Origin Story

I can see the hate in his eyes, deep down into his soul. His hand tightens around my neck, and I am desperately trying to find something to grab to defend myself but all I can feel is the damp coolness of the brick wall I am forced up against. I never thought I would die in a damn alley, I mean no one ever pictures how they are going to die but I at least thought it would be peacefully somewhere. Not a rancid smelling alley at the hands of literally one of the biggest scum bags in the city. Not only that, but I am insanely confused on how this guy is still alive, I spiked his drink with enough belladonna and mugwort to kill a racehorse. But then it happens. The hate that was once in his eyes has now faded to fear. I can feel tension in his hand begin to fade and I am slowly able to breathe again. He steps back, releasing me fully as I fall to the ground and gain my footing. He stumbles all the way into the opposite wall, falls down to his knees and starts to cough. 

“What did you do to me, you bitch?” 

“Shhh, it is not nice to call people names. I am just doing what needed to be done, so a man like you never lays a hand on a girl ever again.” I say this as blood stars to spurt from his mouth and flows out of his nose. I watch as he takes his last desperate breaths. I lite a cigarette and walk away, never glancing back at the waste of human that is now burning in the pits of the hell he deserves to be in. 

A sharp sting of pain on my left thigh wakes me up; the brightness from the new day outside sends a thumping into the base of my skull. I look down to see my sheets stained with deep red blood and a fresh cut that is about two inches long but not dangerously deep. I remember last night during the scuffle with the angry cranky man, I cut my leg on a piece of metal that was sticking out of the wall. It hurts like hell, and I should for sure get a tetanus shot later today. Ew. I get up with a grimace and limp my way to the bathroom. While dumping half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over my new cut, I check my phone to see nothing but a few news notifications and a voicemail from a number I do not recognize, but all of that can wait. I watch the bubbles come to the top of my wound, pop, pop, pop. I dab at it with a piece of toilet paper and start to make my way into the kitchen. Grab the nearest pot, throw it on the stove and scoop out the remaining honey, watching it like it’ll make it boil any faster. I lick the sticky residue off my fingertips and turn around to look at the file of last nights victim one more time before it is properly disposed of. I see the drivers license photo of the scum from last night clipped to the stack of papers I printed on him. He looks like a clean-cut guy, a charming guy at first glance, but his eyes, they creep me out. They look soulless. They are blue, a color that any girl would fall for, but when you stare into them, they just look empty.

Name: Austin King.

Age: 31

Date of Crime: January 1, 2019

Charges: Sexual Abuse. Stalking. Rape. 

Date of Release: February 3, 2019. Due to unsubstantial evidence, the detained has been released and the chargers have been dropped by accuser.

Seeing the words “unsubstantial evidence”, rips me apart every time. How can this man who stalked and tormented these young girls just get to go about living his normal life? 

So, there it is, yeah, I kill men. I kill bad men who do bad things. Men who lie and cheat and steal and hurt and walk all over any women they’ve ever met, until they meet me. I put a stop to all of that, I make them look at themselves in the mirror and feel the loneliness and pain that they inflicted on women and girls. The honey starts to sizzle behind me. I grab the pot and a few aloe leaves from the plant next to me. As I dump the hot honey over my wound, it only burns for a minute but it quickly cools with the aloe. 

My phone starts ringing. I really do not want to answer, whoever it may be. It’s Saturday morning; I’m tired. I glance at my phone and see that it is my boss. If my eyes could roll further into the back of my head they would get stuck.

“Hi Rick.”

“Lilith. Hi. Good morning. Sorry to bother you but I really need that story on the coffee shop owner who is selling that cat poop coffee.” Why is this man a spaz at all hours of the day? He can never just chill.

“The Kopi Luawk coffe.”

“The what?”

“That is what the coffee is called Rick, Kopi Luwak. I will get it to you by the end of the day, so I will meet the Sunday deadline that we talked about. It’s Saturday Rick, get a calendar.”

 I hang up the phone and walk to the table to finish this mundane uninteresting surface level article on some stupid rich people coffee that all New Yorkers seem to care about. This is what I get for taking the first job I was offered when I moved here, a low-level newspaper that is always one step behind The New York Times on headline worthy stories. I hate New York sometimes.

