The Mercy Threshold

“Bury or not to bury? Bury or not to f*****g bury...” Lucien plucked at the petals of the arnica flower — one by one — like a child playing pretend. “God, this sucks. This sucks.” His voice cracked. His fingers were shaking — but not from the cold. “It’s not like I kill people on a daily basis, f**k… f**k… f**k!” He kicked the body. Not hard. Not in rage. Just… because it was there. Because she wasn’t yelling anymore. Because the silence was worse. “Should I let her rot here? No. Too risky. River? Maybe. No, no, too far, too public…” He was pacing now. Rubbing his head. “Rub everything down. That’s priority. My clothes are here. Hers are… well, torn, whatever, doesn’t matter. Come on, come on, THINK, Lucien, THINK!” He froze. Then grinned. “The old Classroom 36W. Yes. Abandoned. Quiet. Could be anyone. Anyone could’ve done it.” He crouched beside the corpse again, biting his lip, staring into her lifeless eyes. “Annoying piece of s**t… Bratty little b***h…” He forced himself to breathe. “There’s no reason to suspect me. None. Right?” Silence. “…Right?” “f**k it. Suspecting comes later.” Lucien crouched over her limp body. Her arms sprawled out unnaturally. Her skirt bunched. Hair clinging to her face like seaweed on a drowned thing. “Gotta haul her ass to 36W. Gotta move. Now.” He looked at the door. Splintered paint. Rusted hinges. It was a stupid place to kill someone. “Why the f**k did I do it here? In a active classroom? Am I insane?” He kicked over a desk. “Wait. Cameras. No. Today’s the rework. West wing’s dark. That’s why I picked today.” His breath was ragged now, mind stuttering through panic and problem-solving. “Still… other cameras are up. I need to change. I need new clothes. Fast. Fast, fast, fast.” His eyes darted around — then locked on the hallway. “Janitor’s closet.” He ran. Found the key right where the janitor generally keeps it as always. Opened the door, light flickering above. Scrubs. A full set. Blue, dusty, reeking of chemicals. He stripped fast — shoes, socks, shirt soaked in sweat. His old clothes disappeared behind a chemical drum. He scrubbed his hands with a rough rag. Pulled on the oversized scrubs. Mask, gloves, cap. Checked the mirror. “You don’t look like you. That’s good.” He returned. She was still there. Of course she was. “Fat f*****g b***h. Heavy as f**k even after dying. Still making me put in effort.” He grabbed her under the arms. Neck bent. Mouth open. Something sticky on her chin. He didn’t look. Dragged her out. Tile to tile. Foot by foot. “Just a janitor. Hauling a mess. Nothing weird here.” Someone was still in the building. He could feel it — a light on down the hall, a voice, maybe. He paused. Waited. Moved when the noise stopped. The classroom was just a few doors down. Locked. But not for him. CRACK. He smashed the latch with a brick pulled from behind the AC vent. One hit. Two. The lock snapped with a loud, ugly clang. He glanced over his shoulder — hallway still empty. Then he grabbed her by the wrists. Threw in the body. It landed with a wet thump on the dusty wall by the desk. He stood there, panting, eyes wide, hands still trembling under the gloves. Wiped his forehead. Let out a dry, cracked laugh. “Wasn’t that easy... But that ought to do it.”