Chapter Text
IN THE SKIES, THE STARS, THE SEA. || YOU USED TO BE HOME.
The human body can be split into three planes known as the coronal, sagittal, and transversal planes.
Coronal: divides the body into front (anterior/ventral) and back (posterior/dorsal).
Sagittal: a vertical plane that divides the body into the right and left side.
Transverse: a horizontal plane that divides the body into the upper (superior) and lower (inferior) section.
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Recently, 3 dates have been circulating through whispers in the lecture rooms and among class servers.
May 7.
September 24.
April 11.
Three dates where three bodies were found sliced cleanly. Kidneys missing. Dead.
These days, you found yourself forgiving yourself more for self-perceived micro transgressions. Like staying too long at the lab until late at night when there weren’t any more buses passing through the hour. Or cutting through the shady parts of downtown because there was a shortcut there. Not caring if a murder had occurred a block away.
People would tell you that you were being dumb. Careless. Your mother surely would’ve fainted if she had known you got blackout wasted at a bar when there was a killer, or several, on the loose.
But the concern all just felt like noise now. Filtered, meaningless, background noise. Spaced out and blended and strung along until it was no longer cohesive.
N
O
I
S
E.
ASMR for the depleted psyche. Someone should make a channel about that.
Up above you, a blanket of pale blue and gold draped over the horizon as you walked to the main entrance of your apartment. The concrete pavement was scratched with black tiremarks as you passed. Must have been recent biker activity.
Right before you scanned your fob against the door access reader, you squinted an eye against the sun.
It's been a while since you've been able to appreciate the sky. You haven't taken photos of it like you used to back when blue was your favorite color. Back then, blue was mellow, not asking for much. Trustworthy because of its softness.
Now, it was a shade that haunted you. Blue wasn't the sky anymore. It was his icy eyes peering over his shades. It was his Henley that smelled like a unique mix of cedarwood, soap, and bleach when you wore it. The weird mask you had found stashed under piles and piles of clothes and trash beneath his bed.
It wasn’t something you could trust anymore.
It was danger.
Another thing you used to love now something you hated because of him.
You tore your gaze away from the sky and with a beep from the access reader, you headed inside and to the elevator doors. You swore you saw his face in the clouds.
You hated him.
You hated how everything changed after him.
Especially you.
You used to be the funny one. The one who was down for anything, who'd come along for tasks as mundane as a doctor appointment. You made friends that way. Bubbly and chill, your demeanor made people feel at ease around you. Now?
It was just pity.
You changed, [Name]. You used to be fun. Now you're just… sad.
As if you were weak. As if you needed help. If they really wanted to help and bring back the old you, then they should’ve shipped the guy to the other side of the globe. Maybe then you could get some rest. Actual rest. Not just sleep where you still felt tired when you woke up.
If you weren’t currently ghosting her, Anne would have told you that what you were going through was dissociation. Detachment stemmed from trauma fatigue and hyperawareness. Then she would’ve told you that instead of isolating yourself, what you needed to do was talk to someone, update them on your day, and finally get started on those papers you needed for a restraining order. How these things would allow your psyche to feel safe again.
But you didn’t want to talk to your mom and have her act like you needed to drop out. You didn’t want to talk to your friends and have the entire conversation be about your toxic ex, feeling the unsaid ‘I told you so's. And you sure as hell didn’t want to start filing for a restraining order when you’ve only heard horror stories about them. Like how it didn't even work or how it can be expensive or, most of all, how you'd have to see him in court, twisting the narrative. Besides, there was a chance he’d escalate his behaviors after you filed. You read that the most dangerous during the whole process was the interlude before the court hearing.
You didn’t need him showing up to your place. Not after you just moved to a new apartment 10 minutes further away from campus than the previous one.
God, you were so tired of this.
Tired was an understatement. You caught your face on the gray elevator doors, newly wiped, and your reflection looked like you went through shit and then some. You didn’t care to dress up these days and the last time you put on makeup was 2 weeks ago. Your eyebags had eyebags that you received from staying up every night, staring at your voicemail inbox that was filled to the brim.
Thankfully, the elevator doors opened after a few seconds, disrupting your analysis of your new ‘hot girl’ era. Like you were reading off the steps on a lab manual, you stepped into the elevator and pressed the ‘4’ button. After pressing the ‘close doors’ button repeatedly, you unlocked your phone and reviewed your notes for your 7 am lab tomorrow.