I look at myself in the black reflection of my computer screen, I see my straggly black hair that has fallen out of its messy bun and my dry cardboard brown eyes staring back at me. As I look at my grown woman reflection, I think back to little girl Lilith who was always so alone. My parents were dead and gone by seven because of a house fire. I start to think of all the foster homes that I was bounced around to because I was a “trouble-maker” or “was up to no good.” But worse than that, I think of the dirty houses filled with dirty men that touched me in inappropriate ways. I think of the older boys who helped themselves to whatever part of my body they wanted to. Just thinking about the child within me who is still hurt and damaged makes my heart drop to my stomach. Suddenly, I feel nauseous. I make my way to the kitchen and shave off a small piece of ginger and start to chew on it. The taste of ginger sends me into another flashback, apparently my brain is full of emotional flashbacks today, but I don’t want to stop it. I let the memories come. 

This flashback is a happy one. I am twelve, sitting in front of a computer screen at the library and drinking a cold ginger ale because I had felt sick all day, my jaw is dropped open because I just got my ancestry DNA results back. It gave me a few new results that I was able to tie to research that I had previously done, and everything was confirmed. I was a witch, not the Hollywood kind. The one with green skin and big noses. I was a Pagan witch with ties back to medieval Ireland. I couldn’t believe it. I felt a wave of relief fall over me. I finally figured out that this was why I never felt like I had belonged. Because I did not belong with any of those people that I had been placed with. I started to research, heavy. I learned about herbs and energies and crystals. I learned how to manifest and use the moon to help recharge. I learned that with the right intentions, I am capable of almost anything. Having all this new knowledge also meant something else, I could start torturing those who ruined me. I started small, giving people stomach aches and making them sneeze every time someone said their name. But then I began to escalate, causing pain to anyone who had caused me the most detrimental suffering of body and mind. Then a few years ago, I escalated into killing. I stop the flashback before it goes too far because I do not want to remember the first time I killed; it was sloppy. 

I shake my head and try to get my mind away from daydreams. I have to get this article done before my boss calls me again. Just as I am about to get into my writing zone, my phone lights up. It is the same number from the voicemail that is still sitting in my inbox, and I decide it is best to let it keep ringing. My palms start to sweat, and I can feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck as I watch the call end. I am about to pick up my phone to rid the missed call notification, when a new voicemail pops up. I gasp and drop my phone. 

I guess now is a better time than ever to listen to the first voicemail. 

“Hi, Ms. O’Connor, um Ms. Lilith O’Connor?” I have to focus hard because the background is filled with loud voices and phones ringing. This guy really needs to understand proper phone etiquette.  

 “I am hoping I have the right number. This is detective Cormac Peterson. I am with the NYPD homicide unit. I do not want to alarm you but if you could give me a call back at this number, I would appreciate it.” 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Did I really hear that right? I listen to it one more time, pressing my hand against my other ear to cancel out any other possible noises and ducking my head into my lap. I hear it right; a detective is calling me. My hands start to shake as I press the second one.

“Hello, Ms. O’Connor, it’s detective Peterson again. I realized that my last message was a little vague. I apologize for that. I got your number from your editor, Rick? And he said that you may be able to help me. We are investigating a string of homicides and again, I really do not want to alarm you but if you could just come down to the station, I think that you could be of some help. Thank you.”

I stand up so fast from my chair that if falls dramatically behind me making a loud thump that causes me to jump. I begin pacing my apartment. You have got to be kidding me. Am I really getting called to do a story on my own murders? Of course, it could not be my murders but how many other serial killers are active in New York right now? I’m putting my money on zero. How is that even possible. Since when do cops want help from some low-level journalist. This has got to be a sick joke. My hands are now getting stuck in the tangles of my hair as I try to run my fingers through them. I am frustrated and confused and stressed the hell out. What did I do for the world to play this kind of trick on me? I thought that I have always been doing some sort of evil good, and now this? I may possibly have to work side by side with the cop who is potentially investigating my crimes. 

I move slowly, sitting onto the ground and brining my knees to my chest and start to rock back and forth. I have to calm myself and figure out what I am going to do. I compose myself; get myself off of the floor because I am not a coward that is going to crack at this inconvenience. I have decided it; I am going to the police station. He only wants my help in covering these crimes. And if I lay low for a while, I could evade all of this. Write the story, get it printed, and then it will just drop off and become some cold case. I have to nip this in the ass before I become a real suspicion.

I stare at myself in the mirror. What does one wear to go meet a detective who is investigating a string of murders? Oh, not to mention you are the one who has been committing these murders. Is there a specific vibe that I should be going for? Classy murderous chic, perhaps? I give up staring at myself and drag my feet to the closet. I pick out my favorite pair of Doc Marten boots that are covered in scuffs and cresses, the leather is so worn I can slide my feet in with the same ease that one slides on slippers. I grad my go to black skinny jeans, a crooked cropped Green Day t-shirt that I have had for over a decade, one of my go-to comfort shirts. I throw my hair up into a big claw clip and pull out the little strands that frame my face. I look myself over in the mirror one more time. I personally don’t think that I look like I could murder someone, maybe someone who could get into a brawl at a bar but definitely not a murder. 

