kirbybone

There’s a sharp crack. The air ripples with heat. He drops. 

It takes you a few seconds to realize he was dead. 

You are rooted in place as someone else takes his spot. Another man, garbed in a black-and-green costume. He holds his gun loosely. He looked like a hero, but heroes don’t just kill people.

Your mind is screaming at you to run, but you can’t. Your legs have given up, your hands are numb. It feels useless to even try. 

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was still inspecting his victim, rifling through his coat. Maybe if you stay still, he’d never know you were even there. 

He glances up. Orange visors glint in the dim streetlights. 

Your heart sinks into your stomach. 

“Hey there!” A voice cheerily said. “‘Almost didn’t see you.” 

It’s his voice. The murderer’s voice. Light, airy, almost childish. Casual. He’s casual as he waltzes up to your frozen form. 

He’s so tall he has to bend down to eye you properly. You stare back. You can’t see his eyes; they are hidden away by a bright orange visor. 

“What’s your name?” He asks. 

You don’t want to answer, but then he shifts the pistol he’s carrying from one hand to another, and you’re immediately sputtering it out. 

“Nice to meet you!” He cheerily says, like he isn’t holding you hostage. “I’m Vigilante, but I’m sure you’ve heard of me.” His tone turns bashful, and you suddenly realize that yes, you have seen this guy before. 

On the news, he was wanted for 12 other murders. 

What the fuck. 

You don’t know what to say. You can’t even move as he continues to tower above you. His voice is slightly muffled by the helmet, but you can hear the cheeriness in his voice as he continues his one-sided conversation with you. 

You want to run, but the gun keeps entering and re-entering your vision as he waves it around without a care in the world. 

Eventually, he gets bored hearing himself talk. This isn’t a good thing. His voice fades, and you can feel eyes on you all over again. 

There’s a hand on his hip as he shifts forward. 

“Why’re you so quiet?” He doesn’t really demand an answer; it’s more like he sounds confused. “It’s starting to get a little creepy, actually.” 

If you weren’t so terrified, you might’ve laughed. He seems to come to his own conclusion as he snaps his fingers barely two seconds later. 

“I get it!” He chirps. “You’re a fan!” 

It takes a moment to process what he said. 

“A…fan?” You repeat, dazed. 

He takes it as confirmation. 

“Oh, gosh.” He presses both hands on either side of his helmet like he’s blushing. “I’ve never met a fan in real life before! Ah, if I’d known I–I would’ve worn something better.” He gushes.

“No wonder you’re so quiet, you’re shy!” He concludes to himself. “You want an autograph, right? It’s okay, you can ask!” 

He stares down at you, clearly expectant. All you can think about over and over again is how you don’t want to die. 

“I–I’d like an autograph, please.” 

He gives you a minute to fumble through your bag, scouring for a writing utensil. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you didn’t have a pen. Thankfully, you didn’t find out. He’s more than happy to scribble his name on an old receipt you had. He even put a heart above each ‘i’. 

When he’s done, he hands the receipt and pen back to you with a satisfied sigh. You hesitantly deposit it back into your bag, hoping that would be all this psycho needed from you. 

“Y’know.” He starts. “I don’t really do it for the praise, but it’s really nice getting appreciation for all the good work I do.” He nods to himself. “You made my night.” 

You flex your fingers, trying to make yourself even smaller. He isn’t going away. Why isn’t he going away? 

“What’re you doing out here?” He asks. 

“...waiting for the bus.” You whisper, wincing when he leans down to hear you. 

“Oh!” He looks up the road. “Y’know the next bus won’t come for…another half-hour, right? It’s not smart to sit all alone like that. Some crazies are out here.” He berates you, and you genuinely wonder if he can hear himself right now. 

“But don’t worry, I’d do anything for my fans.” He pats your head like you were a stray puppy. “I can drive you home.” 

“Oh,” you immediately say, trying to stifle down the panic, “No! No…it’s okay. I–” 

He tucks his gun somewhere in that suit of his. Instantly, your voice and your fight die down. 

It’s a blur after that. You wordlessly let him pull you up and lead you to some run-down car. A part of you catches that you should read the plate, just so you could identify it later, but he’s already opening the passenger door. Vigilante gives a dramatic bow, as though he were genuinely doing something chivalrous. 

That’s the worst part: the sincerity. You can tell from his movements, his voice, his tone that he was all under the assumption that he was the good guy here. 

When you reluctantly slip into the passenger seat, he slams the door shut behind you. The interior smells stale, with a faint hint of metal. Tentatively, you flex the car handle. It doesn’t budge. You’re completely locked in. 

You don’t think you’d have any time to flee. He practically prances around the car and gets into his own seat with a laugh. 

“I bet you’re super glad you ran into me, huh?” He asks, and you feel something knot in your stomach. “Don’t worry! I’d do anything for my fans.” 

~

Despite certain you were going to die, you were silently dropped off at your destination a short while later. 

You aren’t sure how you’re still alive. The entire car ride was just you dissociating as the psycho next to you rambled about one thing or another. Somehow, you had enough sense not give him your address. You made some vague excuse and pointed him toward the town square. 

You were dropped off the curb a few minutes later with a cheery ‘See ya’ before the tires screeched and he was gone. You were left on the side of the road, clutching onto your purse as you stared at the tire marks he left behind. 

It takes 10 minutes of silence before your brain starts working again. 

You witnessed a murder tonight and the murderer just drove off like nothing happened. 

The body was probably back there, cold, still waiting to be found. Your breaths quicken as you fumble through your bag. You needed to call somebody. You needed to call the police. You can’t just let whatever happened tonight just…happen. 

Your stomach twists as you continue to search through your bag. No phone. 

You check your pockets next. You check your purse again. Nothing. 

You must have dropped it somewhere along the way in your shock. It must still be at the bus stop, innocently laid on where you once sat. 

Your hands drop to your sides. Exhaustion overwhelms your body. 

Forget this. Forget everything. You just wanted to go home. 

The trudge back to your apartment is grueling. You sling your purse across your shoulder, but even that gets too much. Eventually, you let it dangle in your hand as your shoes slide across the pavement. You’ve never been more eager to get home in your life. 

Your apartment is dark and quiet. You calm down your nerves by taking a shower. The warm water heats up your skin, momentarily making you forget the nightmare of the day. You slip into clean shorts and a comfortable T-shirt. You delicately start your night time skincare routine, carefully applying your products on your face. The normalcy the rest of your night takes on almost makes you wonder if what happened earlier was just a figment of your imagination. 

You pluck your phone from off the dresser. No new messages. That makes sense, after all you–

Wait. Where did your phone come from? 

You look up from across the room. Nothing. No one. The door remains shut and locked. The window is tightly sealed. 

Your eyes land on your dresser again. 

Your heart drops to your stomach when you spot the note. 

Guess who left this in my car? You’re pretty forgetful:D Don’t worry! I’ll always be here to keep an eye on you<3 

Love,