12: Nail In The Coffin

You don't go back to Kenny's that evening. You don't go over the weekend, and you don't consider going until Monday afternoon. The week has begun with a very slow day of classes conducted by a drab Levi, a professor that's still touchy around his recovering intern. You two ease back into a routine, and soon erase memories of his viciousness last Thursday.

And, when the feelings of tension have waned, you discover they're being replaced with independence again. With the stark I am my own person mindset, the one that permits you to go to the pawn shop with little guilt. 

So, you get out of a yellow cab some time after 6, stepping into the grim streets that are starting to feel a little too familiar. 

You open the door to the pawn shop, and the wind chimes greet you like an old friend. 

The shopkeeper emerges, too, appearing from behind a crowded shelf. 

"Well, well!" Kenny takes the cigarette out of his lips to give you a giddy smile. He's as towering as ever, and that cloud of malintent continues to follow him. "Welcome back! I thought you might've been nabb'd, vanishin' like that." 

"Hey, Kenny." You shut the door firmly and lean against it. "And I'm fine, thanks. I'm not obligated to come here, nor should you be expecting me."

"I s'pose not, but you're good company." He points at a vintage sewing table, atop which is a stack of various license plates and framed pictures. "Here, I was gettin' these hung up. You know how to use a hammer, right?"

"I—well—"

"'Course you do. Everyone does." He finds a hammer and set of nails from where he had left them and passes the tools to you. Once his hands are free, he plucks the cigarette out of his lips and exhales wispy smoke. "Anywhere that's open is fine. Just decorate the space a bit."

Scoffing, you pick up a grungy license plate. "I think you just missed my free labor."

"Free?" Kenny fixes an askew music box on a shelf, his eyes gleaming. "What would you like to know about Levi tonight?"

It's a soft reminder of your metaphorical salary, and it shuts you up from further complaint.

This time, Kenny recounts more of Levi's life in school, particularly elementary and middle school. He jokes about how little Levi has changed, how the professor has been a grumpy loner since he was in first grade. There's not many stories about Levi's time in high school, since Levi had chosen to attend a private academy far from Kenny.

When you ask about the choice of attending a private high school, Kenny wholly admits it was Levi's attempt to escape Kenny. It worked, for a while, before Levi returned to the city for college. Asking about Levi's motivations for attending Paradis yields uncertainty from his uncle.

"But he didn't have the funds for college." Kenny watches a smoky snake drift to the ceiling. "Kid had a lot of scholarships to his name, but Paradis is still pricy."

"I know." You don't need to be reminded of the price tag that turned you away from attending originally. Had it not been for that outrageous number, you might've found yourself as one of Levi's students this year. "So you paid for his college?"

"Sure did, but not out of the kindness of my heart or anything. It's just nice to have someone indebted to you, y'know?"

Picking up a fresh nail, you sigh. "I'm sure it is, Kenny." There's an open spot about a foot above you, free estate for the license plate you hold. You upraise both arms and press the plate against the wall, lining up the nail. "That must've been a huge price to pay, though. Did you take out a loan for him?"

"Nah. I could afford the price upfront."

You pause and glance around the empty shop. It's not your intention to think poorly of this shopkeeper, but it doesn't seem too believable that he has the wealth to casually afford Paradis tuition. "Um," you utter as you slam the hammer onto the nail's head. "If you don't mind me asking, does this shop make enough for that?"

"Not this shop, no. This is just a 'lil hobby of mine." He stands straight and situates his cigarette between his lips.

It's not adding up. "Then how do you—"

"How do I have the money? How does a lowly shopkeep afford Paradis?" His steps are soft, creeping closer. 

"Yeah. Do you have another business, or—"

A huge hand is slammed onto yours, pinning your palms to the wall. "See, missy, there're some questions best left unanswered." You gasp and lose your grip on the hammer, but Kenny catches it before it connects with your shoulder.

"Wh—hey, hey—"

"Sometimes," he growls as he directs the claw of the hammer right under your chin, the metal edge scratching your skin. "It's better to keep your mouth shut."

Unmatched horror strikes you like lightning as the extent of Kenny's depravity shows itself. Your hands tug, desperate to escape, but his iron hand refuses them freedom. Like an exposed worm you writhe, kicking at the floor until you feel the metal on your jaw. Thin, terrified whimpers escape unpermitted, followed by a gritted, "Kenny!"

