Chapter Text
"Jesus Christ," you mutter, yawning immediately after as you walk in through the back of the restaurant. Kenzie and Bart aren't actively cooking, the former leaning against the wall with his eyes closed while the latter smokes. No guests are here then.
"Where's Gabi?" You ask them as you look for your uniform in the washed pile in the connected wash room. You find it and rub at the small stain still left from your last shift. Shit.
"She left thirty minutes ago," Kenzie replies, barely audible in his sleepy tone, "not like anyone came by, anyway."
You make a noncommittal sound as you walk into the dressing room. You would leave early, too, if you weren't already on a watch list for the last two times. And Gabi has more of an excuse with Benny. Apparently he's become a little monster with his teething phase.
There's only one dressing room. It's dim and cramped with a cabinet on the side of a dusty mirror for you to ensure you tie the back of your apron right over your dress shirt. You try rubbing the stain again and it proceeds to be there so you give up and walk out, leaving your bag with your other clothes in the empty cabinet before unlocking the door.
By the time you come out, you hear sizzling and smile at seeing the two chefs cooking you breakfast, "Hey, thanks, but I can't pay for it today."
Bart quirks a bushy brow at you before focusing on his pan again, taking his cigarette out to scoff, "Boss isn't here right now, don't worry about it."
Ethically, you're supposed to protest. But John's been getting on your nerves lately so you don't care to argue and rest your hip on the empty counter while you wait for your food. When your favorite breakfast is presented to you, you grin as you dig through the utensil drawer, "You two love me so much."
Kenzie draws a heart in the air with his spatula, smiling when you make one back with your hands, Bart just huffs.
You slide down to the ground to eat your meal, knees used to balance your plate. Bart starts going on about how his daughter's doing in her career, his voice gruff yet quiet as he rambles about how good of a professor she is. That combined with the warmth of your food makes you want to nod off, feeling like a kid getting tucked in with a bedtime story.
It's always so comfy in the kitchen. Not so much because of the actual environment—the floor's got cracks every five feet and there's been the occasional rodent inside—but the mood. The other servers can be hit or miss, but the chefs are always so nice. Not bitter from all the difficult customers and uncaring at the manager's reprimands because they know John can't afford to fire any of them. Doesn't matter who's on shift, the kitchen is always a safe space.
Your eyes start to blink slowly at the tiled floors, your chewing getting more languid the more comfortable you get. You wish you were in bed. Even with your nap beforehand, it feels like it wasn't enough.
You feel a slip on lightly kick at your feet and Kenzie takes your mostly-eaten plate from you, "Customers."
You suppress a groan as you hear Nicole's voice asking for the number of the party, feeling like a marionette on strings as Kenzie lifts you up and pats your back encouragingly. You grab one of the notepads at the front of the kitchen and walk out to the table where a group is waiting for you.
"Good morning," You sigh, despite your best attempts to wake yourself up for the first actual interaction of your shift, "what can I get started for y'all to drink?"
Junior's Jacks is your average, stop-by diner. Many people flood in in the middle of road trips or when they're visiting family in the small town nearby. It's usually flooded with customers by sunrise, but, unfortunately for you, Junior's is open 24/7 and you needed extra shifts, so you've been put on the graveyard for the next few weeks.
Hence why you are looking at the sketchiest group of people you've ever seen come in from the dark parking lot. Three boys and a girl, all looking incredibly tired yet still intense. It's not unusual to get unnerving customers at odd hours, which is why you hate it, and you haven't been phased much despite occasional discomfort, especially after this one guy, dead serious, gave you some kind of roadkill and asked you to have it cooked.
But these people made you feel uneasy immediately.
"Three coffees and a water, please," the one with sideburns replies, allegedly for the whole group. You write the drinks down on your notepad and wait for another requests, but none come so you do your best to smile.
"Alright, coming right up." You go to walk away when you hear one of them click their tongue a few times. You turn back, thinking maybe it was some way to get your attention, but none of them are looking at you.
You continue to walk toward the drink dispenser to get the water first while the group starts talking, almost having a heart attack when the stack of cups nearly topples over. Thank god the restaurant got rid of their skating thing a decade ago or else the catching maneuver you managed with your knee wouldn't have worked out. You hear them go quiet and feel gazes on you.
Ugh.
Luckily, your embarrassment is concealed with your back to them, letting you get away with the pinched cringed expression you make as you put the stack back, put cup of water on a tray with mugs, and grab the coffee pot.
"Alright, water?" The guy with a bandage on his cheek raises his hand, reaching for it. He mutters a 'thank you' and puts it on the coaster in front of him, unlike the people who left rings on the wooden table. You pass out the mugs, pour their coffees, then put the pot in the center. Getting your notepad from your apron as they take the first sips without any creamers, you politely begin again, "Ready to order or still looking?"
The group glances at each other, the girl shrugging and looking back down at the menu, hand in her black hair, but the rest of them nodding.
"Yeah, uhm," Sideburns starts again, "Can I get the Western Omelette and toast with that?"
You nod your head, turning when the one with a stubble follows, "I'll get the same but with the cinnamon roll instead. Please."
"Alright," You turn to the next one who was ready, Stubble put his head down into his crossed arms.
"Uh," Bandage swallows, "Just the pancake plate for me. Sausage as the meat."
"How do you want your eggs?"
"Scrambled, please." His head jerked and he winced afterward at you.
You don't mind it, jotting his order down, and luckily for you, the girl is ready by the time you're done, looking up through her bangs, "The almond french toast with a fried egg and bacon. Please and thank you."
