Chapter 3

I could never understand the obsession people had with mirrors. The way they stared at their own image, adjusting their hair, their clothes, their expressions. I never saw the point. My reflection was just that… a reflection. It didn’t tell me anything new. But today, as I shaved in the bathroom, I saw something different. My eyes, usually dark, were lighter. Hazy. And my skin, typically sickly, was almost glowing. I could feel the life and color being drained out of me. I blinked, and the mirror went back to normal. I must’ve been more tired than I thought.

As I got dressed, the days ahead came to mind. My typical mundane schedule as a school guidance counselor for middle schoolers. I had to admit it was one job that kept me on my toes. Every day, a new barrage of problems and concerns. Somehow, I managed to help them. At least, that was what I told myself. Funny how a serial killer could dispense advice on morality and life choices. I supposed I was good at my job, though. It came naturally to me.

After double-checking my tie in the mirror, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. My apartment building was quiet this time of day, which was a blessing. I preferred silence to the grating sounds of clunky elevators and gossiping neighbors. The moment I pressed the elevator button, it sprang to life with a creak. I stepped inside and hit the ground floor button, leaning against the mirrored wall. The elevator gave another whine, and my reflection wavered again. But only for a moment.

In the lobby, the doorman greeted me with a casual ‘hello’ and a nod. I rarely spoke to him, yet he always seemed to know just enough about my life. He always knew when I had a date or when I came back late from work. He waved me off as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, and I turned up my collar against the brisk spring morning wind. The chill wasn’t too bad, and I could always stand a little discomfort. Plus, it was a nice day – sunny, not a cloud in the sky.

I arrived at work just as the first bell rang, signaling the beginning of classes. I made my way through the crowded halls to my office, exchanging hellos with the teachers I passed. Middle school was always such a strange dynamic. On one hand, the kids were barely more than children. On the other hand, they were old enough to make their own decisions and therefore, at times, even harder to help.

I entered my office, set my things down, and prepared for my first appointment of the day. It was a bittersweet feeling, really. As much as I dreaded some of these kids and their issues, at the same time, it was… fulfilling, in a way. I felt like I was making a difference, even if it was just in the lives of a few middle schoolers. It was a challenging job, but one I felt suited for. After all, I had my own share of secrets. And who better to help those in trouble than someone who knew the darkest parts of the human psyche?

I sat in my office, enclosed by the empty halls of the school, and I couldn’t help but feel that something was off today. I felt like I was being watched or, worse, judged. It was an unnerving feeling, one that I wasn’t used to. I supposed I should be used to it by now, considering how many lives I had taken and how many secrets I had hidden. But this was different. It felt like something I couldn’t control, something out of my reach.

I ran my hands over the smooth surface of my desk, the same desk that all the other guidance counselors before me had used. The desk, worn and scuffed in places, told a story of the years it had seen. I looked at the clock on my wall. It was a little before nine, and my first appointment of the day was still a few minutes away.

I rifled through my desk drawer, looking for the folder holding my schedule for the day. It was tucked away under a stack of unopened mail and old notebooks. I flipped it open and scanned the pages. My first appointment was with a student named Abbie Hargrove. According to her teachers, she was a bit of a problem child, but I could read the signs they couldn’t.

Abbie was a twelve-year-old girl from an abusive home. Or at least I suspected she was. I meet with her every week to check in on her and make sure she knows there is someone here for her, but without her reporting it to me or another teacher or any concrete evidence, we couldn’t call CPS. But every week is the same, she thinks she is throwing me off by sharing other meaningless things to show she is okay and denies any abuse, but I knew better. Maybe I should make an exception and pick her dad to be my next target.

I stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the green landscape of the school grounds. The sun was shining, casting long, distorted shadows across the lawn, and the trees were finally filling out after the winter’s brutality. It was a beautiful day, and I found myself in a far better mood than usual.

Before I knew it, my first appointment had arrived, signaling the beginning of another day of guiding and supporting the troubled students. I opened the door to my office, and the sound of eager footsteps and anxious whispers filled the air. I readied myself for whatever the day would bring, a task I had become all too familiar with.

Abbie stepped into my office with her head down, avoiding eye contact. She had long, brown hair and eyes that held more wisdom than any child her age should possess.

“Good morning, Abbie,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. I scanned her for any signs of abuse. Nothing stood out as usual. Her clothes were clean and intact, her skin unmarked. But I had seen this too many times before.

“Hi, Mr. Anastos.” Her voice wavered slightly, just enough to give me an opening.

“How has it been since last week? Everything okay?” I asked, my tone just warm enough to be inviting.

She shrugged and mumbled, “It was fine.”

I nodded and pretended to check my appointment book for her next session. “So, you want to tell me about your week?”

She hesitated, but I could see the anguish in her eyes. She was holding back, terrified to admit what was happening to her. I was well-versed in this game. It had been years since my father killed my mother, but Abbie’s plight felt too familiar. My mind began to wander to that fateful night when my dad’s fists rained blows down upon my mother’s face. The feeling of powerlessness, the desire to protect, the rage that coursed through me. And then the release I had felt when I finally ended his life with a single strike of a knife.

I came back to the present, and Abbie was still there, her eyes fixed on the carpet. The sadness in her eyes was too real, too deep. She needed help, but she was too scared to ask for it. I wanted to help her, but I knew from experience that you couldn’t force a victim to speak up. They had to make the decision on their own. I could only hope that she would come to me when she was ready, when she had gathered the courage she needed to escape her abuser. Until then, I would wait.