The Secrets of Their Souls

The metal was cool against my skin. I ran my thumb across the single bevel edge, testing the sharpness of my weapon of choice. I took my time; there was no hurry. My lingering heightened his anticipation and I fed on his fear. I surveyed the dusty, pale-cream ruins enclosing us. What had this building been built for? Most certainly not for the human slaughterhouse that it had become. Regardless, I liked it here. It was quiet and it was safe—for me that was, not for him. There was no one around for miles to hear him scream. Not that this one was a screamer; no, this one was brave, determined to die with dignity and I respected him for that. I couldn’t stand the ones who begged and whined. It was pathetic.

I looked across at my target, tied to a Doric column. He sat motionless, his eyes closed, his breathing short and agitated. He was quite a handsome fellow with long brown hair, a rectangular shaped face and sharp cheekbones that hollowed out underneath. I didn’t know what he had done to deserve an early death—we never did, and it didn’t matter—our job was to terminate and I never failed. I always got the job done.

I had delayed it long enough. I walked toward him, my footsteps audible on the rubble floor and my gown billowed in my wake. His body reflexively tightened but he didn’t speak nor did he open his eyes. He didn’t want to see his own death.

“It’s time,” I said as I held my knife against the delicate, pulsating skin of his neck. I would make it quick for him because he deserved it. In one precise, slicing motion, I ran the knife from jugular to jugular, watching as his skin parted and blood-red ribbons streamed down his chest. A deep, guttural, choking noise emanated as he took his final breath. The job was done.

1:11 a.m.

The neon numbers cast a creepy gloom across the walls, and Zahra Foster curled the bed sheet up under her chin. Another dream, another nightmare, another night of torture. But these weren’t ordinary dreams; they were so lucid, so assaulting on her senses that she wondered how she was able to conceive such experiences if she had not actually had them before. If Zahra’s mind was able to dream so violently, what did that make her capable of? Awake or asleep, it was still the same mind.

Her body was slick with cold sweat and she shivered in her normally warm bed. She knew from past experience that any further sleep would be impossible, so she threw back the covers and walked soundlessly to the adjoining bathroom. When Zahra turned on the light and looked into the mirror wide, frightened green eyes stared back at her; eyes not yet fully recovered from what they had just seen. Zahra swept her caramel highlighted locks away from her heart-shaped face and held them all back with one hand. Her mother’s Persian heritage had blessed her with thick, L'Oréal-worthy locks, and her father, born and raised in America, had given her the gift of a tall, slender body.

Zahra reached for the metal tap and leaned forward to cup the cold water into her hands, splashing it over her fevered skin. Her weak legs trembled beneath her so she held on to the porcelain basin, her gaze focused on the flowing water as it swirled in circular patterns before giving up the fight and succumbing to the drain. If only it were that easy to wash away the lingering emotions that were making her stomach heave, she thought.

Prying her sweat-soaked pajamas off and tossing them aside, she pulled on the first soft cotton tee that her hands rested on and a pair of lace panties. In the darkness, she walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. Zahra turned on the kettle and waited impatiently for the little bubbles of water to bounce before hitting the boiling point. Careful not to splash the contents of her mug, Zahra gently sat down on the red velvet window seat. The city lights twinkled against the black depths of darkness but she sat there motionless, her mind consumed with thoughts of the girl from her dream. Why did she perform such vile acts? Was she born a monster or was she a product of her environment? Zahra concluded the latter—the universe would surely not give birth to such a lamentable creation. But then the girl wasn’t even real, was she? She was a girl in her dreams, nothing more.
The devil is inside my mind
, Zahra thought, and that was possibly the most terrifying thought of all.

