1: Blush Tones 

I first laid eyes 0n Becky when she was working on an archaeological dig site across the street from the dingy diner where I worked. The hot Italian summer sun beat down on her like a hammer to a nail, her skin brandished red and glistening with sweat. Her face was hidden by blue polarized sunglasses and a wide floppy sun hat which obscured her features with shade, though I would come to know them well. Throughout her two week stay, she had adorned herself with various neutral-tone tank tops and baggy athletic shorts, though she kept up consistency with the same gray hiking boots every day. 

When she ordered her lunches and occasional breakfasts, I got the privilege of examining her many fascinating features.

Becky had many small clusters of freckles scattered throughout her face, though her perfect sun-kissed cheeks were bare, save for a few slight blemishes. I would watch the way her lips moved when she ordered her usual turkey sandwich or blueberry muffin, I would feel my face flush when I saw how her gray-green eyes smiled at me, and I would forget myself as I admired the way she carelessly messed with the split ends of her sun-bleached hair when she ate.

On my breaks, I would sit in a worn out woven chair on the diner’s patio and smoke a cigarette as I observed the goings-on of Becky’s work. Usually, she knelt on a foam board in the shallow pit, dusting off various rocks and what looked to be occasional bones, although every once in a while she would take up a clipboard and, assumedly, record her findings, before making her way around the rest of the site to check up on her fellow workers. 

Though I had spoken likely no more than three words to her, from her orders I knew that Becky’s voice was smooth and sweet like honey, and the soft rhythm of her words would leave a pleasant sort of ringing in my ears, even after she had gone.

I wanted Becky to stay forever. I hoped that whatever artifact she had set out to find could not be found for as long as it took her to realize my love. I hoped that she admired me the way I did her. I hoped that she would miraculously fall in love with me and refuse to leave without her hands entangled in mine. Of course, as listless hopes often do, mine would never come to fruition. 

Fifteen days after I had first seen her, Becky would depart and never return, with my last glimpse of her being the moment she tipped her hat in the direction of the diner, before climbing into the passenger seat of a shiny red Subaru. Despite her physical departure, however, in the months following Becky would not depart from my mind. Every night, when I began to drift off to sleep, images of her cheerful grin would flash across the backs of my eyelids, and on my slow days at work, I would rest my chin on my hand as I daydreamed of coffee dates and fancy dinners with Becky. 

Becky, Becky, Becky. That was all. Only her.

I knew her full name must have been Rebecca, but Rebecca wasn’t the same as my Becky. Though I knew I’d love it endlessly more if I were to see it written adjacent to mine on a marriage certificate. Perhaps not even a marriage certificate. Just a simple crumpled up paper napkin with a phone number written below her name, such a thing would have been enough for me. Perhaps if I had gotten only that, I would not have done what I did. Nevertheless, I decided I would go to the ends of the earth for Becky, that I could never spend even one day loving anyone who was not her. 

And so my love flourished and burned, until it became a mighty beast which I could not ignore. This was not a kind of obsession, as some might think, no, this was fate. This was passion, desire, longing, and a sort of burning ruthlessness, all thrown into a storm of fire that only grew as I fed it; and while I watched, its flames licked and crackled with the imaginary promises of a man in love.

Rebecca Marie Warner was my Becky. 

MY Becky, as I knew no one else could care for her as I could. 

No one else could love her as I did. 

“Rebecca W.” was the name displayed on the website of the archaeological organization which she worked for. In the accompanying picture, she looked much more formal than I had ever seen her, her frizzy hair smoothed back in a low ponytail, her usual neutral-tone tank top replaced by an emerald green blouse. Every night before bed, I would allow myself to view her once more, though visualizing the Becky I knew became increasingly difficult. I wanted more. I did not need more, I told myself, but of course, that was a lie which I could not hide behind.

 “Rebecca W.” turned into “Rebecca Warner” when I discovered the archaeological organization’s Facebook page, and though the on-site team photos showed the Becky I knew, I wanted to see only her. I could not be content with an image in which her coworkers’ arms wrapped around her shoulders. And so I dug, thirsting for any taste of Becky which I could possibly grace my hungry mind with. 