"Okay," you say, a little more genuine now, "Will that be all for now?" They all nod and start passing you the menus and you feel relieved as you leave the ticket for Bart and Kenzie to look at. No attitude and no creepy remarks even though it's 2:03 AM. What a score!
You glance around but it seems like these are the only guests at the moment. Nicole is leaning on the host stand while scrolling on her phone so you take that as the okay for you to sit down and relax in the chair next to the drink fountain. It's technically only there for John and his arthritis whenever he comes for inspections, but you know you're not the only employee who uses it when given the chance.
You stretch and lean back, taking a deep breath. You are incredibly tired, this is probably your fifth day working in a row. You really can't remember between all the crap you've been dealing with lately. You think about the plate left in the kitchen but don't feel like getting up to get it, even if you still want it. Bart probably put it in the warming cabinet, anyway.
Your head falls to the left languidly, conveniently toward the table with the guests. They're still talking, quiet. Probably due to the empty reception. Bandage jerks his head downward again and you see him refrain from grabbing his water as it happens a second time. You wonder what it could be, but it's not your business so you move your head forward and tilt it all the way back, realizing you may look rude staring. Whatever it is, it's not likely he can control it.
You hear the click of a camera but when you glance back, they're in the position you last saw them all in. You ignore it and bring your head back down.
After what seemed like an eternity of staring at a moth run into the glass of the dim light above you, the bell on the counter is rung and you haul your sleepy body up to collect the tray of plates and grab a syrup pourer.
"Okay, guys," you greet, lips curling upward momentarily before you feel like it's too much to put in effort in smiling. You pass out the plates and place the pourer next to the near-empty coffee pot, your hand hovering, "Want me to refill this?"
"Yes, please," Stubble answers, giving you a tight-lipped smile, "Thank you, [name]."
You almost drop the pot when he says that, feeling minute panic before you realize he probably just read your name tag. You try your best to act normal as you go to the back and fill the pot at the dispenser, feeling silly. You're so used to being heckled and harassed during late shifts, and the vibes this party brought are making you more anxious.
Bart notices, making a thumbs down-to-up meter in question. It's not the first time he's seen you freak out, and he's actually stepped out of the kitchen to yell at handsy people a few times, but these guys haven't done anything so you give him a thumbs up with a small smile. He shrugs and continues to clean the griddle he used.
You take another meditative, deep breath before leaving the kitchen and bringing the pot back. When you do, Bangs covers her mouth with a hand, mid-chew, to ask, "Can I have a glass of milk, please?"
"Oh, yeah, I'll get that for you." While you're at it, you take a few empty plates and turn to put them in the dirty-dish slot on the wall near the fountain, hearing something muffled about milk being disgusting and the girl cursing back. More tongue clicks.
After that, you grab another cup and make your way into the kitchen to get milk from the fridge, you hear the most clear sentence from the entirety of the group's conversation.
"Anyway, they’re not worth it. Four people's enough for tonight."
You hope to god they're not talking about you for some reason—why would they?—and just serve the glass and bring it to the girl as hastily as possible, feeling a shiver with the next, "Thanks, [name]."
You pass by much less than you would for other customers but they finish up quickly anyway and ask for the check. Sideburns says they'll pay in cash and the girl digs out a bright orange wallet with sunflowers from her pocket. You find it to be a strange contrast with her clothes, considering she has a dusty hoodie with black jeans, but you don't question it much as she pulls out a fifty and a five.
"Keep the change," Stubble gruffly says, getting out of his seat while Bandage next to him follows. Sideburns and Bangs get out, too, and you feel your anxiety leave immediately when they walk out the door.
That was so weird.
Nicole glances at you from the host stand, her forever bored-tone contradicting her interested words, "They tip you?"
"Yeah, like, twelve bucks." You say, actually kind of surprised considering their eyes were inspecting the prices of the place when you asked for drinks. Junior's is actually on the cheaper side because of it's popularity, making it easy to bring in business and make a substantial profit.
Nicole smiles at you a bit before going back to her phone. She knows you need every little tip and always has complaints ready about anyone who gives less than fifteen percent to you, even if they were the nicest clients yet.
You sigh and go to the register, putting in the the $42.68 and taking out $12.32 for yourself. It gives you some slack when you lock it, having to yank the key around when it gets stuck because literally everything in here is older than your living relatives. It eventually loosens after the struggle and you put it back in the drawer, and you go to put the money into the pocket of your apron.
You pause when you look at your apron strap. Maybe you forgot it, maybe you dropped it, but you're not wearing your name tag.
You give a glance at the door, showing the empty parking lot, before hurrying into the kitchen. For the rest of your breakfast and not because you're scared and overthinking all your interactions with that freaky party.
The next time they show up, only a few days later, it's a different mix of people.
It's another late shift, there's only one party sat at the moment, apparently coming down from Iowa, but they've already asked for the check. You're sipping on a coffee while you slide the card despite not wanting to rely on it, it's just too tiresome to continue without it. The host for the day, Giselle, sits another party down and you approach.
Sideburns and Bandage are there, along with another guy in a gray hoodie. They all look worn out again, but Sideburns tries to smile as if sensing your nerves while he asks for two coffees.
"Uh, decaf for one, please," Gray cuts in, awkwardly raising a finger when he does.
Bandage yawns, "Water, please."
You nod and turn to get the cup, mugs, and caffeinated pot then nearly jumping out of your skin when Bandage is suddenly right in front of you. "Holy shit-"
He startles, too, his eyes widening and his hands rising like he expects you to pounce on him. You both blink at each other before he lowers his hands and stands awkwardly, "Sorry, my bad. I was, uhm. Where's the restroom?"
