HOW TO TOY WITH A KILLER'S HEART

Coming home every night after my day's hustle isn't always this dramatic.

My life is mediocre, at its best. No drama. No intrigue. Nothing. Just me, barely surviving another mediocre day with yet another mediocre problem that was out for my mediocre life and not-mediocre-but-problematic sanity.

Today, it could be my landlord demanding double the rent that I was owing for the last seven months. Tomorrow, it could be the creaking of mice, cockroaches and other unforeseen creatures that made it a mission to make my life a living hell in this godforsaken decrepit apartment. And if I were lucky to have some damn sleep by next tomorrow, maybe a wild storm from nowhere would hit California and find its way straight to my already broken down house to rip off the roof for me. All the rain, lightning and thunder would find their safe space, their refuge, on top of me. Descending on me and my bed.

Yeah, my luck is pitiful. And granted, I would do anything to change it.

But, at this point, what goodluck could a girl in her early twenties expect from a life that has already cursed her with loneliness, a salary that couldn't even afford to feed pigeons, a house that's breaking down faster than her sanity, and now, a crazed stalking killer following her in the middle of the night.

"Better watch some TV and clear my head," I resolve as I climb onto my bed. Carefully. The joints of the wood are already creaking and if I break this bed again, I may have to spend another three months lying down on the erosioned floors of my one bedroom apartment.

And trust me when I say it, there is nothing fun about that. You'd just end up waking up with bruises and sand all over your body and face. Would not recommend.

"Let's see what we have on here," I hum to myself as I surf through the channels.

My options are limited, frankly. Barely three or four channels work and the others suffer constant connection issues. Still, this box television is the only good thing right now in my life. Right there, positioned at the end of the room, resting by broken down furniture and faded gray colored walls, is the only good thing I had to show for in this devil apartment.

It crackles to life after a while and turns on. I feel that relief settle inside me when I start to see my favorite show 'Fame and Fortune' unfold on the screen and that toxic part of me that loved to watch the lavishness of these lucky, rich people came alive. This show makes me both intrigued and bitter. Call it love-hate, but I love to imagine that one day, it would be me too.

Someday, I would also have that kind of bastard, filthy blood money too.

"...Welcome to yet another episode of Fame and Fortune, and with me today is the well adored and worshiped Gabi Fraser…"

In that instant, my smile wipes clean from my face.

"Gabi Fraser here," her overconfident smile shines through as she speaks, "and yes, I know having me here on your show is most definitely a stepping stone for your show..."

I watch her speak and my face scrunches in disgust.

"Well, you asked how I perceived my life of Fame and Fortune, if it sometimes gets overwhelming. And to that, I'd say yes, to some extent. I mean, it's not easy being the most sought after author in the whole world after all. I'm happy for the love and all of the above, but it gets tiring being so loved and obsessed over by the whole world sometimes."

I could've sworn I saw her shoulders lift with pride as she spoke, that smug smile never leaving her face.

She makes me fucking sick.

"Interestingly, it is the same plight as the female lead of my newest bestseller book," Gabi continued, "a woman with so much to give the world, but such little luck. So much so that she falls into the hands of a Killer, a dangerous Mafia man…"

I watch as the Interviewer literally piques. Her brown eyes glow with desperate curiosity at the mention of the word 'Mafia'.

"So, would you say you relate to your Female Lead in any way?" The Interviewer asks, blinking in pure intrigue as she gets herself ready to latch and hang onto Gabi's every word, "Would you say that you have also found your own Mr. Danger? Your own Mafia Man to seduce him into falling head over heels in love with you? Do you have any real life experiences with the kind of men you write about, Miss Fraser?"

Gabi laughs. God, I hate that laugh!

Everything about her screams smug. The way she looks the Interviewer up and down with that condescending prideful gaze in her sharp, green eyes. The way her full red lips stretch into a thin smirk and a pout at the same time when she notices how much suspense she has over the Interviewer. Like, it's some powerplay. She triggers me. Gabi Fraser absolutely triggers me.

Patting her 'fro, she answers the question:

"Well, if you ask me, I'd say that the line between Fiction and Reality should not be blurred. In real life, no Mafia is going to sweep you off your feet and pamper you like a good girl. Or, treat you like his princess. It's all make-believe. Entertainment. No single Mafia man out there is like the ones that you read about in the pages of my book. Or any book in the Mafia-Billionaire Romance genre for that matter."