The full “Rebecca Marie Warner” came to my knowledge when I found Becky’s college graduation photos. Only two years prior she had emerged from a prestigious American University on the California West Coast, one which she had attended fresh out of high school. Becky was young, I could not be oblivious to that fact, but I knew the ten years between us would pose no issue, she would look past it once she realized her love for me. 

I took up a second job working the register at a local convenience store. Though the wage was nothing to brag about, I knew with my combined income and a strict budget on my amenities, I could afford a trip to America in mere months. I did not know where I was going then, but I did not care as long as I would be closer to her.

On top of it all, Becky was secretive, a fact which only made me love her more. All of the various paths I followed online hoping to find her had subsequently left me with a number of dead ends. I could have chalked this up to a lack of internet-sleuthing skills on my part, but I did not dare discourage myself from the fantasy. Her furtiveness should have pushed me away, but it only functioned to draw me in closer. How could I give up when I knew how close I was to true satisfaction?  

Physically, I was deteriorating. Mentally, I was only steps away from my light at the end of the tunnel. In early November, I had saved just enough money to get by, and then it was all I could hope for that my work would pay off. Every night then, I would stand in front of my bathroom mirror, which was covered with stains of splashed toothpaste and mineral-filled water (materialized in little gray-ish marks), and though I should have had some slight bit of decency left to clean them off, I found it oddly comforting to see myself between the stains. The filter of dust and particle debris concealed how deep a shade of purple the skin under my eyes had turned, and blurred the ugly spikes of hair that protruded from my unshaven cheeks, chin, and upper lip. The yellow-tinted bathroom light washed my face in an unflattering, sickly shade of green, as it blended with my pale gray-blue complexion, and yet still I found it more appealing than any other lighting, as I could blame my ugliness on a dirty bulb.  

Becky would be the type of person to find me handsome, despite the months of self-neglect and shame, she would lift me from my sunken state with those beautiful, soft hands of hers, glowing like an angel, praising me for my unrelenting devotion. She would see beyond my tarnished face, and in her clear crystal eyes I would find only love and warmth, accompanied by a soft whisper repeating endlessly, “I’ve been waiting for you all my life, thank you for finding me.” And then she would brush her fingertips against my cheek, and a grin would spread across her face, and she would lean in and touch her perfect lips to my prickly cheek, and then I would know I had achieved all I could hope for in life.

When I drove to the airport, wind and rain battered my windshield, and multiple car crashes held up traffic on the highway, making it so that my pace slowed to a crawl and I worried if I could even make it to my flight in time. It was almost as if the world would do anything to keep me from my love, but if it was me against the world, I would fight to the death for my Becky. And so, soaked from the rain, I boarded my flight with an endearing and joyful mood which I was sure could be brought down by nothing. 

2: Rose Turned Vermilion

My first night in the country, I stayed in a hotel room I had pre-booked for 4 nights. In stark contrast to my home, the room was clean and organized, a sort of luxury which I had not afforded myself for months. Before I had even unpacked my things, I plugged in my laptop at the bedside and began my usual scouring of the internet. My Becky was so close, it was now as if I was on one side of an invisible wall and she was on the other, only steps away if I could just find the door.

This time, as usual, my search for any clue of her whereabouts was inconclusive, and so I retired my computer for the night and arose from the bed for the first time since I had arrived, journeying to the bathroom which was only a mere few feet away. As I went about my usual nighttime routine, it became impossible to avoid catching glimpses of the face I could barely call my own anymore. I had lost weight, the instant noodles and overtime hours at the supermarket accumulating in loose-fitting t-shirts and DIY’d holes in my belts so that they could hold my jeans against increasingly protruding hip bones. My dark eye bags had progressed to an almost sunken-in appearance, giving the illusion that my eyes bulged out against the rest of my bony features.

Who could love such an ugly thing?