The walk to the police station wasn’t far. I stood out of the building for the rest of my cigarette. The building looks so plain, just old brick with “POLICE” in big letters across the top. There was a constant wave of officers and civilians coming in and out of the building, they mixed in with those on the street and some jumped into cars and pulled off. I snuff out the tip of my cigarette on my boot and throw it into the trash, I turn up my self-confidence and start to make my way up the steps. When I enter there is a young officer sitting at a big desk, clicking away on a computer. The entrance of this station looks so cliché, like I just stepped into an episode of a drama show on TNT; the young officer, people running around everywhere, and someone is yelling in an office down the hall.

“Ma’am is there something I can help you with?” The young officer from behind the desk has looked up annoyingly and is staring right at me.

“Hi, my name is Lilith, I was contacted by detective Peterson, he asked me to come down for a few questions.”

As I say this a tall man, with dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a pen sticking out of his mouth comes around the corner. He has a stack of files in one arm and a coffee cup in his hand. I am assuming that he can feel me staring at him because he shoots his head up and we make immediate eye contact.

“Detective Peterson?”

“Please just call me Cormac. Ms. O’Connor?”

“Yes, but you can just call me Lilith.” 

I reach out to shake his hand but quickly withdrawal it because I remember that his hands are clearly full. 

“Yeah, sorry, full hands. If you could just follow me to my office, we can get started.”

I follow him down a dimly lite hallway that is full of offices that have plaques hanging on the walls and pictures with important government officials in them. We reach the end of the hall, and we turn right into Cormac’s office. It is so tiny, barely fitting his desk and a fold out chair. It does have a tiny couch stowed in the opposite corner and bookshelf that is overflowing with books and files and one picture of Cormac with a dog.

“So, no corner office with a view for you?” 

I hope my sarcasm isn’t too much right now, I have to remember that I am supposed to be keeping a low profile. I should probably drop some of my attitude. 

“I’m still the new guy, two years later. I think they keep giving the corner office to everyone except for me, I think the janitor even has a better office than I do.” Cormac says this with a chuckle, and I sigh with relief. A sense of humor, lovely.

“So, isn’t it a little unconventional for a police officer to go directly to the press with details of a story? I thought you guys were supposed to keep a lot of this information close to your chest?”

We both sit down, and he rubs the little bit of stubble that is on his face with his hands and lets out a big breath.

“Yeah, I know. But I am running out of options. Um, let me just fill you in. There have been 5 homicides in this area of New York over the last six months.”

My body starts to tense a little and I hope he cannot tell. 

“These men, I mean they have nothing in common. Their places of employment range from a bodega attendant to a lawyer at a million-dollar grossing law firm. The only thing that they have in common is the way they were killed. That is how we were able to connect them all. They have been killed by herbs, freaking herbs. Can you believe that?”

I clutch my bag just a little tighter to my side, I have freaking mugwort in my bag right now. I forgot to take it out last night. Let’s just keep that safe and hidden Lilith, do not be a klutz now and knock over your bag and just spill your murder weapon all over the place. 

“Wow, that is crazy. I didn’t know that herbs could actually kill someone.” 

I try to say this with a little hesitation because I do not want to come off to eager about the whole herb thing.

“Yeah, I did not know that either well until this whole situation. But anyway, this herbal combination, the lab has not figured out exactly the herbs that have been used but it melts them from the inside out. Their organs start to literally melt. It is without a doubt, a painful way to go.” He waves his hand around in the air as if this whole case is just an inconvenience. 

I have to fight hard to keep a smile from spreading across my face because a painful death is exactly what was intended with those herbs.  The room is quiet for a bit, and we are just staring at each other with a tension that I can’t figure out what it means. 

“So, you are telling me that these men, they have nothing else in common? They don’t even go to the same gym?” 

Of course, I know what they have in common, duh. They are all shitbag human beings, if I know this, he has to know this. He is a cop, he has easier access to their files than I did. I have to spend days tracing and code breaking into data bases to get the information that I want. 

“Well… there is one more thing they have in common, it is a little bit of a red flag. But they all have some sort of violent past. Most of them have had charges brought against them, assault, battery, sexual assault, and some of them have even had rape accusations.” He kind of trails off at the end of this, like talking about rape is something that makes him uncomfortable. 

