Luis’s brown eyes gaze at the rattling mirror, bewildered. The loud thud echoes around the room, shattering the tense silence.
Abbott’s face remains neutral. His eyes are steadily focused on Luis, his mouth a thin, rosey line.
Luis looks back at the detective, then down at the table. His heart thumps at his temple. He stares at his red wrists without really seeing them. The metal handcuffs almost seem to have a mouth, opening slowly to swallow him whole.
And damn did that tattoo on his neck itch.
“Water.” he says, looking up at Abbott’s chin. He notices the lack of stubble.
“Hm?” Abbott says, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. He leans forward.
Luis leans back. “I’d like a glass of water.”
Abbott pauses then sits back in his chair. His eyes look cold. “Certainly.” he says, scooting back. The chair scrapes loudly against the concrete floor. “I’ll be right back with that.” he says with a warm smile.
Abbott walks to the door, opens it, and disappears, leaving Luis alone in the room.
He looks up at his reflection in the mirror. The disheveled hair is not his, neither are the dark bags under his eyes. Even his lips, usually a bright red his girlfriend envied, were pale and cracked, spotted with burgundy blood.
And why did he get that tattoo? It hurt like hell.
He doesn’t even believe in God; not really. He’d never been religious. His parents had dragged him to church, sure, but those sermons were boring. He’d spent more time studying the intricate carvings on the altar behind the priest than he had listening to the old man babble about Heaven and Hell.
But he did believe in Jennifer and his future life with her.
So he followed her, into the meeting room. He sat down with the other evangelicals and listened to their discussion, for her. He listened to them pick the target– an old man with the prediction of LIGHTNING, all while watching her and thinking about how beautiful she was.
He had kept his eyes on her while the “tattoo artists” stabbed away at the sensitive skin of his throat. His mind had been focused on her while he listened to the leader talk about the new victim they had chosen– a teenage girl this time, whose prediction was BULLET.
Jennifer had been on his mind as he brought the knife down and listened to the sickening squelch of the blade as it pushed through the girl’s skin.
He thinks of her now, waiting back at home for him. She will be proud of him, even though he got caught. He fulfilled his mission– he killed the girl, just like she’d wanted. Even if he doesn’t go home today, he’ll be a hero in her eyes.
That is all he needs.