Becky, with her endlessly kind heart, she would love me.

There was nothing I could be more sure of.

However repetitive I must’ve sounded, there was nothing I could do to chip away at my love, every waking moment was spent with her somewhere in the depths, or usually forefront, of my mind. I wondered then if she had seen my advances, if she had noticed my blank profile picture amongst the undoubted dozens of accounts which viewed her friends’ online posts, if she had recognized my name and spiraled into daydreams of me as I would her. I must’ve been more handsome then, when she first saw me, she must’ve remembered me in a way much different than what I had become, but of course she would understand. Of course she would greatly appreciate my devotion to her, for I would be all she had ever wanted, all she could ask for, and she would be my angel sent from the heavens, she would bring me a bliss I did not know I could even desire. 

My sleep that night was restless and agonizing. The bed was comfortable, and I was incredibly tired from the day, and yet still my mind stayed awake, reeling with possibilities. I should’ve realized then how stupid I was, how yet again listless hopes had overcome my rational thoughts, but the metaphorical glasses I wore were far beyond simply rose-tinted, and I had not realized then how quickly they could turn to a deep, violent red. 

The next morning was spent in the hotel lounge area with a bowl of sugar-coated cereal and waffles that tasted like cardboard, but I couldn’t afford to skip the complimentary free breakfast. I drank what was likely the worst coffee I had ever tasted while I worked out my plan for the day, which I should not have done when my body was running on four hours of sleep and pure adrenaline. I would perhaps have had more wits about me if I had slept merely an hour more, but I could not force myself back into bed- I was too excited.

My flight had landed in Reno, NV, but I needed to get to Sacramento, CA, and without the budget for a rental car, I was left with the pamphlet of bus routes I had found in the hotel lobby. 

Two incredibly uneventful hours later, I cursed myself for packing a bag so heavy as I dragged it down the aisles of seats and then finally out of the bus’ doors, my aching shoulders falling slack as I dropped my behemoth of luggage to the sidewalk below. I stood to rest for a moment, surveying the busy street which lay ahead of me, then turning to see the dodgy motel which lingered almost menacingly behind me. Already, I had caught the stench of cigarettes in the air, and though I usually would not have minded, I had not smoked in the months since my money saving efforts began, and the odor brought upon a sudden wave of disgust in myself. I knew I hadn’t been a particularly heavy smoker, but insecurity overwhelmed me then, for perhaps I would have smelled just as disgusting when Becky knew of me. Could I have been to her merely the disgusting man from the diner who smelled of cigarettes? 

Tears welled in my eyes, for then, all at once, my fantasies crumbled to the ground. Never once had I truly considered that perhaps Becky might have hated me. I realized, though, as soon as I thought them, that the words “might have” were merely a shield for my own ego. The signs had been there all along, I realized.

Becky hated me. 

Becky had always hated me.

Becky would hate me for as long as she lived.

And I had been oblivious to it all along.

3: Crimson Tinted

Rage filled my mind and I could not force it away. For a time then, I operated with no real consciousness of myself or anything around me, my body trapped on autopilot, in a pure state of all-consuming fury.  

Becky, Becky, Becky. 

My romantic vision of her tried still to claw its way back into my mind, but this time, she was unforgivable. I had been deceived, lied to, tricked into believing such fantastical things about this woman- she knew I was gullible and she took advantage. She was a temptress, a snake, and I was a mouse crushed beneath her fangs, venom injected deep. As a siren luring a sailor out to sea, she had sung her horrible song to me, and I had followed, and now she would drain me of my life. Or perhaps my life was already hers, perhaps she had her grasp on it since the very beginning. 

Money, time, body, mind, even soul, all of mine had been devoted to Becky. She had manipulated me like a ball of soft clay, and it was her plan to do so all along. 

There was nothing I could be more sure of. 