His frame presses against your back, enclosing you in his looming height. He's able to tilt your subjugated jaw skyward, and his head dips down beside yours to inspect his trapped victim. The plume of smoke is close to your face, stabbing your eyes and drawing out wet tears as his hot breath attacks your cheek.

"Let's learn our limits, sweetie." As he speaks, the hammer vibrates against your chin and the smoke dances around your features, caging your head in horrific discomfort. "Let's learn to leave some stones unturned, hm?"

"Get off m-me," you hiss out, bucking your shoulders against his chest.  Fire burns under your bloodshot eyes, tiny tears trickling down your cheek.

Your breath stops in your throat with the sharp claw traces down your neck, discouraging speech. A hot line simmers on your skin in its wake, the scratch like a stamp of Kenny's crime.

"Because just like your tiny mentor, I've got secrets too." His whispered, smoky words send frissons running down your spine. As he speaks, the claw drags with more and more pressure, ready to pierce your skin at any moment. "Oh, I've got secrets, missy. Dark and horrific secrets that you can't even begin to comprehend. This isn't the cute Paradis campus—this is a whole different fuckin' world." 

You shut your eyes, eking out more tears that are spurred solely by the fume but decorate your face with attributes of a cowering prey. The stench of Kenny's invasive smoke suffocates your nose and lungs, dizzying your throbbing brain. "S-stop," you whisper, your throat closing up. "Stop!" 

"So let's not poke too far, okay?" He lightly taps the head of the hammer against the rear of your skull, knocking fresh fear into your mind. "You got that, missy?" 

"Yes," your terrified mind fires out, anxious to soothe the beast. "Yes, I'll stop asking." 

"'Atta girl, 'atta girl." The hand on yours drops to your scalp and tousles your hair before the villain steps away. 

"Fuck!" You stagger away from him, frantically fixing your hair and clothes to wipe them of his disgusting touch. Hyperventilating, you struggle to ground yourself, to remind yourself of reality and reassure your senses that you are safe.

"Y'okay?" he asks derisively.

Remembering the threat, you whip around with rage contorting your expression. "You—you asshole. You absolute monster." 

He simpers nastily, his cigarette back in hand. "Did Levi teach you those words?"

"I can't fucking believe you." Free of his torture, you're overridden with ferocity that is not hindered by fright. "You could've just fucking said so." 

"Nah." He eyes the glowing tip of his cigarette. "Doesn't quite get the point across."

"You are no better than Levi. You are worse than Levi." 

"Mmhmm. He's never measured up to me." 

"Fuck." You curse at this man's horrific disgrace, the utter disregard that leaves you threatened and appalled. It's a mistake to sympathize with this creep, and you curse yourself for ever getting comfortable with him. "I'm leaving."

"That so? When can I see you again?" He doesn't stop you as you pace under him and to the door. 

"Never. You don't fucking do that to people, asshole." You fling the door open, the wind chimes frantically wailing in the draft. 

"No? Then why does Levi get to?" 

He doesn't get an answer. You're out of the shop and hurrying to the streets, hailing the first taxi you see. 

You throw yourself into the yellow angel that arrives, muttering a quiet good evening to the driver before giving him directions to your apartment. The vehicle takes you away from Kenny, freeing you from the shrouded neighborhood.

In the backseat, you wipe off the tears and blink several times to clear your eyes of the smoke that hugs them. Sighing, you watch the world pass by and wonder just how you've gotten into this situation. 

You've been roped into the lives of two of the most horrific men you've ever met, touching upon some unknown world that isn't intended for you. You're an innocent link to reality for both of them, a connection to the world above that keeps them tethered to humanity. Levi and Kenny are identical to each other, both vicious beasts that torment the helpless inexplicably.

At least Levi apologizes. At least he shows remorse—even if it's fake—and he expresses some concern for his actions and your well-being. He's better than Kenny, by just a bit.

But he's still awful. He's rude and aggressive, borderline abusive, and nothing is able to justify that sort of treatment. 