You point to your left, still eyeing him warily. He looks apologetic enough when he walks toward the dingy hall with the two paint-crusted red doors. You bring the mugs and set the first pot down after pouring Sideburns' coffee, "Let me get the decaf."
There's a separate pot with a blue handle to indicate that it's different from the standard coffee. You grab it and leave it on the table next to the other pot once Gray has his own full mug. You think you should wait for Bandage to come back for you to take their orders, but Sideburns starts talking to you before you can walk off, "Late shifts normal for you?"
You look around as if expecting a camera to be there, recording your unease, but try to respond as politely as possible, "For now, yeah. I needed more shifts."
Sideburns hums, "We might be normally here, too. Nice place." Gray keeps his head down as he sips on his coffee, zoned out.
You wrinkle your nose then play it off with a smile, "This is nice to you?" You gesture to the surroundings. The ripped leather booths, the cracks in the tile flooring, the few broken light bulbs. If not for it's reputation, Junior's probably wouldn't get any business.
He shrugs, smiling slightly himself as he raises his coffee. "There's something charming about it. Plus, it's cheap" He extends a hand, "Tim."
You shake it, feeling a little less nervous with how calm his demeanor seems, "Nice to meet you."
Bandage comes back, clicking his tongue—ah, it was him—circling around you to sit next to Gray and drape an arm over his shoulder. Gray doesn't react, still deep in thought. "You order yet?"
"No, actually. Just telling [name] we might be regulars." Sideburns, Tim, looks up at you. This time you did have your tag because you conveniently found it on the floor next to the table they were last sat at.
"Oh," Bandage's head jerks again with a grimace, this time you're close enough to hear a crack, and then he scrunches his face before looking back up at you. "Sorry. I'm Toby. This is Cody." Toby nudges Gray's, Cody's, shoulder with his hand, snapping him out of thought to grab the menu in front of him after nodding a greeting at you. Toby catches your curiosity and looks to the side, voice a little quieter, "Tourettes."
"Oh." You nod, "I had a friend in middle school with tics." You say lamely, and kind of regret. It's a standard answer but doesn't exactly feel like the right thing to say for some reason.
He shrugs and clears his throat, "Can we order now? Please."
"Oh, yeah, sorry. What would you like?" Tim asks for the french toast platter this time, Toby asks for pancakes again. Cody is still looking at the menu when you tilt your head, "Need more time?"
Cody glances at you before responding, "Just the pancakes, no sides."
You nod and walk away, hearing the table get quiet again. You wonder what the group does to constantly be out so late as you walk into the kitchen. Junior's, despite it's good business, is severely understaffed because of the distance. It's in the middle of nowhere, the town where you live is twenty minutes away. The only reason you work here is because your last job fired you and this was the only application that came back.
Which is why you take Kenzie's place making eggs and Bart starts pouring batter on his griddle since the former was out with the flu. You knew how to handle food so you, mostly, avoided Bart's scorn aside from a few critiques on timing. He has the radio on and it's all old rock. When you first met him, you expected a country bumpkin or something, but he was actually city-raised in the 80's before ending up in this side of the state. He didn't start smoking and chewing tobacco until his second year working here, which was over thirty years ago.
He's humming along, subconsciously. He gets embarrassed when any of you point it out even though he's usually pretty in tune. You enjoy it silently as you scramble Toby's eggs and make sure Tim's eggs are sunny-side up. Once they're done, you grill four sausage links. This time, Bart speaks, at his phone to change the music, "Shit."
You look over, still eyeing the links in your peripheral vision, "What?"
"Got a news app on my phone recently. They just found two dead families in Parkinson." That's one of the surrounding cities of this place. Bart asks you if that's where you live and you're lucky enough to shake your head.
He goes to tell you more but you shake your head again, "I'll check at home." You really didn't want to hear about it here. Junior's has always given you the creeps and the silence of the night isn't helping and a true crime report wouldn't either. The food gets finished up and you divide the plates up on your trays and bring them out.
While passing the plates out, Cody addresses you, "Is it only breakfast food here?"
"No, we have some lunch and dinner options but we usually stop cooking them at 11pm. Sorry."
He sighs and tells you not to worry about it. Toby speaks to you mid-chew, but you can't understand past the word 'you'.
"Can you repeat that?" You ask and he swallows his food down.
"How long have you worked here?" And with that, he bites into his sausage, fingers flexing repetitively after, cracking after a few tries.
"Just a couple of years, the pay is pretty good compared to other places. It's just really far."
"Is it usually this empty?"
"Not in the mornings, it gets pretty packed, actually." You lean on the booth behind Tim as they keep asking you things about your job. This is kind of nice. You don't really talk to many people on a day-to-day basis; there's only so much time you can regularly spend in the kitchen or near the host stand, and all your friends seem to be getting busier. Talkative customers usually come when you have eight tables to serve, making conversations short. You feel a little embarrassed, thriving with the attention, but it really is nice.
"What about y'all?" You ask, accent slipping a little. You're southern, sue you, "What do y'all do so late?"
"We're film students. The set for our project is a little farther from here and we can only film at night because of the script. This place is on the way back so it's convenient." Tim replies.
Toby glares at him, kicking him lightly under the table, "Should've picked a different story."
Tim shrugs as Toby jerks, refilling his coffee, "It was the easiest to work with."
"What's it about?"
"The rubric requires it to be a thriller or something adjacent. We're trying to do something psychological but it's," he looks for the words, "taking more time to direct and execute than we initially thought. We have to make multiple versions, too." He smiles at you over his shoulder, "We might still pass by when we finish, though."
You smile back at the entire group, "Sounds interesting."