My second night was again restless, but not out of excitement or foolish hopes, no, never again. Instead, I lay seething in the dark of that desolate motel room. When I closed my eyes, I could only see Becky’s devilish, ugly face, yet keeping them open was no better- the blank gray ceiling would not cease displaying the images which swam in my mind. If I had fallen for her tricks any longer, perhaps I would have been awake just the same, seeing beautiful, angelic depictions of her. These images, however, were the opposite. They were horrible and gory and brutal, punishments for my own stupid, awful, one-sided love. 

After what must’ve been hours, I could not stand to be in that bed any longer, and I rose to pace the small span of the room, all the while my mind swarmed with terrible, terrible ideas. My head ached and pulsed with each new thought, and my sleep-deprived brain was helpless to fight off the deep paranoia which was slowly setting in. If this was what hatred felt like, surely she had the same thoughts about me, surely she had lured me here only to kill me, and this was, of course, her way of weakening me so that I could not fight back. I had let her get in my head once more, falling victim to her mental torture yet again, but I would not let her win this time.

And so I decided then that I could not allow her to go on. 

If I was the first of her victims, I would surely not be the last. 

In fact, taking Becky’s life would only be doing her a favor. She could not possibly live a satisfactory life being the perpetrator of my downfall, surely she hated herself just as much, if not more, than she hated me. And of course without her, my life could return to normal, and I would never have to worry of her grasp on my psyche again. 

I didn’t know then how I had found it, but I stood, disheveled and disoriented, in front of her house.  I couldn’t have known it was her house if I hadn’t searched for it, so I surely had done so, but my mind had remained hazed and unconscious for hours, and now the sun set upon the plentiful forestry of the neighborhood. To call it a neighborhood, though, was mostly inaccurate. With a quick sweep of the area, I could tell I was in a particularly small valley. Hills rose on either side of my field of vision, but this house stood at the upper most point of the valley area, the hills rising to join into a mountain beyond this plot of land, and I could see maybe a dozen houses scattered below. 

The house itself was a two-story, painted an orange-ish brown with an abundance of windows, which were concentrated mostly on the second level, looking out over the other houses. If I hadn’t been so twisted in rage, I would have admired the house, perhaps thought it beautiful, but at the time, I could only find it ugly and pretentious- a perfect reflection of Becky.

No car was in the driveway, and I had no reason to believe Becky had a roommate, yet still I approached the house as silently as possible. There were no neighbors or obstacles that posed to stand in my way, besides perhaps my actual way into the house, but my body remained on edge, alert to every sound, no matter how miniscule. Gravel crunched underneath my shoes as I stepped onto the driveway, and while I at first crept along slowly, my pace quickened as I neared the front door. 

Light shone through the cracks in the front window curtains, and my mind raced with all of the possibilities for the evening ahead. I wouldn’t dare say I was excited, for how evil that would be, yet my body jittered with anticipation, and my hands waited impatiently to wrap around Becky’s fragile throat. As I stepped onto the concrete porch, a cool evening breeze slipped underneath the folds of my jacket, and a tingling sensation rippled through my body. I should have perhaps taken a moment then to realize how far I had come, but my mind was flooded with anxieties and fantasies of the life I would have once I had fulfilled my purpose, carried out my necessary duty to the world.

The door handle was cold to the touch, yet it was disappointingly locked. I had decided in my perception of her that Becky would have been dumb enough to not leave it as such, but there she was again, toying with my mind. I could have thrown a rock through the window if I so pleased, but that would be a coward’s way. No, I had to be smart about this. 

I proceeded, then, to skirt the perimeter of the house, searching for an unlocked window or basement door, but I found nothing of the like. The sun had fallen below the hills now, and my mind swarmed with urgency, I somehow knew she would be back soon. My solution, I realized, had to be the second floor. The upstairs window facing the mountainside had been slightly ajar, and if it led to her bedroom, it would be the perfect setup for my attack. An old garden trellis rested against the wall below it, and if I climbed it to the very top, I could, just barely, reach the window sill. 