I am trying hard to act surprised. 

“That’s terrible.” 

His phone begins to ring, thank god, saved by the bell. He answers, gives quick yes and no answers. Then abruptly hangs up.

“I have to go. I am giving you the names of these men and all of their files. I am really trusting you with all of this. I am expecting you to write a great article here Lilith. Please be careful. I will check in tomorrow, okay? Is that enough time to get started?” I swear his eyes are staring directly into my soul. I can feel my palms start to sweat and my face feels hot. 

“Um yeah, that’s fine. I’m sure I can start something by then. This is now my most interesting story, forget the cat poop.” I say with a little huff of a laugh.

“The what?” he raises on eyebrow and looks at me like I just said the stupidest sentence on the planet.

“Nothing, nothing. Just call me tomorrow.” I grab the stack of papers and speed walk out of that damn station before he can say anything else to me. 

It has been almost twenty-four hours since I walked out of Cormac’s office. In the last twenty-four hours I have figured out that this was going to be my end. Cormac has a lot more information than he led on. They have fingerprints, and hairs, and saliva. They have security camera footage, and the witness accounts are so damn detailed. Since when to bartenders pay this close attention to everyone they serve? And how do drunk people remember so much? I cannot believe this. All they need is to get one of my hairs or a cigarette butt of mine and I am done for. I am remembering the time that I spit into one of my victims faces. It was the bodega guy. He grabbed my boob and told me I was a whore, so I punched him and spit on his face. They got that saliva off of him. They got my damn spit. Oh my god, I am so stupid. Why do I have to be so spiteful? God focus Lilith, now is not the time to freak out. I have packed a suitcase with my clothes and a suitcase with other important items. I cannot bring much since I have decided that I have to go international.

Of course, I didn’t come to this conclusion easily, I spent at least 3 hours crying and screaming and throwing every small breakable object at the wall. I will be going to Italy first and then I’m not sure where from that point. I am just going to have to figure it out as a go. I was able to find a travel agency that will help you book any trip, I luckily have a fake passport, ID, birth certificate, and a few overseas bank accounts. Deep down I knew that this would happen one day, I just didn’t think it would be so soon, so I stocked up on all the important things that you need when you want to flee the country. I have to remember that my name is Meredith Smith now and I was born in California, still no parents or living relative. It is a good enough cover to get me out of New York and that is priority number one right now. 

Cormac will be here in 30 minutes; he thinks that we are meeting at my apartment to go over the first draft of my article. But I don’t plan to see him. I have a car coming for me in 5 minutes and I just pray to the universe that he isn’t early. I take one last look around my apartment. I did not want to leave New York this soon, as much as I hate it, I have grown comfortable here. I have created my own safe space for myself, for the first time, and now I have to leave. I take a deep breath and grab my things; I start to make my way out the door. 

As I walk out the front door of my building, the car is waiting. The driver starts to load up my bags and as I glance up and look down the street, I see Cormac waiting at the crosswalk. Oh shit. 

“Um excuse me sir, is it okay if I wait in the car while you finish?”

“Yes ma’am, of course.”

I get in and duck down as low as I can. I hope he didn’t see me. That would make all of this a lot harder. And why is this man taking forever to load two damn bags? All of a sudden, I see Cormac at my window. He isn’t looking at me but glancing down at his phone. Mine starts to ring. I just sit and stare at his name on my phone. I do not dare touch it or look up. Please just stop, please. I am so sorry to do this to you, I am so sorry that I have to run. But I owe you nothing Cormac, I owe no one, anything. I have to move on and help other people. I can feel a lump in my throat. I cannot help but feel emotional because the last twenty-four hours have been hell. The driver gets back in and is messing with something instead of just driving. My anxiety is through the roof. Then the worst happens, there is a tap at my window. 

“Lilith? Lilith where are you going?” I can barely hear him through the window. It is a muffled voice, but I can tell there is an upset tone. Cormac looks like a sad puppy. 

“I’m sorry.” I mouth to him.

He hits the window. “Lilith what are you doing?” He is yelling now, and it hurts my whole body. 

I scream at the driver “I need you to DRIVE NOW. HURRY.” His eyes go wide, and he finally pulls off.

Cormac is hitting the side of the car as it pulls away. “Lilith! Stop! Lilith!”

As we pull out of view, I turn around to see Cormac standing damn near in the middle of the street and I can tell that he is still yelling my name. I turn my body forward and focus on the road ahead.

To be continued...

 Rebecca Riley, July 24, 2021