Hot sips did little to warm her; she felt cold, right to her bones. The window gave a ceremonious sigh as she wound it open and invited in the warm Manhattan night. The air felt pleasant on her skin and the vital street noise below made her feel less alone: she wasn’t the only one awake, tormented by the night. Seven floors below she could see a young man walking his brown Labrador—a sight that might seem strange at two in the morning in any other city, but not in the one that never sleeps. A couple doors down, a white moving van was parked, half on the sidewalk, as two men heaved a lifetime of possessions in a perfectly synchronized choreography of squats, lifts and tilts. As she always did during these early morning hours, she wondered what these people’s lives were like. Were they happy? What did they do? Did they have family? Did they have a lover? Or lovers? She would never know, of course, but the questions always found their way into her mind. For hours she sat wide awake, waiting for the morning to come and banish the night, taking with it the remnants of her dream.

“Za Za?” Jemma’s voice sounded through the silent apartment.

“In the study,” Zahra called out as she glanced at her desk clock: 4:15 p.m. Through trial and error, Zahra had found two ways of dealing with the horrors of her nightmares: long runs on the treadmill, and work. Today she had only left her desk once, and that was for coffee.

Jemma’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, each one a little louder as she neared the second bedroom, which had been converted into an office. Zahra’s apartment did technically have a ‘study’ but she personally didn’t classify a claustrophobic and far-from-inspiring hole in the wall, one not much larger than a closet, as a study.

“Good afternoon, Za Za,” Jemma said as she encircled Zahra in a tight, warm hug. Jemma was her younger sister and the person she loved most in this world. And, despite the small age gap of two years, she still insisted on calling Zahra by her childhood nickname. Zahra returned Jemma’s embrace and let her calm, loving energy settle her still fragile nerves.

“What are you working on?” Jemma sat on the corner of Zahra’s desk and her legs dangled while her eyes scanned the contents sprawled across the black, glossy workspace. Other than Jemma’s blue eyes, the sisters looked so alike they could almost be mistaken for twins.

“I’m finalizing my presentation for tomorrow’s board meeting. Mr. Tohmatsu will be gracing us with his presence…” Her tone bore a hint of a mocking sneer—one that Jemma did not miss.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her eyebrows raised, her full lips twitching up at the corners.

“Oh come on, he’s a trust-fund baby running daddy’s company.” Zahra leaned back in her chair, using her tiptoes to rock it back and forth gently.

Jemma shot her a look suggesting that her comment wasn’t very nice, and it wasn’t, but that didn’t bother Zahra; the truth hurts.

“Your judgmental attitude is not your best quality.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Zahra rolled her eyes. “He is barely thirty years old and is vice president of a global company.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe… but not every rich guy is a trust-fund baby. Some actually work hard for their money.” Jemma’s attention moved on from their conversation to the dark shadows that were shining brilliantly beneath Zahra’s eyes. “Why do you look so tired, Za Za?”

Zahra cringed internally, she should have used concealer to destroy the evidence of last night’s dealings. “I didn’t sleep well,” she replied.

Trying to act casual, Zahra pushed the chair back as she stood up and walked toward the kitchen—a vain attempt to change the conversation with a change of location. She could tell Jemma about the dreams, because she could tell her anything, but she chose not to. Zahra was worried that if she spoke the words aloud, it would be an admission of sorts, of guilt for the horrendous crimes she had witnessed.

Jemma took a seat on the Perspex barstool and watched Zahra carefully as she extracted dinner ingredients from the refrigerator. Leaning forward onto the countertop, Jemma rested her chin in her hands, her white painted nails tapping on her cheeks in a methodical rhythm, one after the other. “Why do you keep having these dreams? They’re becoming more frequent, aren’t they?”

The dreams had started a few years prior; before that, Zahra didn’t dream at all—not that she could recall anyway. And then the dreams began. At first they came irregularly, every few months perhaps. Then it was monthly, then weekly, and now—if she was lucky—just twice per week. If she was unlucky, she could be perennially assaulted every other night.

“They’re just dreams, Jemma, nothing to worry about.” That was a lie, and she hated to lie, especially to her sister. One little lie had the ability to morph into full-blown denial, and she was walking that fine line now.