They finish up and tip graciously again. It's still a little jarring, as a college student tight on cash yourself, but you thank them and bid them a good night.
You get home, entering your dingy duplex with a slow sigh. You dig the night's tips from your pocket. It's mostly from Tim's table, but there's a few bucks from other parties. One table didn't even leave any, only a mess of dishes and spilled syrup. You get what you do have and put it in the jar to take to the ATM tomorrow to have it in alongside your paycheck.
You sigh as you undress and hit the shower. The climate in your town is still insanely hot during the nights despite the steady approach into fall that you can't bear to have the water warmer than you'd usually like. You try to wash your body while your hair is tied up and away.
You go about the rest of your hygiene after drying off: brushing your teeth, lotioning up, you even massage your arms a bit.
You take out your phone and scroll for a bit mindlessly while laying in bed, trying to get your mind off of work when you remember what Bart told you. A quick search of 'Parkinson murders' takes you to multiple headlines on news sites, you click one to read through the information.
Parkinson Police Find Seven Dead, One Missing.
Police were called to Jemmings Street after reports of screams, and were soon called to Yields Street after similar complaints. Upon arrival, officers first found the bodies of a family: Helena Peterson (39), George North (42), and Lana Peterson (11). The second location was where Gian Romano (52), Chiara Romano (18), Liliana Romano (16), and Isabella Romano (3) were killed…
Suspect is Julian Peterson (17). Reported to have been fleeing the scene by neighbors. Also noted to have been acting in a 'frenzied' and 'erratic' manner. Police investigation, however, indicates multiple suspects may be involved…
The article tells you about how the families were killed by various means. Stabbings, shooting, one of them died of poisoning. The bullet wounds made no sense to authorities because neighbors deny hearing gunshots. The case, with the information collected in the past four hours, is a mess.
You frown at this and put your phone on the charger on your side table. Parkinson is almost an hour away from you, and the kills seem personal because the Romano's apparently had been close with North and the Peterson's according to the members of the church they attended. But it's still unnerving considering the amount of people killed.
You stretch and get comfortable under your thin sheets, appreciating the cool your slow fan has finally brought to the room. Your eyes are heavy, you're stressed, but the drowsiness overshadows it.
You swear you hear a click when you finally nod off.
"I think I'm gonna drop out," you tell Giselle when she brings up how summer break isn't long enough for either of you.
"What?" Her eyes widen, frowning at you, "I thought you were doing good?"
"I was," you avoid her eyes, "but it's just too much right now."
You were at the grocery store when the text came in from your landowner. Your rent and utilities were going up again. You leaned on the shopping cart and buried your face in your hands, dread seeping into your chest.
You were already struggling enough, especially with the deadline for your tuition payment for the next semester coming up. You didn't want to cut out groceries and you needed gas money to get to work. Speaking of, you were being put on too many shifts to even have time to schedule around classes, even if you had been saving just to pay your fees.
You wanted to graduate. You wanted to get another degree after your associate's and find some other place to work, but the job market isn't good anyway and you've already cut off so many other expenses that you think you'd lose it if you couldn't have any of the simple comforts you still had. What would you major in anyway? The whole thing felt pointless the more you thought about it. You missed clothes shopping, you missed taking yourself to dinner. All you've done is thought about how to pay for every breath you take. So after weighing your options, at least a gap year would do you good.
Giselle gives you this pitying look but you keep your eyes down, "I'm sorry."
You shrug, and get off the host stand when Tim, Brian, and Kate, (who both introduced themselves officially last time they came) approach, turning to get their coffees ready. Two imaginary clicks in your head throughout your shift.
Natalie is the next one you meet after a few times of the others showing up in rotations.
She's wearing an eye patch and doesn't seem to be very keen on staying upright before putting her head down in her arms. You'd do the same if you could, this night has been hell. She keeps his head down while Toby orders for her. Kate and Toby talk plenty while soft snores come from Natalie.
You have a little more customers today for whatever reason so you're balancing other tables while you wait for their orders. They make a few comments about leaving them hanging, but they don't bother or seriously get onto you for not passing by as much.
Once everything is plated, you notice Natalie picking at her food, drawing shapes in the syrup with the prongs of her fork, and feel a little curious. Kenzie hasn't made a slip up with cooking in a while, it should still be warm, and nobody else in the diner has any problems with their food, either. You're not quite sure what the issue is. Awkwardly approaching, you smile a bit, "Everything okay here?"
Kate nods, "It's good."
"These never get old, they're so good," Toby adds as he takes another bite of his pancakes.
You look over at Natalie, who has remained silent, "Did you not like it?"
She looks at you somewhat, blinking slowly shrugging a bit, "I do. Just too tired to feel hungry."
"Ah," you respond simply before you remember your own plate in the kitchen, "Want me to keep it in the warming cabinet? I can give it to you in a to-go box later."
Natalie looks up at you directly at this, her one unveiled eye inspecting your face before nodding and handing you her plate, mustering a smile, "Thank you."
"Of course," you grin at her as you grab the plate. Natalie stretches and slumps to lean on Toby, who doesn't pay it any mind besides a little smile of his own. You take the french toast into the kitchen, hearing a familiar comment.
"[Name]'s so nice."
You feel a little warmth in your chest every time you overhear a compliment. Praise is something you've always liked, whether it was a little note from your teacher or people noticing a haircut. You're not completely deprived from them, you get your fair share of them from elderly ladies and little kids from time to time, but it feels more personal now. They're becoming regulars, and apparently your regulars.