You hate how firmly Kenny's question has been embedded in your mind. Then why does Levi get to? Why does Levi have the ability to throw you around and get away with nothing more than an apology? You've thought about reporting him, and you still can, but you haven't. You detached yourself from Kenny instantly, but you've continued to persist with Levi for weeks despite his temper. What right has Levi earned that Kenny lacks?

At the base of your apartment, the taxi stops and the electronic terminal separating you and the driver lights up with the price. 

You reach to your side, but your hand just touches the car seat instead of your handbag. Gasping, you stare at the void at your side, a dreadful truth revealing itself. "Fuck."

"Ma'am?" The driver glances back at you, waiting for the customer to complete the transaction.

"Goddammit," you whisper as you search the seat around you. Not the seats nor the floor have your bag, and therefore do not have your wallet. "Damn."

"Everything alright?" The driver's exhausted, but he still tries to maintain some level of cordialness. 

It has to be at the pawn shop. You left too quickly, and now you're absent of a form of payment. 

"I'm...I'm so sorry, sir." You're apologetic without hesitation, completely uncertain of how to handle this. "I left my wallet back there. I'm really sorry."

He scratches his stubble, ill-prepared to help this frantic passenger. "Well, I can drive you back—"

"No," you refuse, more frightened of the shopkeeper than a failure to pay this cab. "I can't go back. I'm sorry." Still, it's your problem to solve since you've turned down his lone solution. You check your pocket and find your phone, grateful you at least kept that in a separate place. "I...I will pay as soon as I get my wallet back. Can—can I leave my number? I'll leave my name too—I'm really sorry—"

"It's alright." He believes your desperation, and he doesn't want to worsen your night any more. "Just give my department a call tomorrow. Here"—he hands you a thin receipt detailing what you owe and his taxi medallion—"is a receipt with all the information. Get it handled soon, or we'll get you connected with law enforcement."

"I will. I promise I will." You clutch the receipt, careful to avoid losing it. "Thank you so much. Seriously, thank you."

"It's nothing." The driver turns forward, generous but fatigued. "Have a good night, ma'am."

"Yeah—you too. Thank you." 

Your walk inside is strangely humiliating, and you can't find any way to occupy your mind for the rest of the night. You're frightened, exhausted, and detached from the world.

The next morning, you sit up after a night of next to no sleep. Your mind is still racing, uncomfortable stress denying you rest. A headache has been tormenting you for hours, your temples throbbing with angry blood. You wince, dropping your skull, and earnestly wish you could just fall asleep right there. 

When you pull your body out of bed, the knots in your stomach don't loosen. Kenny has left a horrible virus in your system, ruining you through mere terror alone. The stress of his encounter coupled with the underlying tension between you and your mentor has festered, culminating in this sick sensation. You feel awful. 

And it makes you feel even worse to pick up your phone and find Levi's contact, but you tell yourself it's for the best. Today will be horrendous if you try to go to Paradis—you won't be able to focus at all, and you're just going to end up a nuisance for Levi. 

The phone rings and, though you mildly wish otherwise, Levi picks up.

"What?"

"Levi," you start, much preferring his name to Kenny's. "I won't be able to come in today. I need to call out sick."

The line is silent for much longer than you want. 

"Sick?" He asks this as though he's completely confused. "You sounded fine yesterday."

"Well, it hit pretty suddenly overnight. I'm sorry." You slump onto your couch, praying he'll quit pestering and accept your absence. 

"You sound fine right now." 

"It—" You clench the phone, irritation blending with agony. "I—I'm just sick. I am. I need—"

"Why do you keep lying to me?" 

More stress blossoms like a venus flytrap, swallowing your mind in painful, painful distress. You don't want to lie to him—not anymore. Kenny has unearthed his own evil, and there's no force able to stop him besides Levi. You feel your throat grow small again, sudden despair flooding through you.

"Please, Levi." You're quiet, out of excuses and simply begging. "I really need to call out today." 

There's silence again, then a nearly inaudible, "Hm." 

"Levi?"

You glance at the screen only to find he's hung up. That dismissal destroys you, eating away at you even more. 

Dropping the phone, you yearn the ground to just swallow you up and give you safety from this aggravating world. Just for a moment. You don't know if Levi's given you permission to skip a day, and you still need to pay the cab, and you need to retrieve your wallet.