Brrzt. Brrzt.
A message from your school’s emergency line.
REIGHTON UNIVERSITY WarnYou 6:23 PM:
SAFETY ALERT TIPS:
Students have been warned to stay in groups of three or more as they navigate through campus. Safe rides have been increased due to recent violent incidents. Contact Campus Police or download the SafeRide app onto your device. Be aware of your surroundings and exercise caution for your safety. Report any suspicious activity to campus security. Resources are available on the school website at: www.reightonuniversity.edu.
Your safety is our top priority.
You sighed and closed the notification with a slide of a finger. Started re-reading your notes on what dermatomes were and where they were on the body.
Truth be told, you were so hypervigilant with safety in the past year that it became a chore you didn’t want to deal with anymore. You had locked doors, you had made sure to walk with crowds, you walked with your earbuds on mute and eyes always flitting in their sockets, always with keys in your knuckles like you were expecting an ambush and needed makeshift brass knuckles, and checked your surroundings every second.
Precaution morphed into paranoia as you ticked everything off the safety tip list. None of it eased your anxiety because the one you actually needed safety from knew everything about you. From the way you breathed to the way you’d lie to the tiny inhale you’d take right before bursting into laughter. A long time ago, it made you feel special. But now, it was a reminder that he’d find you no matter the sea of people.
The hopelessness of it all paved a way for apathy to replace anxiety and soon, being alert meant shit.
Why?
Because your phone kept ringing.
The letters kept coming.
And nothing was changing.
Very soon, you became passive over your life. You let different unknown numbers call you. You stopped checking your mail and told your friends you were tired when you didn’t want to go out anymore. You cancelled therapy appointments and stopped going to the gym.
It was better to pour your energy into things you still felt like you had control over. Like studying for your anatomy midterm. Or at least numbing your mind through Tiktok scrolls.
Funny how fear worked. How quickly humans adapt. Eventually, the pit in your stomach whenever his contact flashed just… disappeared. The racing in your heart that happened whenever another generated username asked to follow got slower and slower until one day, it didn’t move at all.
Maybe that’s why when the first murder happened, your heart didn’t even drop. Not like the others.
Because your newfound theory had been proven once again: people sucked.
And you were tired.
Your reading was disrupted again when there was another vibration on your phone. Discord this time.
ANTHEMWOAH6969: Guys, the police scanner’s saying that remains have been found near the creek. a head maybe. might be the 2nd victim’s
10004097: no fucking way. You think there’s pics out already?
ANTHEMWOAH6969: Nah, i think it’s too early but I bet that dude RIZKIT already has some tho. Heard he has a friend who works campus security
Dr. Pis(s)tols: u guys are fucking disgusting
You scoffed in disbelief. You agreed with Dr. Pis(s)tols as unfortunate as their user was. People these days were repulsive. Your fingers moved as you texted the channel next.
The elevator reached the 3rd floor and opened its doors automatically. No one was there. Probably decided to just use the stairs instead. Still, you dared a quick glance. Maybe he was hiding before he stepped on.
God. Please don’t let him be here.
You exhaled the almost-panic when the doors closed again, shut your eyes.
One breath.
Hold for four seconds.
Then out for seven.
You opened your eyes. Still here.
No one else.
You let out a shuddery exhale before you looked back at the Discord server, your message still lingering in the gray box before you clicked send.
Bunnyluvrxoxo: does anyone have good mnemonics for the dermatomes?
ANTHEMWOAH6969: All ik is that the nipple is T4 lol
BlueEyesNeverLie: ofc 6969 only knows the nipple
A small smile graced your face as you sent an ‘!’ reaction to the last message alongside 3 others. The smile vanished at the same rate it appeared as the next message popped up.
10004097: Yo. Who has pics? Will trade my study guide to see
Once again, seeing gore was all 10004097 could think about.
RIZKIT: DM me
And then it happened again. Students asking to share the murder pictures just so people could get off on their bloody fantasies.
It started the day after the first murder when somebody too dumb to worry about getting banned on the servers had leaked it into the #off-topic channel. And college students, adults on paper but brains functioning at 8th grade level, had spread it quickly among friends. Even those who didn't want to see it were subject to having the same 3 images ingrained into their heads before the end of lecture.
As for the policy to stop letting the images spread—there was none.
But not all of the blame could be placed on the police or the administration. College students had their ways of getting their hands on evidence. The images as well weren’t from official sources anyway.
