I run my thumb over the silver pocket watch, admiring for the thousandth time the intricate medieval carvings. I’ve never known if the images mean anything, but to me it’s mine—the watch I found years ago in a Whitby flea market. I remember that day vividly. Annie had been my first, and I was still glowing from her. I thought I’d treat myself to fish and chips by the sea, but instead my feet carried me down a damp alleyway that smelled of my nana’s old nursing home.
A stall stood there, cluttered with cracked pots and faded vinyl. That’s when I saw it—silver glinting under a battered Bros album. The pocket watch. My pocket watch. It felt like fate. The carvings of a woman tangled in thorns were perfect. Women are everything to me: their delicate skin, their scent, their fragility. With a dry mouth and clammy hands, I bought it from a stooped old man with no lower teeth—for thirty pounds, a bargain.
Now, flipping it open, I see it’s past ten. The sun has gone, leaving only the moon spilling its glow across the water. Mist creeps over the hills, slithering toward the shoreline like smoke on hot tarmac. I glance back at the car. Emily waits there.
Sweet Emily. Number fourteen. My favourite. Her hair was silk, pale and soft between my fingers. She smelled of vanilla—until she smelled like they all do, metallic and sour. Such a shame the high fades quicker each time. The rush—the blissful, dizzy rush—never lasts. But Emily… Emily was supposed to be different.
The last dog walker left over an hour ago. I am alone now. My fingers jingle the keys in my pocket. Not mine—hers. Three ordinary house keys, weighed down by a ridiculous fluffy keyring. Pointless, frivolous. I let them drop to the bottom of my pocket and walk to the car.
The boot creaks open. Emily lies inside. In death, her skin has turned grey and waxy. Ugly. The euphoria is already gone, leaving only irritation. How dare she spoil this for me? Didn’t I treat her well? Wasn’t I merciless enough? I feel cheated.
I haul her out roughly, offering no courtesy this time. Slung over my shoulder, she is heavy, awkward. My breath grows ragged as I stomp down the boardwalk. At the water’s edge, I dump her in without ceremony. She sinks slowly. I watch her fade beneath the dark surface, and I feel—nothing.
After Lisa, my fourth, I learned stones in the abdomen worked best. Emily should vanish quickly enough. Still, I am hollow. She had robbers me of my release. Why did her essence die so soon? The others always stayed fresh, clean. Emily rotted too quickly.
The splash is swallowed quickly, the water barely rippling, as though eager to claim her. A bubble or two bursts on the surface, then nothing. Silence, except for the steady pulse of the tide and the faint tick of the watch against my palm. For a moment, I almost imagine I hear her voice beneath the waves—whispering, pleading—but it is only the sea. Always the sea.
I close my eyes, and the smell hits me again: salt, fish, rot. It clings to the back of my throat, gagging me. Emily’s scent is gone already, erased. She never lasted. None of them ever do. Disgusted, I stare at the rippling black water. A waste of time. A waste of effort. The emptiness yawns wide inside my chest. A black hole, gnawing and endless. I press the watch to my ear. Tick. Tick. Tick. Louder now, relentless, like it mocks me. Like it knows I’ve wasted her.
I flip it open again. 11:47. The hands glint, sharp as blades. My reflection warps in the glass, lips peeled back, eyes hollow. The watch never lies.
A shiver runs down my spine, and suddenly I know. There is only one cure for this gnawing void. Only one way to make the watch fall quiet.
I jingle Emily’s keys in my pocket; I turn back toward the car. My grin stretches wide. Number fifteen is waiting. Time for the hunt.
Comments