You have to go back to the pawn shop. You debate just forgetting the contents and getting a new card, but that feels cowardly and unnecessary.

Just go to the shop. Go in broad daylight, get that bag, and leave. That's all you have to do. 

But the thought terrifies you. Kenny terrifies you. You can still feel his palm on your hand, and the scrape of that hammer's claw seems to be branded onto your neck. That helplessness, that utter vulnerability is something that should never have to be experienced, but he's witnessed it for himself and taken gleeful, disgusting delight in it. 

You wish you didn't have to go alone. You wish you could take some other bodyguard with you—Erwin, or one of the other daunting department heads.

Levi. He's small, but he's the only one that matches Kenny's ferocity. No fear would be felt if Levi was your sword. 

But you can't. You can't endanger any other Paradis faculty, especially not during operating hours, and you still cannot tell Levi about Kenny. The breaking point has been reached, but you still—

The door rattles with a few harsh knocks, startling you. Silently screaming at the visitor to go away, you stay silent on your couch to imitate an empty apartment. 

The knocks pound again, followed by an, "Open up, intern." 

With wide eyes you dart to the door, fueled by either terror or shock. Flinging it open, you stare dumbly at your unexpected mentor, dressed neatly in a pleasant suit that contrasts your nightwear.

"Levi, what're you doing here?" 

"Checking on my intern." He barges past you and into your apartment, already inspecting the space. 

"How...how do you know which unit is mine?" 

"Your shipping address is on your internship papers. I called Erwin and asked for the number on my way here." He drags a hand along your kitchen countertop and tsks at the feeling of some dried stain on the surface. 

"Why did you come here? Don't you have class soon?"

"I cancelled it. The kids are probably rejoicing; it's no big deal." His eyes drift from your old couch to your unkempt bed, the sight disappointing him. "Besides, if I get you convinced soon enough, we can make it back in time for my second class."

"Convinced? No, no, Levi. I'm—"

"Sick. So you keep saying." He turns around, finishing his inspection of the place with its occupant. "But you sound fine, and you look fine." 

You flinch when his hand reaches out to your face, stunned when it simply rests against your forehead. His cold fingers ease your throbbing headache, the touch quite soothing.

"And you feel fine. I really don't think you're sick." He circles his hand to your cheek, feeling for any other epicenters of heat. You're sent quiet, completely broken and confused in his concern and his cool, pleasant touch. 

"I...I need to stay home today." You tuck your head, and his hand follows. 

"Why don't you just stay in my office for a bit?" he offers, but you shake your head. 

"I can't. I'm sorry. Please, can I just stay here?" 

He looks over your expression, then scans your jaw and neck. His index is drawn to your throat, and he traces a perfect line over the scratch from yesterday. It must be visible. "What's going on?" His voice is fiercer, seeping with concern like that of an angry parent.

You swallow thickly, your Adam's apple bobbing under his touch. This is your chance. Right now is when you need to ask him to help you if you want his strength. Just tell him you've been seeing Kenny, and you need to go to his place again one final time. Simple, right?

You remember his hand touching you, and you remember what that hand is capable of. You know how quick he is to anger, and you know that the privacy of this apartment gives him free reign to unleash his aggression. If you admit the extent of your crime, he has no reason to hold back.

His eyes, though, are soft right now. They're watching you intently, waiting for the next reaction or word. He's gone out of his way to check on you, throwing his job aside in favor of your well-being. 

That baffling contradiction of his personality is hard to predict. You don't know if sympathy will spurt, or anger. The burden of your choice just reignites your headache and deters you from taking the risk. 

"I can't say right now." You give up, too intimidated by his temperament to attempt asking for his protection. "I just need to be alone today." 

He sighs, his fingertips drawing a line back up your neck. "Okay," he surrenders, reluctantly stepping away from you. "Keep your phone on you today. Call me if you need anything."

"I...I will. Thank you, Levi." Your eyes are brimming with gratitude and sadness, glad to experience his generosity but still plagued with crushing stress. 

He scans the apartment one more time, his face slowly reverting to that insipid lack of spirit. "And if you're going to spend all day pent up in here, at least clean up. It'll make you feel better." 

"Oh, okay." 

Without a proper goodbye, he turns on his heels and returns to the door, slipping outside with a quick, "Take care of yourself."