We don’t go back there anymore


Hot; the weather that is. Samantha looked great too, but Alexio never liked the heat and that started to grab his attention more. More so than his girlfriend, for whom he had been with for four years now; or the road, to which he hadn’t paid any attention since pulling out of his driveway. They were on their way to dinner at their usual Teriyaki take-out place that was only a few minutes away. They cruised down the Northern California coastline lazily. The traffic light ahead of them changed to a weak orange-yellow and finally a low red. A banged up, rusty pick-up truck crossed the street in front of his car. Its taillights were obscenely bright; brand new it seemed. A powerful red glare that sported a shade of orange. It was ominous, but strangely mesmerizing. Alexio pivoted his head forward and let off the brakes, his expression still somewhat confused.

The neon sign of the Teriyaki joint came into view. The bright red and blue “OPEN” sign grew more luminous as they approached. He eased the car into a parking space near the front of the building and pulled the keys from the ignition.

They opened the door to a fresh greeting of cool, conditioned air and the salty aroma of soy sauce. The hostess recognized them by face and smiled courteously; directing them to their table. The woman scrawled their order down and brought them each a glass of water. She left them and headed for the kitchen, pushing aside the thin jade curtain that sufficed for the kitchen doorway. Samantha pulled out her phone and began tapping away at it. Alexio’s eyes got heavy and shut for a few minutes, listening to the clack of Sam’s phone and the occasional voice from the kitchen across the room.
Alexio’s eyes cracked open ever so slightly, the hostess was still in the back room and it sounded like she was frustrated with someone. She wasn’t speaking English so he couldn’t tell what was being said exactly, but her shrill tone needed no translation. Both he and Sam jumped in their seats as a sharp clang shot its way out of the kitchen into the rest of the building. The noise pierced through the room and left a short ringing in Alexio’s ears. The yelling had stopped.
Sam looked upward from her phone, startled. She seemed concerned for a few seconds but resumed messing with the device. Ears still ringing, Alexio glanced at the green curtain that covered the kitchen opening just in time to see in flutter into motion. Another noise, this one sounded more like a metal door closing. The curtain pushed open fully this time.

Alexio slid to the edge of the booth and inched himself ever closer, spotting the stained corner of what he thought to be their stove. He squinted, attempting to make the image clearer, and noticed the dark red color of the large spill. As he leaned, Alexio saw that the floor was coated in the same material.

He finally stood up and hypnotically shuffled over to the mess. His pulse began to race from the anticipation. Alexio stopped completely, his mouth wide open and his hands trembling, he fixed his eyes on the cause of the red substance all over the floor. The hostess, her imploded head laying in a pasty heap of wet blood, bone, and her dark black hair. Pink mounds of what he assumed to be her brain splashed across the reflective surface of the stove. One of her eyes was still attached at the cord to what was left its respective socket.

Alexio gagged and became very dizzy, trying to move. A small square protrusion pulled his eye towards the end of the narrow kitchen. Alexio dragged his feet ever so cautiously through the puddle of blood on the floor and focused on the tiny black door.

He began to piece things together. It was a thick looking safe bolted to the wall. He crouched to look inside its dark walls. The safe was barren; void of dust, let alone valuables. He didn’t touch any part of the safe but merely stood up and turned around.
His arm twitched as a tiny draft of wind brushed his hand. He spun towards the back of the kitchen and saw the back door. He clumsily moved to the cracked exit and threw it open fully. The ground was littered with starch white bags of trash. The perfectly usable dumpster they were scattered before was still protruding at the lid, a prominent lump visible from where he was standing. Alexio tossed the rubber top open with one hand and recoiled, nearly falling to the ground. It was the chef, his clean white apron coated in blood. He had been stabbed; once in his stomach an inch above his bellybutton, the other through the middle of his neatly sewn breast pocket.
A screech of tires wailed its way through the valley and caught Alexio off guard. He ran to the edge of the street and looked down the road for the sound. In the distance, he saw the glow of a pair of taillights. Even with how far away they were, they were obscenely bright. A powerful red glare that sported a shade of orange. It was ominous, but strangely mesmerizing. Alexio fell to his knees feeling sick to his stomach, the heat grabbing him once more.