These Cold Strangers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.Text copyright © 2023 by J.T. EllisonAll rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattlewww.apub.comAmazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.ISBN-13: 9781662509759 (digital)Cover design by Caroline Teagle JohnsonCover image: © Jens Schwarz / EyeEm / Getty Images; © the_burtons / Getty Images; © Jonathan Knepper / Unsplash CHAPTER ONEBlood. Shattered glass. Bodies. Screams. The echoes linger, resonating, filling the house. My throat is sore with the cries. They’re dead. They’re both dead. My ex-boyfriend, my father. God, the blood. Everywhere I look, blood.I stumble past the living room, run up the blood-slippery stairs calling, calling. My sister’s room, empty. I find her in my bed, curled around a shocking bloom of red, a pillow covering her shoulder and part of her face. My hands are now covered in viscous fluid. It smells so meaty and raw. She is limp in my arms.Across the hall, the door propped open. My mother, lying still as stone, eyes closed, the snowy white sheets stained crimson, the cream padded headboard a Pollock painting of red and white. I stare at her chest, waiting, waiting, for it to rise. There is nothing.Blood looks peculiar when you’re high, and I have never seen so much of it. It moves. It breathes. It shimmers, coruscating even as it blackens and dries and leaks from their bodies.It covers us all now, commingling, the DNA we share merged, out of their bodies and onto mine, being dragged from room to room, dripping on the rugs. I run to each of them again, shrieking “no!” over, and over, and over. I hit. I kick. I flail. They are gone. They are all gone.I have to leave. I can’t handle this. I can’t.Door. Escape. Outside. The sky is no longer black. A car pulls away. My phone is in my pocket. Finally, a rational thought.Call for help.“Nine one one. What is your emergency?”I can’t form words. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.All I can do is wail.They find me there, on the sidewalk, covered in blood, crying, shaking, nonsensical from the drugs and shock.Accuse me. Arrest me. Drag me away. CHAPTER TWOIwake with a scream dying in my throat and the cat pawing my arm in concern.I sit up, arms around my knees, panting, trying to get my heart to calm. Square breathing. You’re having a panic attack. It was only a dream. It’s not real.It is real, of course. But a decade in the past. And the dreams don’t come as often as they used to; thankfully, I haven’t had one in months.Finally under control, I feed the cat, shower, and dress. Work is my refuge. It’s cold; I bundle up and set off.It snowed heavily overnight, and the plows have already been through to ruin it, making dirty piles that take up all the parking spaces on the street and piss off the neighbors. Not that I would drive downtown; I don’t have a car anymore. The Metro and rideshares get me anywhere I need to go. Still, the walk from the Metro is three blocks, and by the time I get to the office door, I am frozen through.My office is on the fourth floor of a sand-colored building on an unpopular block, exactly why I can afford it. I share the tiny space with four other freelancers in various stages of success in their chosen fields. It’s a waste for me to spend the money when I can easily do the work from home. Still, it feels important to have the downtown address, and I get lonely sitting by myself at my kitchen table every day, writing piece after piece, combing social media for stories. I have the steadiest gig of my office mates, a short monthly column on the life of a young woman in the most powerful city in the world. DC gives and gives and gives.The “office” itself is a loft space with two big library tables and a small kitchen on the far end—fridge, electric stove, sink. I dump my coat by the door and my bag by my chair, then turn on a burner and warm my hands above it.The door opens, and two of my office mates burst through, giggling and shaking their hair free of scarves and hats. I set the tea kettle on the hot burner, and they join me, chattering. I hear about Leslie’s blind date gone awry (“He picked his teeth with his steak knife!”) and learn Stephanie’s mother is coming to visit (“She’s going to freak when she sees my roots, she doesn’t get that this is the style”). A tattered bestseller is offered. This is why I opted for a coworking space, the camaraderie. Isolation is detrimental to a young woman’s health. The pandemic proved that for us all.The kettle starts to sing. The coffeepot burbles to life. Pulling down a chipped cup from the small cabinet, Leslie says, “Did you see that crazy story from yesterday?”“What are you talking about? What crazy story?” I ask.“The man who was on the street dying, for like, hours, and the guy who saved his life? Talk about something that you could use for your clips file. Get an interview with him, and you’re golden. The Post would hire you in a heartbeat.”“Like their beat reporters don’t already have it. I don’t have a chance.”“No one has it. The guy who saved him is a ghost. They haven’t been able to identify him.”She hands over her phone, and I watch the video. It’s a grainy street cam but clear enough