Brian and Toby passed by the other day, but it was Paul's shift and they allegedly only paid for Brian's coffee before dipping. You felt a weird sense of pride knowing they started to come just to be able to be served by you, talk to you. You're practically skipping when you enter the kitchen to put Natalie's plate there, sneaking a few bites of your own food.
Kenzie glances over his shoulder, grinning, "Your film students here?"
"Yup," you smile. Everyone else seems to notice when they come based on your demeanor. Nicole especially likes to play into it because they all seem about your age or older. Asking about if you're into any of them and cackling when you shove at her. You weren't anything but professional. Besides, who said you had to choose?
You come out and your happy face immediately drops when an angered elderly man waves you over impatiently. You're still smiling, but it's paired up with nerves, "How can I help you?"
"Where is our food?" He immediately inquires, voice threatening to raise. The person you assume is his wife is glaring at you. His middle-aged kids are also staring at you with agitated expressions.
"It'll be out in a second," you try, "you have a lot of people in your party and we like to serve everyone at once."
"We ordered twenty minutes ago."
Your eye twitches, keeping your voice leveled "Junior's is a scratch kitchen, sir. Not only did you order a lot of food, but everything here is made when it's ordered."
"Don't talk to him like that." One of the slightly younger women barks at you, her brow creasing with anger.
"I don't mean to sound rude, ma'am, I'm just explaining why your order may be taking longer than expected."
"Yeah it's taking long, we just said that. Get it here faster." The older man snaps again.
You feel the urge to strangle them. Fuck the Bible Belt and southern hospitality. Total bull. You find no energy to deal with them and turn around, hearing them curse at you. At this point, you're gonna give yourself a snack break and finish your food.
Moving into the kitchen, you catch Toby and Kate staring at the table, even Natalie has sat up to watch the exchange with the lack of drowsiness from before.
According to Nicole, while you finished off your meal, the family had stomped off into a minivan and a truck—"old as fuck, by the way. The license plates were fucking falling off". Without paying and with Nicole cussing them out on their way, but whatever, not your problem. You check up on other tables, some of them commenting on the group's rudeness. You save your regulars for last, bringing Toby another cup of water and cutting off some muttered conversation.
"Bastards," he tells you simply, shaking his head and taking a sip. His neck cracks and he lets another tic pass before picking his fork up again. Kate also shakes her head.
"It's whatever, happens all the time," you shrug, pointing to their empty plates. "Want me to get these?"
"Yeah, and can we pay? We need Nat's plate, too," Toby reminds you.
"Yeah, one second." You grab the to-go box and transfer the french toast over. Maria's muttering about the wasted ingredients and about to throw the few plates they managed to make for that family into the garbage when you stop her, "I'll take them!"
She quirks an eyebrow at you, "You don't like any of this stuff."
"No, but another table might."
She sighs and gestures to the door and you hurriedly run out to get more to-go boxes. She helps you pack up the leftovers and you leave with five boxes divided into two bags, one with an "N" written to separate Natalie's plate from the rest.
When you return with the bags and the check, they all look incredulous. "I don't think we ordered that much," Toby states, pauses, then looks at the others as if to silently ask if they did. Kate and Natalie look just as clueless.
"No, but this was from the other table," you smile, "I figured you might like some extras?"
Kate frowns, "Do you have to pay for that?"
"No, it would've gotten thrown away, anyway, since they changed a lot and we like making fresh dishes. I made sure to label hers," You nod at Natalie. "Don't worry about the cost."
Natalie stares at the boxes, "Actually?"
When you nod, Toby grins, and the amount of genuine gratitude is a little shocking, "You're an angel."
You laugh it off, despite the embarrassment, "It's the least I can do. You've all made these shifts easier. Anyway, this is your total."
Kate's counting bills, glancing at you, "I like your necklace."
"Really?" Your mood is getting better by the second, "Thank you, I bought it yesterday."
"Oo, it's nice," Toby agrees, "where'd you get it?"
"It's a little jewelry shop I like, it's called North Compass. It has a lot of cute things. I don't buy a lot from there, but there's always something good."
Kate nods along and hands you double the amount needed. You frown, because you noticed that sometimes their wallets can be pretty bare and you don't want to take advantage of it, "That's way too much."
"It's less than everything here would've cost." She shrugs, shaking it slightly in an insistent manner, "And you didn't get your tip from those people."
"I don't mind that-"
"Take it," Toby adds, "we haven't tipped a few times either."
They've looked at you guiltily each time, but it's not like you haven't been clicking "No Tip" on payment terminals lately either. Still, they're not going to let it go and you sigh and take the money, "Let me get your change, then."
"Keep it," Kate says, waving, and all of them start getting out of their booth hurriedly. They basically run out of the diner, smiling like crazy when you try calling them back.
$56.87 tip. Wow. It's not the largest, but sure as hell isn't the smallest tip you've ever gotten. The largest was from this drunk creep that thought you were a stripper and gave you three fifties by accident. The discomfort drove away any kind of remorse about keeping it.
Nicole gives you a look again, you ignore it and go back to serving customers.
That night, you go home and turn on your TV just to have something on while you snack on another free meal from tonight's cooks, perking up when you see a gruesome crash with a truck and a minivan.
It's bad. No survivors. You know they were assholes but the damage to the vehicles are just horrible. You don't feel guilt, you don't feel satisfaction, either.
It reminds you of the whole Parkinson case. More investigation revealed that the two families had actually been abusive and known for strange religion-driven beliefs according to the teen's friends, not just the murderer's, but the killed girls. Arranging marriages even for the fucking toddler. Apparently the eldest of them was getting set up with the youth pastor even though she apparently had an interest in Peterson. Friends also said Peterson was agitated the last few weeks he was at school and kept bringing up a 'solution' to the arrangement. Police suspect it was a crime of passion because of this and are looking into the church for other reports of coercion.