“Maybe you should see someone about them, or…” She paused. “Perhaps, you should just get a life and do something other than work. You know, spice things up a little, Za Za,” she finished, wiggling her perfectly groomed brows. She’d always had a thing about her eyebrows, plucking and preening them daily, using a pencil to complete their flawless form.

“I don’t need a life, I’m trying to build a career.”

“You might not be a trust-fund baby running daddy’s company,” she said as she poked her tongue out, “but, you are twenty-nine and the lead interior designer for Mason Corp. A job which you were head-hunted for. I think your career is doing just fine.”

Mason Corp. was Manhattan’s premier property developer specializing in residential apartments of the luxurious kind. The kind you see on TV that set off fireballs of envy in your chest, the kind you stick on your vision board, the kind that Beyoncé lived in.

Jemma, too, was a valued member of the Mason Corp. team, joining the finance division six months ago. Zahra thought punching numbers and losing yourself in spreadsheets all day long seemed like a special kind of hell. Jemma, however, found boundless pleasure in her arithmetical love affair.

Mason Corp. had recently been sold to a Japanese-owned company, Tohmatsu Ltd. Enter Mr. Jayce Tohmatsu. Tomorrow would be his first day as director and it had the nerves of all managers and board members ablaze. They knew little about him and even less about his management style, but, if he didn’t get the job purely because it was daddy’s company, then he earned the position via ruthless means. Both were frightening scenarios, both conveyed that he was an asshole.

Regardless of the fact that the Foster sisters worked for the same company, long hours, demanding board directors, and non-negotiable project deadlines ensured that very little bonding occurred at Mason. Instead, they bonded over food. Sunday dinner at Zahra’s apartment was an unfailing ritual; sometimes it was just for two, other times friends and boyfriends—if they existed—joined the table. Either way, the late afternoon hours were spent cooking, eating and grooving to soulful house music while the Manhattan sunset beamed in vibrant orange hues in an epic show of splendor.

“So, are you going to take up my suggestion?” Jemma asked.

“Huh?”

“To get a life, Za Za…”

Lost in her thoughts, she had forgotten all about Jemma’s polite suggestion. “No. Let’s talk about your life instead. How was Bee’s party last night?” It was easy to distract Jemma, and Zahra listened as she prepared dinner—she was a well-practiced multitasker.

“Fun! But my head is still hurting,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Some parts are a little hazy… but there were cute boys, great music and a never ending supply of cocktails. Good ol’ Bee sure knows how to throw a party.”

Cute boys?
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Zahra questioned, unable to keep up with her sister’s love life.

“No, not really. I do like Carey but I’m not sure he’s relationship material.”

Zahra raised her eyebrows, interested to know exactly what her sister classified as relationship material. Ambition didn’t appear to be high on the list, neither did a good career—both of which were non-negotiable if Zahra was ever interested in having a boyfriend. Past relationships told her it was more effort than it was worth.

“He’s a bit boring, so I don’t think I could spend a whole weekend with him. I mean, what would we do? We would be fast out of things to talk about, that’s for sure. We’d just have to have sex all day and night,” she said, immediately seeming to realize that might not be such a bad thing.

Laughing, Zahra shook her head and continued prepping dinner. Jemma was entertaining but it wasn’t enough to distract her mind completely—her nerves were fluttering and, deep in the pit of her stomach, there was a feeling of foreboding that she just couldn’t get rid of.

The design concepts were a daring fusion of exotic and classic elements, destined to allure the buyer into mortgaging their life away. Playing with the multi-layered gold chain draped around her neck, she looked over the design boards once more, confirming she had every swatch and sample she needed—Zahra hated being caught unprepared. Standing in front of the gold-framed mirror, she fixed her hair, taming the loosely curled strands that framed her face. The remaining locks were pulled together in a messy ponytail; one that looked like it was accomplished in two seconds but, unfortunately, required much more time.