The storm had quieted to a restless drizzle by the time Carl began his grim work. In Apartment 4C, the air was thick with the coppery stench of blood, a scent that clung to his skin as he scrubbed the hardwood floor. The single lamp cast jagged shadows across the room, its light flickering as if it, too, wanted to flee the scene. Carl worked methodically, his movements precise despite the tremor in his hands—remnants of adrenaline, or perhaps something darker. The floorboards groaned under his weight, each creak a reminder of the night's violence.
Mr. Harold's body lay slumped in the chair, a lifeless husk, blood pooling beneath him in a viscous, dark puddle. Carl dragged the corpse to the bathroom, the sound of dead weight scraping against the floor echoing through the silent apartment. He heaved the body into the bathtub, the porcelain stained crimson as blood smeared across its surface. With a butcher's knife, he began to dismember the remains, the blade slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. Each cut released a fresh wave of iron scent, mingling with the stale cigarette smoke that lingered in the air. Carl's face remained impassive, his breaths shallow as he worked, separating limbs, torso, head—each piece stuffed into a black garbage bag.
By 4 a.m., he was trudging through a dense forest on the outskirts of Los Angeles, the black bags slung over his shoulder. The ground was slick with mud, the air heavy with the scent of pine and decay. He moved deeper, the storm's remnants dripping from the trees, each drop a cold pinprick against his skin. One by one, he dumped the bags, scattering Harold's remains among the underbrush, the forest swallowing them into its shadows. The trek back and forth was grueling, his boots sinking into the mire, the weight of his actions settling into his bones. By the time he disposed of the last piece, the sky was lightening to a bruised gray, and it was nearly 7 a.m.
Back at the apartment, Carl lit a cigarette, the smoke curling upward as he stood in the kitchen. The ashtray on the counter was already brimming with stubs, a testament to the night's toll. He fried two eggs, the sizzle of grease a stark contrast to the silence, and ate them straight from the pan, the yolk bitter on his tongue. He dressed for college—khakis, a button-up shirt, a sweater vest—his physics textbook tucked under his arm as he left, the cigarette still burning between his lips.
At UCLA, the lecture hall buzzed with the low hum of students, the chalkboard scrawled with equations on quantum mechanics. Carl sat near the back, his notebook open, but his mind was elsewhere. Thirty minutes in, a familiar pressure began to build behind his eyes—his temporal lobe epilepsy stirring like a beast waking from slumber. Insights on exotic matter, a topic that had haunted him for months, flooded his thoughts. He scribbled furiously, the equations spiraling into chaos as the seizure tightened its grip. The room seemed to shrink, his classmates fading into insignificance. He felt superior, untouchable, the only one capable of unraveling the universe's secrets. The seizure crescendoed, and he stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, and walked out, leaving the lecture behind.
Back at the apartment, Carl chain-smoked, the room filling with a haze that stung his eyes. The smell of ash mixed with something strange—metallic, lingering, a ghost of the night before. His mind churned, fixating on exotic matter. An idea struck him like lightning: the Collatz conjecture. It posited that any positive integer, through a series of transformations, collapsed to one. By analogy, he reasoned, positive matter might collapse to unity, to indivisibility—atoms. To find exotic matter, he needed to reverse-engineer the process, to break the universe apart and rebuild it in his image. It was revolutionary, or so he thought.
He wrote feverishly, paper after paper piling up on the table, cigarette after cigarette burning down to the filter. The seizure fueled his mania, his thoughts racing faster than he could capture them. But the harder he pushed, the more elusive the solution became. Hours slipped away, and by the time the seizure released him, he was trembling, hollowed out. The table was a mess of ash, crumpled papers, and dead ends. His stomach growled, his body ached, and the clock read 6 p.m. He'd spent the entire day chasing a phantom, neglecting food, study—everything. But he had a date with Faith at 7.
Carl stumbled to the fridge, gulping down milk straight from the carton, the cold liquid soothing his raw throat. He rushed to the shower, the hot water washing away the sweat and smoke, though the metallic scent lingered in his mind. He dressed quickly—a clean shirt, a tie, his best jacket—and headed to Millie's Coffee Shop.
Faith was waiting, radiant in a soft blue dress, her hair pinned back with a pearl clip. They kissed, her lips warm against his, and he hailed a cab to the zoo—her idea, knowing his childhood fascination with animals. At the entrance, Carl bought tickets and a bag of popcorn for Faith, claiming he didn't care for it. It was a lie; he'd calculated his funds and knew he couldn't afford a cab home if he indulged.
They wandered through the zoo, the air crisp with the scent of hay and animal musk. Carl's voice came alive as he shared facts with Faith, his eyes bright with a childlike wonder. "Hippos are the deadliest land animals in Africa," he said, watching the massive creature wallow in its pool. "Lions can sleep up to twenty hours a day," he added as they passed the big cats, their amber eyes glinting in the dusk. "Elephants never forget—they've got memories that span decades." Faith listened, captivated, her hand in his, her smile wide as she soaked in his knowledge, his connection to the creatures.
They paused near the aquarium, the fish gliding through the water in a hypnotic dance. Faith turned to him, her voice soft. "Are you doing okay, Carl?, You avoided telling me about your feelings about the diagnosis today"
His face paled, the memory of his failure crashing over him. He hesitated, then lowered his eyes, the truth spilling out in a whisper. "I failed, Faith. I wasn't able to control it. It got out of hand, and I wasted the whole day chasing nothing."
She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him, her embrace warm and steady. "Oh, Carl," she murmured, her voice a balm. "You are already perfect. You're enough, just as you are. We'll figure it out together, I promise." Her words were a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge.
He exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Tomorrow will be a good day," he said, his voice steadier. "I promise." They chatted lightly, the weight lifting, and he kissed her, their lips meeting again and again near the aquarium's glow. Time slipped away until 9 p.m., when Faith glanced at her watch, worry creasing her brow. Her parents—conservative, strict—expected her home, and her father didn't know about Carl.
He hailed a cab, escorting her to her door. From the window, her mother watched, and Carl waved, his smile polite. Faith pressed a letter into his hand—"Something special," she whispered—before slipping inside. He walked home, the letter tucked into his pocket, a flicker of happiness warming him. But beneath it, a darker current stirred. His professor's time on earth was done. Carl craved control, craved superiority, and the next victim was already chosen.