The case was more complicated than it originally seemed to be at first. It would be easy to justify Peterson's actions if it had just been the parents. But his little sister and the three girls? Investigators and relatives can't make sense of it.
You change the channel, eat what you can from the to-go box and start throwing your trash away. While you're at it, you start picking up some trash from yesterday. Ripped off tags, shoe boxes. When you reach for a stray North Clover bag, you're surprised to find a box there.
You squint, looking at the one and only box you acquired there still on your vanity, curious about this one. Maybe you didn't end up putting that pin back afterall. You open it, and find the matching bracelet to your necklace, which you definitely didn't see yesterday.
There's doodles in the box. A face with it's tongue out, a winky face, and a simple smiley one. Probably a return that fell into your bag, then. The drawings are cute, though. You smile as you leave the open box next to the closed one, putting the bracelet on and heading off to bed.
"Do you cook these, too?" Natalie prompts the second time she comes around. Brian, Kate, and a new guy, Rodrigo. Rodrigo wears a mask, following the common pattern of some of them covering their faces one way or another. He isn't eating, either, just asked for a to-go bag and is silently watching the others gorge themselves, occasionally pinning the sharp eye on you, too.
There's a few other to-go bags on the table. Ever since the time they took extras home the group's asked for more plates. For roommates, study partners, etc. They also stopped missing tips as much as they used to, which is nice for you, but overall still guilt-inducing at times.
"Not really," you reply, "I mean, I can, but officially I'm not a chef. I only really go back there if one of the chefs couldn't make it and there's no one to cover for them."
"Do you know all the recipes?" She follows. The line of questioning sticks to food, mostly. What you like to eat, what you cook, what you find difficult to deal with in the kitchen. It's a stark difference from the barely-there, tired attitude she had the other day.
"Do you like cooking?" You ask, trying to figure out where this interrogation is coming from.
"More or less," Natalie shrugs, "it's kinda a hassle when I'm busy, though."
"Good thing we have you," Brian comments, sipping his coffee and offering you a small smile. The table is unusually lively today considering they're not usually the ones to start conversations as much as Toby and Tim like to. The only outlier seems to be the one twisting the wrapper of his straw for his untouched water.
You smile back, a few questions on your own, "How's your little project going?"
They all freeze a bit and look up at you, making you startle, too. It's like you stepped on four Spirit Halloween animatronic floor buttons and they all jumped at you. You nervously look between them until Kate frowns a bit, "What?"
"Uh," you begin, trying to find the words. What'd you say? "Tim said you're completing some kind of film assignment. I think?"
"Oh," Brian immediately starts before you finish your sentence, "Yeah, great. Had a few set backs, but we're doing good. Part of the set almost fell on Kate today, could've crushed her."
"Oh, shit. " you look at her, is that why they got freaked out? "How?"
Kate looks around helplessly—embarrassed?—but answers, "Oh, I don't know. We just weren't being careful, I guess. Should've picked a better place, but. It's fine, nothing happened. I got out of the way in time."
"You should've seen her," Natalie comments, "Never seen anyone roll away that fast before."
Kate hums, not adding anything on. You don't blame her. You had your own close call the other day when you were almost hit by a drunk driver on the walk to a convenience store. You sat at a bench for twenty minutes after calling the cops before deeming yourself capable of interacting with a cashier.
"Is it almost finished?" You ask, trying not to go off topic without focusing on that event.
Brian shrugs, "So-so. Half of it isn't done yet and there might still be some additions." You don't really know what to say, but he continues, "You like horror movies?"
You find yourself smiling a bit, "You gonna kill my boyfriend and gut me?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Natalie continues for him.
Pulling off your best Casey Becker impression, you grin coyly, "No." But you sober up humming, "I don't know. Some of them are good, some are kinda dramatic and unrealistic. I don't wanna sound like a hater, but some of the things are too coincidental. And I hate when killers getting up and up again. Like Chucky. God, I'd hate to be Andy for the first few movies."
"I don't know," Brian responds, refilling his mud, "some of them are more realistic than you think."
"Is your bit realistic?"
"More than we expected." Whatever that means. "Can we get the check?"
Another party walks in, you smile and wave at them as you get your checkbook and assure them you'll be with them shortly, "You gonna let me see the finished product?"
"Don't think you'd want to," Brian shakes his head, "it's kinda messy. Plus, there's nothing really artistic to appreciate about it. Just following the rubric."
Not liking the insecure tone, you try to joke a bit, "Add me in," you bat your eyes in an obviously exaggerated manner, "I can be the star of your next project. There's something to appreciate."
"You really don't want that," Rodrigo speaks for the first time since you took his order, somewhat serious. It makes you falter, especially with the lack of jokes you've cracked lately.
You look between them, Brian clears his throat, "We'll see, [Name]."
They're acting a little off so you kinda cut the conversation. It's a weak move, but you have another table waiting anyway. You leave them the check and awkwardly start walking away. The three regulars verbally bid you goodbye and Rodrigo waves and it feels just like the first time they were here.
New. And so, so strange. Especially when you hear that camera sound that you just can't stop imagining.
While your social life and financial freedom have been improving, you've been starting to feel weird lately.
It was small things. Feeling like you were being watched, hearing those camera-like clicks again, or maybe just getting cold. But this night it changed.
You were filling up on gas on the way home from work. It was a pretty run-down stop, and you didn't exactly feel safe, but you were incredibly low and either had to pull into a pump or stand yourself in the middle of the freeway.