Like an obedient puppet, the Interviewer is quick to agree on that take.

"Yes, yes that's true! And speaking of dangerous men, there is one in particular that raises shivers down the spines of everyone in the continent. Of course, you must have heard about him. I'm even scared to say his name—"

"Alessandro Ferrara."

Gabi said the name with ease.

The Interviewer looks baffled, and ever so slightly, terrified. She laughs awkwardly and uncomfortably. Gabi, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be fazed enough to have the same reaction.

"I don't believe he exists," Gabi says, "And, see? As proof, I said his name. I said the name of the oh-so-feared-Mafia man Alessandro Ferrari and nothing happened."

For some reason, I am more interested in this.

As much as my opinions on the existence of Alessandro Ferrara were on the fence, I couldn't help but be baffled at Gabi's boldness too. That name was the kind you'd call and look over your shoulder to make sure you were safe afterwards.

And yes, Gabi is not the only one who had the conspiracy theory that the man didn't exist. And in the defence of the rumor, the man was practically a ghost. No one has ever gotten close enough to him to know what he looks like, talk less of where he even lives. All we knew was that there was a place called The Xolo Estate in God-knows-where where he was rumored to live; yet, no one has ever entered into this sacred estate of his' and the ones who have been claimed to have entered had never ever lived to tell the tale.

Basically, anyone who had ever tried to snoop into anything remotely close to his business doesn't come out alive. At least I remember this one social media blogger who promised the internet to give him three days to crack the Xolo Mystery. He had gone missing for weeks, and afterwards, one fateful day, his lifeless body was found hanging from a skyscraper. Most people tried to wave it off as suicide, but others who believed in this man's existence had other thoughts.

"I still stand my ground and insist that as far as I am concerned, all these things only happen in the pages of my books."

My attention reverts back to the TV and I turn it off immediately.

As much as I would have loved to stay longer on the show and watch more about this Alessandro Ferrara man they call 'Xolo', I can't stand another second of Gabi talking about her books.

Every time I see or even entertain the thought of Gabi Fraser, I remember my sister's suicide. Sarissa was dead because of Gabi Fraser.

And now, after her demise, Gabi steals her entire life: her name, her fans, her fame, her fortune and becomes everything that Sarissa used to be. But she could never be Sarissa. Sarissa was a better writer than Gabi Fraser could ever be. Even Gabi would never deny that. And thanks to the smug bitch, I have been thrown down from the riches and lavishness that Sarissa had to offer me, and now, since the five years that Sarissa had passed, my life offers nothing short of a living, dirty hell.

I miss Sarissa.

As I drift into sleep, my hands find the keychain on my neck. It was a special necklace Sarissa had given me, and she had the other half of it.

"I am always there with you, Indigo. Always there," she used to tell me.

But, she hadn't been there for five years.

Tears wet my pillow as I sleep to the thought of my sister, the only person that I ever had in this wicked cold world. She used to tell me that if I couldn't sleep, I should count sheep — that it would help me.

One.

Two.

Three.

"Indigo."

My eyes shoot open.

I sit up on my bed, horrid and alert. I wonder who called my name, I wonder if it was all in my head. My eyes search every corner, nook and cranny of this house. Only one thought is prevalent…

My killer had found my house.

I felt them lurking. Somewhere. Anywhere. Everywhere.

And when my eyes shot towards the window, I saw its shadow move away from behind the curtains. So fast.

Fear grips me as I stand up to go and press my ears to the doors, hoping to hear them again. But, all I hear is the loud pounding of my heart inside my chest. Boom, boom, boom, inside my chest.

"Who is there?" I ask.

Silence.

Heart pounds faster. More silence. I keep my ears on the door. And that's when I hear it, the subtle shuffling of feet against the wet, messy dirt outside my apartment. A clear indication that someone is outside.

I want to speak again, but they beat me to it.

"It's me, Indigo."

That voice sends chills down my spine.

Moved by nothing, I slam the door again and meet what I feared it would be the most; those bloodshot venom eyes that stared right back at me, chilling smile that spreads to the corners of the ears, pale white skin that looks drained of its blood, ghostly and chilling, and that dark hoodie over blonde hair that does little to hide it…

And the other half of the lock-chain necklace that dangles around her neck.

It feels like I am staring at an actual ghost, and nothing could have prepared me to absorb who was standing there at my doorstep.

"Sarissa."