[SP] every time you kill someone, their fatal wound shows up as a scar on your body
The workouts at the gym started off as a once-a-week thing. Every Saturday, I'd go there and push myself to my limits and beyond to make up for the excess weight gain during the weak. The place was quite lively, and most of the people that came there for workouts knew each other so there was the usual interaction every now and then. As for me, I stayed on my own, avoiding any conversation except with the spotters during my reps. It was something weird and a bit difficult being that boring loner, but I was used to a life of discipline and sacrifice in order to achieve certain goals, so I didn't bother with it.
But after a while, about a month actually, I began to get comfortable there. I still didn't interact with anyone there, save for the hello's and hi's, but I began to feel confident in my facade so far and in my act. I was above the mistake I made back in NYC eight months ago, and now I had settled for this calm, more peaceful life in Florida. There was no reason why I had to keep myself caged in; surely I could allow myself a little more flexibility as I pleased, or so I thought.
So I started going to the gym four times a week. I didn't take things gradually, I did not pace myself. It felt like a paradigm shift of sorts, and for some time I asked myself if I was really making the right decision. New York City and those three murders that had now become cold cases weren't a distant memory yet, and if I failed to learn any lessons from the ordeal I put myself through there, I would be paying dearly for it this time.
But yet, I began going there regularly. And I began talking to people more. Of course, they didn't fail to tease me for being a recluse all this while and acting as I did;t like any of them, apart from the three instructors of course. But a little banter mixed with lies was enough to clear the air. Sooner or later, I settled into the gym and I was getting there.
Back to the point where I fell from, the point where it was smooth sailing.
And then one shower brought it all crashing down.
Terry Dahl was one of those who came regularly to the gym, and I didn't know what he did until I began to talk to the others. As much as I tried to eavesdrop in their conversations so as to gather more information about the people I was crossing paths with on a daily basis, somehow the topic of his occupation never came up in all their discussions.
And then after I began talking with them, I found out that he was a police detective. Of all things to be, a friggin' police detective. I tried to hide the look of shock and displeasure on my face when I heard that, but he might have picked up on that because our interactions were just awkward from that point.
He started asking really personal questions every now and then, and I fed him with answers that were subtly misleading and deflecting his attention. Sometimes he took the bait, sometimes he didn't. At a point, I r]considered actually killing him, just as a preventive measure.
But I knew that wouldn't;t do. For starters, the only prosthetics I used here were a fake nose, mustache, and contacts. The hair was the same, and anyone who was keenly looking for a semblance would find it. Also, the investigation resulting from his murder would surely point the torch towards the gym, and my disappearance would cause a lot of suspicions. Combined with the fact that I was known as a weird, quiet recluse, and they had more than enough reason to name me a prime suspect and put me on the FBI's most wanted.
So we were stuck in this deadly game of cat and mouse, even though it was unclear who was the cat and who was the mouse here. To him, he was the cat, following his detective's instinct to try and chip away at my armor of lies and find cracks in my story to use and pin me to an unknown crime he felt I committed. To me, he was a mouse I was toying with, looking for a convenient opportunity to kill him.
It was a game of wit and luck, and my luck ran out when I came out of that shower stall with only my shorts on. My chest, full of scars of stabbings and shootings was presented to Terry, who was just coming out of his shower stall.
It was only when he looked at my torso and gasped in horror that I realized what I had just done.
"H-hey, Lenard... what the hell happened to your body? Did you get caught in a damn war or something?"
I could do nothing but stutter. The cat and the mouse...the identities of the two became clear at this point,
The life I had struggled to build, and the facade I had struggled to maintain... they all came crashing down at my feet in seconds.
*****
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