The trellis, I assumed, could not easily hold my weight, but perhaps my rapid weight loss over the past few months would be just enough to get me by. Now shivering in the cool air, I grabbed hold of the trellis and planted my foot in the hole nearest the ground. It bent from the portion of my weight resting upon it, but if I climbed fast enough, I would not break it. Quickly, I swung my other leg up as far as it would reach, digging into a hole which was a quarter of the way from the top. Below, the wood cracked audibly, and my already-wary mind panicked, so that I climbed faster than I had intended. The trellis shook wildly with my rapid movements, and I cursed underneath my breath as I reached the top, on the verge of toppling to the ground below, but I was determined. By the time the trellis slipped away from the wall, I had already leapt for the sill, catching it so that my fingers held my entire body weight, strained and threatening to give out. 

My feet scrambled against the wall, attempting to find footing, my worn shoes slipping uselessly against the smooth surface. To hell with the shoes. I kicked them off, my body swinging precariously, my fingers stinging and stiff as ever. My bare feet were much more successful, and I managed to propel myself upwards just enough to get one palm on the sill, followed by another, then by my chest, my muscles straining painfully from each movement. The sill was maybe a few inches in width, but if I rested my ribs against it and planted my feet to the wall, I could hold myself just long enough to reach one arm up to the slightly open window panel. 

To my displeasure, the panel was held in place with a metal rod. Cycling through my mind for any possible solution, my body began to slip, and I scrambled to try to get my footing again, but it was no use. I slid from my position faster than I could think to grab hold of the sill again, and I was thrown backwards, falling to the ground below. I landed painfully, jagged rocks no doubt bruising and splitting the skin of my back, but I stayed for only a minute, before springing back to my feet, more determined than ever to accomplish what I had set out to do.

My back ached and stung, but it didn’t matter as long as I could still walk. Any injury was merely Becky’s attempt to deter me, but I would not let her hold triumph over me. The evening was now dark and empty, the stars covered by clouds. I did not bother to collect my discarded shoes, instead rounding the corner of the house, reaching what I believed to be the bathroom window. At the base of the wall sat a sizable rock, and after I had determined it would work well enough, I heaved it at the window with all the force I could muster, breaking the silence of the night with the ear-splitting shatter of glass. 

Illuminated faintly by the living room light, the rock now sat among the shards of glass on the checkered bathroom floor. Reaching carefully around the jagged edges, I felt inside the window for a latch, finally landing on one which allowed me to lift the shattered pane just enough to fit inside. Again, my thin body was an advantage, for if I were any bigger, it would have been an impossible squeeze, considering even then I had to suck in what little of my body fat remained to get myself in. 

The inside of the house was much warmer than the outside, and I cautiously slid down the thankfully bare wall below the window, touching as little of the floor as possible to avoid the broken glass. Despite my efforts, however, I exited the bathroom with the stinging sensation of little glass splinters in the bottoms of my feet. Yet again undeterred, I resolved to spend little time exploring the house, for I could not risk leaving any trace of myself visible from the front door. And I was right to do so, for just as I had positioned myself behind a wall, ready for my attack, the crunch of gravel sounded outside, and the beams of car headlights shone through the windows adjacent to me. 

It was time, and god, it was going to be glorious. 

4: Warm Shades of Blood  

The hum of the car fell silent, and the headlights switched off, and my breath was baited as I listened to Becky’s footsteps approaching the front door. The door would open into the living room, and the kitchen lay across from it, obscured only partially by the wall that I stood hiding behind. As soon as Becky passed by me, I would jump out, catch her by surprise, tackle her to the ground, and strangle her with my bare hands. 

The click of keys turning the lock, the sound of the latch undone, the squeak of the door’s edge sliding away from the frame. And then I knew it, Becky, the one and only, she was mere feet away from me once again. A bitter reunion, perhaps, if she had known of it.

Keys jangled as I listened to Becky placing her things on the side table next to the door. The sound of a jacket being taken off, hung on the hooks I had seen above the table. She was so close. She was walking. God, she was walking towards me.

Her footsteps creaked on the wooden floor, closer, closer, and then…

Silence.

She had stopped.

