decaying bar, glancing around. My pulse quickened as I ducked behind a dumpster. After a brief pause, then she entered. 

Unsure what to do next, I waited, my pulse racing. I needed to know.

I slipped out of my hiding spot and tentatively reached the building. The door had an open sign, and a blinking neon beer sign hung next to it. I pushed it open, the rusty hinges groaning in protest, and went inside.

The smell of damp beer lingered on the carpets. A faint outline of stairs led further into the building. I descended gradually, as slowly as possible. As I reach the bottom, she stands by the bar with her back to me.

I freeze.

A cold sweat started on my neck. This felt wrong—completely off the script. Clara moved through her day like clockwork. But tonight she was at this run-down bar. However, for some reason, panic overtook me. 

I should leave. Thoughts screamed at me to turn around, but I couldn’t. Why the change? What had brought her here? The questions clawed at my mind. Moving closer, slipping into a stool at the back of the room.

The bartender dropped a drink in front of her. She swirled the amber liquid, keeping her gaze settled on the felt pool table in the corner.

Curiosity grew stronger, and against my better judgment, I moved, sitting closer now but remaining in the shadows. Close enough to hear the low murmur of her voice as she spoke with the bartender. There was something familiar about how she leaned in, her body language subtle but confident. This wasn’t just some random detour in her life. She knew this place. And yet… I never see her here. How had I missed this?

She set the empty glass down with a soft clink and murmured to the bartender. There was an echo in her movements, the way she gestured while speaking. Even the slight tilt of her head when she was contemplating, something felt achingly familiar.

Clara audibly thanked the bartender, slipping him what I can assume was a generous tip. She stood, moving toward the pool table on the other side of the room.

Instinctively, I moved when she moved, taking a seat a couple of stools away from where she had just stood, admiring the way her lipstick marked the glass that the bartender had yet to take away.

Inches from me, a thud sounded on the bar—a glass of whiskey placed with a careless flourish.

“I haven’t ordered yet,” I said, looking towards the bartender.

“From her,” he replied, indifferent.

I snapped my gaze back to Clara. She stood with a pool cue in hand, a playful smile on her lips, her gaze fixed on mine.

"Are you going to stare some more or join me?" Clara teased, her voice light but challenging.

Shit. Does she know I've been following her?

I blinked, pausing briefly. Grabbed the whiskey and drank it for courage before walking toward her. In sharp contrast to the bar's dim lighting, her eyes glistened with mischief as I drew nearer. Confident and at ease, Clara leaned against the table.

She tilted her head slightly and held the cue lightly in her hands as she asked, "Your first game?"

I laughed. "Mostly an observer."

"All right, observer." She trailed, "What’s your name?" She set the balls in place and got into a position, aiming down the center.

With sweat beginning to drip down my face, I chalked my cue and responded, "Liam." Nearly flawlessly breaking the set, Clara struck true. Two balls quickly sank one after the other. "Impressive," I said, giving a nod. She puts two more balls in her pockets.

Clara grinned.

“The best players know how to read their opponents.”

“Read their opponents?” I raised an eyebrow in response.

“Yeah. Everyone has their secrets.” She glanced at me, eyes searching.

I check the table, observing my options, and shoot, putting two striped balls in my pocket. Clara hummed in approval, I grinned. 

She spoke up, "Why not make this exciting? If you win, I’ll give you my number.

I stopped, the cue quivering in my hand, and she smiled playfully. Something intimate, even vulnerable, about her that I don't know.

I hesitated and then nodded, "Deal."

The game went on, but Clara was doing well. She pocketed ball after ball. I focused and lined up my final shot, missing. As Clara attempted to sink the eight ball, her hand slipped, and the ball veered off course. She’d lost.

Clara groaned, throwing her hands up in mock defeat. “Fair is fair,” she said with amusement. But then her gaze darkened, something unsettling flashing in her eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked, her voice low.

I look at her in slight confusion, but then I quickly realize that I'm breaking out in a sweat, trembling.

“I think I became a lightweight,” I joked, my legs wobbling. I slouched into a sticky chair at a nearby table. “How many shots did you sneak into my drink?” I continued jokingly, raising an eyebrow.

She chuckled, but the sound felt wrong, almost predatory. The bar was getting louder. What time was it?

“Not shots,” Clara said flatly. “Rohypnol. A roofie you ingested quite fast, it must have had a quicker effect.”

The laughter died in my throat. “What?”

A wave of nausea hit me. Panic clawed at my chest as my body started to defy me. Trying to stand, my legs buckled. A chill crawled up my spine as I hit the floor, gasping. The room tilted. Faces blurred together. Someone has to notice. I had to get up and had to leave. Was this how Isabelle had felt before everything shattered?

“Clara, please—” My voice was a desperate whisper, but hers was laced with a quiet rage.

“Please?” She echoed the word, her tone dripping with mockery. "Had Isabelle also begged?"

With what little vision I had, my gaze snapped onto hers. Shock cascaded through my veins, a cold realization settling in as her words cut deeper than any knife. My heart pounded against my ribs, drowning out the noise of the bar and the murmur of the crowd.

Then the bar went black.

I woke to the distant thud of the bar music. My senses slowly returned. My eyes searched desperately in a small room filled with boxes, landing on the rope that tied me to the chair. Dust hung thick in the air.

Clara stood in front of me, her loose top revealing the familiar birthmark above her collarbone, and her gray eyes, which were so piercing, seemed to bore into my soul. Her skin's ethereal softness mirrored Isabelle's, and the same delicate hue evoked an unsettling familiarity.

It sent shivers down my body. The realization came to me like a wave, and I froze.

"She was my sister," Clara confirmed, sensing my thoughts. "It wasn't hard to find out you killed her." She spoke steadily, but I could see a storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.

"You are consumed by your obsessions, Liam. It drives you. In your mind, you and her were the only people in the world. That means you made mistakes along the way.”

“I didn’t mean for—”

"Do you think you'll be forgiven by those words? Is it likely that they will bring her back?" She waits for an answer, tilting her head slightly with a disturbing curiosity.

My mind struggled to grasp what’s happening and there was no way out of it. I realize with sickening dread that Clara was not interested in reconciliation or forgiveness.

"I know you're angry, I know. But I loved her. It was an accident.” Clara's face hardened, the derision giving way to a fierce intensity.

"Love? Do you refer to it as love? Liam, you ruined her! You followed her around and stalked her. You violated privacy time and time again. You took her life when it wasn't enough when you needed just a little more."

Fear burned like wildfire through my veins. I fought against the ropes that bound me, the bindings were still firm and pressed into my skin. Clara's eyes were burning with a vengeance, and her unblinking gaze never left mine. At the base of my throat, she positioned a sharp knife.

"Do you feel that Liam? Are you afraid?” Clara whispered, her tone low and deceptively soothing. "She felt that way just before you killed her in a fit of fury."

With increased pressure, the curved blade cut through my skin, inch by inch. My neck ached sharply, but fear stopped me in my tracks—no struggle, no scream, just the crushing weight of her retribution.

"It's a pity," her breath warmed my ear. "When the predator becomes prey."

The blade inches farther into my skin.