So here you stand, pump handle in one hand and keys sticking through knuckles in the other. You were thinking about some of the recent incidents around. Since the day of that bizarre car wreck, there's been a number of crazy incidents. The latest being at the birthday part of an eight-year-old down in Hallow Brooke. One of the adults just took the bat for the piñata and started bashing people's heads in. It's a crude way to put it, but it sums up the state of the corpses well. He killed five people before being shot in the head, though no officer has admitted to shooting.
You think about the guy on the news with a hole in his temple, snorting mirthfully.
The amusement is gone as soon as it came, especially when your nose starts bleeding. What the hell?
You put the handle back and get in your car, locking it with your head tilted back as you blindly feel for the napkins you left in the glove box. You find them and wipe your face, cringing when more of it falls and the front of your head pounds with sparks of sharp pain.
"Fuck," you can't help but gasp, rubbing at your forehead harshly. The pressure isn't doing much and it's just getting worst.
More imagined thoughts of the bodies come to your mind. A little girl with a broken tiara laying next to her broken jaw. The father of the birthday girl having his nose smashed in after trying to stop the attacker. Unprompted, you're shocked as you find yourself giggling. It's low and makes you shake when you try to hold it back, but it gets louder second by second.
The hand not holding the napkin goes down to your mouth, feeling it move with your laughs. It's not some sick hallucination, you're laughing. You can't stop, when you try, your headache just worsens. The blood starts seeping through the napkin, landing on your jeans, but it doesn't matter when you drop the paper. Your arms instead wrap around your middle and you lean above your steering wheel, still laughing your ass off.
You look around with blurry vision, only able to move your eyes as you start cackling. It's funny. It's not, people are dead, but oh, god, it's so funny. Your eyes well up and you can't even feel the tears when they run down your cheeks, just watching the droplets fall alongside the blood like when you watch a movie.
You'll find more to laugh at soon.
And then you're gasping as the laughter stops, hyperventilation the cause of your breathlessness now. You cover your ears after hearing that and look around manically. You're sobbing but nothing is out of place. The homeless man that was sleeping on the side of the ice box is still snoozing. There's a car pulling up next to you. People walk out of the store. You see a blur of white in the distance, but it turns out to be a light pole. It's blinding when you look at it directly and you look down, blinking spots out.
Your nose is still bleeding and you get another napkin, blabbering something incoherent when you process all the stains on your clothes. You sit back in the seat, trembling and rubbing your chest like usual. It's okay. You're okay.
You managed to pull out of the stop and drive all the way home without incident but cry out of confusion and irresolution the moment you feel the water from your shower.
It keeps happening, one way or another. It's mostly just the headaches, but it switches up.
At work, at your house, in public.
The worst, you think, is when you're depositing your last check and tips. You started shaking and ran into a bathroom stall, thinking you'd start laughing again. However, you immediately started screaming and someone called security on you, eventually leading to you being dragged out as employees called emergency services.
Some of the accountants tried to convince you to stay and get checked up on by a paramedic or something, when it was over. You weren't really paying attention, you were more focused on trying to get out the door while people stared. You got out and ran to your car just as the ambulances arrived while multiple people called out after you.
You almost called out sick for work but didn't feel like dealing with John's snappiness and just drove to work a few hours early to hang out in the kitchen until it got dark and you had to clock in officially.
"Where are y'all going to school, again?" You ask absently, having dealt with another nose bleed. Bart slid you a Tylenol when you kept grabbing your head, too. Toby and Tim are the only ones here tonight, plus the three other to-go boxes. You've pulled up a chair to sit next to them and none of your colleagues have said anything about it. On the contrary, everyone's been walking on eggshells around you. They seem to know you're not right in the head right now.
"McAllister Hill University," Tim replies. "It's kind of far off but we need the place."
"How come none of you ever go together? I mean, sometimes you do, but it's mostly only a few of you."
"We have to do stuff with the set, which we can only tell if it looks good in the dark if it's dark," he gestures back to the black windows, sipping from his mug. "Sometimes we're just not in the scenes."
You nod, staring straight and having another one of those thoughts. Romano bleeding on the floor of her bedroom. Your lips quirk up without meaning to and you feel dull panic bubbling up again. "[Name]?"
You snap out of it and turn to Toby, who is inspecting you a bit before inquiring, "What," he clicks, "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"College," he tilts his head, frowning, "don't you attend?" You shake your head and don't offer much other than that, scrubbing your face.
"Are you okay?" Tim asks and you feel yourself nod.
You take a breath and stand, "Let me refill that pot for you."
You hear them muttering as you turn your back, expression pinching as the Tylenol wears off. You make it to the dispenser, refilling it with grounded beans and water and waiting for it to be ready.
You shiver as you lean on the counter. Another head ache comes on and you find yourself shaking as you press a hand into your forehead despite knowing it won't work. It never works. You can't hold back a sound of pain, furrowing your brows against the pounding right above them.
Kenzie walks over, frowning, "You okay? You head again?"
"Mhm," you respond numbly, distantly. You don't realize your nose is bleeding until Kenzie curses and gets a paper towel to hold against your nose.
"[Name], you seriously have to go home. This is the third time this week. Could you be, like, developing migraines or something? My mom had them and they start like this every time. Not the bleeding, but," he cuts himself off, "You should get some rest."
"I drove here," you respond. God, your own voice bothers you, "I can't go home."
"I can call a ride for you, I can pay for it," Kenzie insists, looking nervous. He's probably thinking about his mom and it makes you feel horrible. She died having a seizure at work because none of her coworkers realized she was at risk of migraines and epileptic and misinterpreted warning signs.