My heart raced in my ears, my mind rushing, what had gone wrong? She knew I was there, that was it. She was preparing her attack, laying in wait for me just as I was her, allowing for me to make the first move. She would not have to wait this time, no, I would let myself fall into her tricks, but I would overtake her just as easily.

With twitching hands and a heartbeat fast enough to kill a man, I leapt from my position.

She stood, terrified, just as I knew she would be.

With no hesitation, I lunged. 

The bulk of my attack landed in her torso, knocking her easily to the ground. Snapped out of her shock now, she was quick to fight back. Not a second after our entangled bodies hit the floor, she was slipping out from under me, her knee poised to hit my jaw, but I nearly escaped the attack, throwing myself back from her. She screamed words at me, but I did not listen. A violent shade of red clouded my vision and a rushing sound flooded my ears, my face hot and damp with sweat. 

This time, she lunged at me, her fist swinging wildly before planting itself directly in between my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs. My body crumpled from the force of the punch, but even with no air left, I still had fight in me. She was on top of me, but I swung my legs around hers, tackling her over so that I was above her, my hands wrapping around her unguarded neck with ease, and already I could feel her windpipe being crushed beneath my palm. Disappointingly, however, she would not submit so easily. My frail body was now an extreme disadvantage, as it failed to subdue hers. 

Pain shot through my body as she kneed my crotch, and my arms gave way for a brief second, which was enough for her to escape yet again. I shuffled my body back from hers, as she now stood, her stance flipped from defensive to offensive, now an evil anticipation gleaming in her eyes. I would not let her hold such leverage over me, and I scrambled to right myself, my legs shaking, but still sturdy enough to keep me up. She lunged again, but I jumped away, yet still just close enough to follow the momentum of her attack, for before she could stop herself, I was behind her, pushing her toward the hardwood chair that sat in the corner of the living room.

While I had intended only to corner her then, she tripped, and before my eyes, her body fell toward the chair.

Her chin hit the seat with a sickening crack.

And then, her body went limp, laying spread out, her head slipping from the chair, her feet just in front of mine.

Becky was dead, she had to be. It was all over.

Or was it?

Because then, as I stepped around her body to see her face, a wave of guilt rushed over me, and suddenly, my eyes were no longer clouded, my ears no longer rushing. I saw Becky for who she was, not some evil temptress, but an innocent woman, who I had ruined by my own volition. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, my face grew hot again, and my throat ached with the pull of terrible guilt and sadness. 

It couldn’t be over, it never would be. I could never live with myself knowing what I had done. The first tear fell, unleashing the flood of sobs built up. I cried and screamed and hit myself over and over again. Wails of anguish reverberating through the walls of the house. I was an evil, evil man, even god could not forgive me for what I had done. 

I stumbled weakly into the kitchen, approaching the sink, but I did not make it in time, and vomit spewed from my mouth, covering my chest in the putrid substance. I couldn’t be bothered to clean it though, I was far too deep in my sorrow to care about any of my physical needs. 

I turned back to torture myself with the sight of her lifeless body once again, but I did not find her lifeless. Instead, she stood in front of me, blood gushing from her chin and nose, and in her hand, a large butcher’s knife, aimed directly for my chest. Her fingers gripped around the bright red handle.

I did not feel it plunge into me, but in an instant, my body crumpled to the ground, my vision darkening at the edges, only fixed on that red handle sticking from my heart. 

My body had no will left to save me, and so the last of my energy was used to throw back my head against the kitchen cabinets so that I could see Becky one last time.

God, she was so beautiful.

She leaned against the counter, her phone ringing out a dial tone, her hands fumbling to retrieve a small lighter from her pocket.

What followed was possibly the worst thing I could have seen in my dying moments.

She placed a cigarette at the tip of her lips, flicking the lighter twice before it lit, and only then did I truly suffer, for there could be no doubt in my wrongdoing. 

I had not been the disgusting man from the diner who smelled of cigarettes.

And how could I have been so stupid?

She had loved me all along, and I had simply been oblivious.

There was nothing I could be more sure…