Page 32 of Requiem & Reverie

“I could’ve killed you that night, Oliver. But I didn’t. It wasn’t your time. But perhaps you remember what I said to you?”

Swiping tears away, the boy’s hand visibly trembled, before he set it back down into his lap and nodded.

“Not a word, or you’ll be next,” The Sandman reminded him, reaching down to pet the kitten. “You’ve done well to stay quiet, Oliver. I appreciate your … dedication to my request. I had no idea you’d be so willing to turn mute as a result.”

“I w-w-w-want to … g-g-g-go home.”

“This is your home. And soon, it will be your mother’s, as well.” The Sandman lifted the kitten out of the box, setting a kiss to the top of its head. “I don’t wish to be cruel, so don’t disrespect me again. Clear?”

He promptly nodded, accepting the kitten from the older man, and coddled it, just as before.

“Good. I’ll be working this evening. Be sure to remain quiet up here.”

At another nod, The Sandman pushed up from his crouch and patted Oliver on the head, before heading for the exit. “I’ll bring the flower in later. You mustn’t touch it, though. It’s very important to my work.”

“I w-w-w-won’t touch it.”

* * *

Decked out in a short skirt that showed off long, slender legs, the brunette made her way to the center of the dance floor, where she allowed another man to grind against her. Disgusting. All that sweat and skin rubbing against each other, dirtying her body with all kinds of human matter. The Sandman sipped his drink from the straw, puckering at the bitters in his Sazerac cocktail.

He didn’t care for alcohol, in general, except when it served as an excuse to watch his subjects. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been watching the brunette for very long, only a few days. Part of him said it wasn’t the right time, as he knew so little about her. The other part of him understood he didn’t have much time to squeeze another practice run in before Nola.

He’d gleaned what he could from her Instagram account—she was a twenty-six-year-old, working on her Master’s degree in psychology. Her father was a sought-after plastic surgeon, her mother an apparent long-time client, who also maintained a very active social media. She liked to post pictures of herself in bikinis and tight clothing, always accentuating her upper body. A little attention-seeking whore, just like the rest of them.

As she made her way from the dance floor, he noticed a slight hobble to her step. Perhaps the high boots she wore had begun to ache her feet. She fell against the bar beside him, resting her elbows on the countertop, and whistled for the bartender, who held up a finger, signaling for her to wait.

“Cool shirt,” she said, and the Sandman looked up from his drink to see her smiling back at him. After a quick glance at his shirt, which read ‘God is Dead’, he returned his attention to her.

“Nietzsche. Let me guess. First year philosophy student.”

“It’s that obvious?” The Sandman lied.

“Philosophy has only interpreted the world, the point is to change it.”

Impressive. He’d have expected more on the Kardashian philosophy, or some utter bullshit girls her age seemed romanced into believing. “Spoken like a true Marxist.”

“Not even. And at least you don’t strike me as pretentious.” She chuckled and, at the presence of the bartender, twisted away from him. “Manhattan.”

“A rather pretentious drink, if I do say.”

Her eyes narrowed on his, lip cocked to the side. “That looks an awful lot like a Sazerac.”

“You know your drinks. I’m impressed.” It was a shame, really. Perhaps, in another life, he’d have taken the girl out, and they’d have talked philosophy and courted each other like normal human beings.

Few women had given him so much attention before.

“Had a short stint as a bartender my junior year.” Perhaps she could see the dubious look in his eyes, knew the likelihood of her doing anything beyond scheduling her own massages after finals week seemed a bit farfetched. “My father didn’t appreciate me dropping out of med school, so I took it upon myself to continually impress him by working in a bar.”

Rubbing his hands in his lap, The Sandman tuned his attention to the dampness of his skin, where he’d begun to sweat. He needed to end the conversation with the girl, before he got too deep. Before he found reason not to pursue her. And yet, he found her charming in a way that betrayed what she posted on social media.

“And … what is it you’re pursuing? Let me guess, art?” He feigned a laugh that mirrored hers, and she shook her head. He’d grown quite adept at blending in, mimicking their emotions.

“Close. Psychology. I’d like to get into criminal psychology. I’ve always been somewhat fascinated by serial killers and mass murderers.”

Perhaps a match made in heaven.

“And, um … what is it you wish to know?”