This isn't that. Your head just hurts, so you bat him away with mumbled assurances and, reluctantly, he leaves you be. Tim and Toby are the only ones in the restaurant anyway, and they've already got their dishes before you came into the kitchen, just missing the coffee pot. Kenzie fills it up the rest of the way and takes it out for you, the angel.
Bart offers another pick-up option but you shake your head. It always gets worse when you're outside.
You decide to barricade yourself in the dressing closet, leaning against the cabinet. The blood is seeping though the napkin and it's starting to wet your hand. It's disgusting and you wipe your hand against the cloth used to wipe the mirror and readjust the paper towel against your face.
You think this is pain?
It stops altogether. The pain, and when you pull the napkin away, the bleeding. That voice always has to make a comment about something before the pain lets up. It's been concerning you. You've never had a history with auditory hallucinations or psychosis, but it's. That's what it is, isn't it? You would seek help but medical bills are pretty damn high nowadays. Don't even start about insurance.
You slide down and let yourself rest off of your feet for a bit. Sitting in this area is both comforting and annoying. It's dark and just big enough for you to sit with your legs straight out, but it's right near the back entrance meaning that every little cricket in the back sings in mockery while you try to get your composer back. You fiddle with your bracelet a bit but there's only so much twisting and spinning you can tolerate against your skin at the moment.
You pull out your phone instead. Just to have something to do and not feel like you're idling, even when you have to turn the volume and brightness down. You check on a few messages you've sent. Delivered, seen, an actual reply from your sister about a question about taxes, etc. Nothing substantial or recent enough to use to start a distraction-conversation. You scroll a bit but nothing is attention grabbing, either.
You sigh out of your nose as you pull up Google games because you don't have anything else downloaded. Storage on phones suck, you really have to delete some old pictures. You mindlessly match pani puri based on the numbers customers ask. That's what you should be doing right now, but tapping is so much simpler than going out and telling those two that you keep having weird episodes lately.
You click three of what you assume is the hing flavor instead of two and lose the game. A weird little pop up shows in the corner of your screen.
[You suck]
You blink and the green little letters are gone. You tap your screen but it's frozen, the game still on the loss screen as you insistently tap and swipe, trying to get out of the search engine. When you lock your phone, it doesn't let you try and type in the pass key. You hold the button on the side and watch it power off, but instead of restarting it, you push yourself up. That's enough hiding.
When you walk out, you're disappointed to find that the two guys are gone. Nicole said they paid and left after Kenzie told them you weren't feeling well, apparently he told them you needed a break and they left to not cause you anymore trouble. It's both sweet and isolating; you were hoping to talk a bit more with them, even if it was them just doing the talking.
You sigh and make your way to the supply closet near the kitchen to get some wipes and disinfectant spray so you can go back to the kitchen as soon as possible. The chefs might actually let you take a complete nap this time, at least.
When you round the corner, you notice that Toby's jacket was left in the seat. He must've taken it off sometime while eating. Junior's AC can be hit or miss sometimes and it's been uncomfortably humid lately with the rain and hot weather.
You pick the jacket up, inspecting it. It's a standard brown puffer jacket with a few stitches in it, a bit of staining at the cuffs of the sleeves. Dark brown, maybe working outside? In any case, it was left here. You bite the inside of your cheek and glance at the entrance. Nicole didn't say when they left. They could still be outside. Or, Toby could've realized he left it and they might've turned around.
That's how you end up deciding to walk out and look around. The little red, crusted truck they always show up in is nowhere to be seen. The whole parking lot is empty when you walk around the perimeter. Sometimes they park on the side, so you were just double checking they really weren't here anymore.
You sigh, sweat already building on your brow. You go to walk back inside when something falls out of the jacket's pocket.
"Shit," you whisper, going to pick it up and pausing when you look at the item. It's a little, worn-out journal. Leather, black, stuffed extra full with additional papers and pictures.
One of these pictures is peeking out of the page, making eye contact with you.
You could've ignored it, but something about it seems familiar. You hesitantly open it a bit, just trying to get closure, when the face of a seventeen-year-old Julian Peterson stares back at you with the caption saying RECRUITED on the bottom half of the Polaroid.
Your jaw drops in horror when you see the pictures of the victims right next to him. News outlets didn't have anything but yearbook pictures. But these are clearly the girls. You flip through the booklet and find a bunch of notes about 'targets' and 'possible members' and so many graphic pictures you don't know what to do with.
You flip to a sectioned part of the journal and find pictures of you.
"What the hell," you exhale, sweating even more.
You walking to the drink dispenser, going to put the checkbook back, walking into the kitchen. There's so many notes.
'Lives alone. 22. Frequent locations: Junior's Jacks (work), 682 Willow St, Apartment 21…'
'Nothing distinct on medical record. One sister, no other close relatives.'
'Pretty.'
'Fridge stocked. Not many personal items outside of clothes'
'Plan changed. Maybe four more months.'
Your nose starts bleeding onto the pages and that dull pain builds up in your frontal lobe but you can't stop reading.
'I wonder if [Name] thinks about us.'
'I'm gonna miss them'
'Barter???'
Oh, god.
Are they going to kill you, too?
They're murders. Not just like slit throat, leave a message for the cops killers, they're serial killers. Messes, torture. But- other people were involved, how the hell does this work?
You're stand there trying to think of what could've gotten to them to this point when you hear someone inhale sharply behind you.
"Fuck."
Your head snaps toward the noise.
Toby's standing there, eyes wide and face completely blank.
Tim is standing outside of the driver's seat, holding the door and staring at you.
They're going to fucking kill you.