With that being said, the cops of the city claimed the recent events were merely a series of coincidences. They must have been paid by the school or a higher up to keep the cases hush-hush because there were only a few news stations who reported on them. To the student body and everyone who had a brain, it was apparent these cases weren't isolated incidents. Sure, they appeared with gaps between the months, but the bodies being all killed in the same method? Come on.
You guessed the university would rather sacrifice their students to a serial killer than let poor Reighton University’s squeaky clean reputation as a safe college town be tainted. Tuition money couldn’t tank with scared parents pulling their kids out, after all.
Your safety is our top priority, my ass, you thought.
Despite the city’s attempt to cover up the cases from the public, their very objective had an opposite effect. Images from the crime scenes quickly blew up and everyone—from the sorority girls to the psych students to the dining hall workers—knew about them before midterms season.
Discord servers and even Slack ballooned into a true crime podcast.
There was much debate on the killer’s identity, if it was staff, a student, or a Reighton City resident. Everyone agreed to one thing, however: whoever did this knew what they were doing.
The dissections of the body were way cleaner than anything your lab TA could produce. Your professor could make the hemisection of the third body a question on the midterm alone.
22. In this picture, in which plane is the victim’s head cut across?
It was probably during the circulation of the third victim’s pictures that you could say you began to cement how you felt about people. Curiosity over the macabre always overshadowed compassion for the deaths.
Online and in person, there was much discussion on who the killer was or the motives as everyone who watched Criminal Minds one time began to speculate. All talk about the killer’s psyche and none on how two of the victims were students who would not be present to walk commencement like the rest of them. Or take grad pics. Or have their families greet them whenever they went back to their hometown.
These people had lives and dreams, probably waiting on job offers or even planning on doing something mundane like making dinner the night they were killed.
Now? They were gone. To-do Post-Its? Waiting on their desks for someone who’d never return.
But those were boring, normal details no one cared about.
Perhaps you held more bitterness because you too, once, had been on the receiving end. When you had called the cops after your ex showed up at your place after almost a year of not seeing him, your neighbors in the surrounding complexes were busy videotaping. They were more concerned over the what, when, where, and how rather than your own safety. As if gossip and being ‘in the know’ was more significant than you crying and trembling so violently that you blanked out when you gave your statement.
You understood it.
To a point.
Because it’s easy to distance yourself from the cases you see on camera. More comforting to think of it as just a cautionary tale—something that'd never happen to you.
Until it does.
And suddenly, you become a part of the statistics.
You still remember how the officers, too, had been less than compassionate. There was no warmth or reassurance or comfort. Just protocol—get the statement, give you options, then leave as they had more pressing issues on their hands.
You hated how your ex had so much control over your life at that moment. How your private life was put on full display and how he turned you into a spectacle.
How he changed you that night.
To the cops, it was just another day. To the neighbors, it was just another episode to watch.
To you, it was the death of who you had been, and the birth of someone who couldn’t function normally ever again.
Fucking bastards, the entire lot of them.
The elevator doors finally opened to your floor.
With a furrow in your brows, you walked to your apartment unit, typing up a question so the chat could go back to actual anatomy discussion. The beige carpet of the floor became a blurry background against your phone as you wrote, head bent down.
‘Hey, does anyone know what prosections would be good to obdeerve tomorrow?’
“Ugh.” You deleted the typo and tried again.
‘Hey does anyone know what prosections would be good to obser—’
You stopped when you saw it.
There was a white piece of paper on the ground by your apartment door. Tiny. Could have been a notice by the apartment managers that fell.
You had even picked it up, wondering if it was a wifi-blackout notice again.
Instead, your lungs stopped working.
For the first time in nearly five months, your heart raced again. Your hands started to shake. Your forehead started to sheen with cold sweat. For the first time, the pit in your stomach reopened.
“What the hell? How does he know? How did he–?”
It was a white letter. Freshly placed.
His handwriting. Neat. Thin. Written as if in a hurry.
Hey.
I know you probably don't want to hear from me right now, but I just wanted to check in. I've heard about the news and I just wanted to let you know to be safe.
Call me if you ever want to talk about… things. Or just anything in general. I'll always be here for you, even if you hate me now.
I love you. Always will, my smart girl.
- J.
Tears welled in your eyes. You moved apartments. You blocked his number. You did everything right. But still.
He found you.