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[right] [b]Interactions:[/b] Open
[code]The Evergreen Commons Apartment Complex, South Side, Westwood “Jungleland”
Just Another Manic (Midday) Monday [/code][/right][hr]

Paloma had been able to enjoy boiling herself alive for three whole minutes before her shower had been cut short by a sharp sting of icy water accompanied by her own shriek as if someone with a knife had burst through the curtain. She was actually quite fortunate that her landlord provided the entire apartment building with enough hot water to fill up half a tea kettle. Otherwise, Paloma might have scrubbed her skin raw after her messy morning with the doppelganger. It wasn’t like this was the first time washing up after the incident, either. Gideon’s men had given her a more than generous amount of time in the bathroom at the Hollow, and she would’ve kept scouring her skin with wads of brown paper towels if they hadn’t sent someone in to check up on her. 

Paloma wiped a bit of bubbles off of her arm and flicked it towards the drain. She didn’t feel clean. That’s what she had told her doctor the second time she had reopened the wounds on her arms from “overcleaning” them, as if it was possible to make something too clean. It was hard to feel clean with a dirty conscience. She hadn’t seen any pieces of Caleb go down the shower drain but she knew he was now in there, tangled up in the pipes with the cobwebs of hair and soap scum. She owed him something. Did he have a family? Perhaps Paloma should contact them, although how that would help she wasn’t sure. A part of her was well-aware that all she wanted was to be forgiven, but it felt hollow when it was coerced out of someone through the Samaritan. It didn’t make her feel any better. It didn’t shoulder the burden. 

She grabbed a fresh towel off of the rack with a shiver. The hot water had gone so quickly that she didn’t even need to wipe the mirror to see how tired she looked. She had to be back at work tonight, and to not be miserable she had to get some sleep. A tall task now that she had another memory her subconscious or the Samaritan could add into the rolodex whenever they needed a way to keep Paloma from getting on a healthy sleep cycle.  [i]Just care less.[/i] Vin’s advice echoed in her head. Paloma told herself that she would follow those words of wisdom and went to go get some comfy clothes on. 

Ten minutes later and she was back in the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, oversized t-shirt and sweats still a bit damp, with yellow latex gloves pulled halfway up her forearms. She was on her knees next to the tub with a blue bucket packed neatly with scrub brushes and enough cleaning chemicals to turn the entire apartment complex into a reenactment of the Western Front. However, Paloma was an expert. She diligently scrubbed the interior of the shower. The whistle of a kettle began to hum from her kitchen and Paloma hurried off to fetch it, returning with the pot of hot water to flush the chemicals down the drain. 

She returned the kettle, terrified of the idea of setting it down anywhere in the nearly spotless bathroom, and came back with a long, thin, gnarly-looking piece of orange plastic with barbed teeth. What might have once been a piece in a medieval torturer’s toolkit was actually a drain cleaner as she began to fish inside the shower drain. Paloma gagged merely at the thought of what she would pull out, but she wouldn’t be able to sleep until whatever nonexistent Caleb chunks were out of the drain. She ended up cleaning the basin of the tub again after her swabbing of the drain had come up largely empty handed having cleaned it just the week prior, but just to be safe she still poured half a bottle of bleach down the drain after. 

She fixed herself a cup of tea as a reward for paying penance. She might not be able to care less, but now that his remnants were in a black trash bag alongside her ruined sweater and that hand-me-down peacoat  at the bottom of a chute perhaps she could forget. It was an idea quickly disposed of as she added a splash of heavy cream to her tea and the liquid dispersed in a pattern eerie similar to a cracked skull and exposed grey matter. Paloma poured the drink down the drain. Caffeine before bedtime was a bad idea anyway. 

She flopped on her twin-size mattress, cocooned herself inside of the comforter, and stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Everytime Paloma tried to close her eyes the Samaritan would remind Paloma that she had made a promise. This was precious time she should be searching for information. Funny, the thing barely made a peep when she was baking or painting a mini or losing an entire day off falling down a Youtube hole, but the second she tried to sleep that’s when it thought it was an appropriate time to get on her case. It was so annoying sometimes. [i]Pipe down or I’ll have Vin kill ya,[/i] she thought, wondering if they even could, then wondering if they would kill her after. 

Nah, of course they wouldn’t. Right?

Paloma felt her eyes itch with dryness as she watched a bar of golden light that defied her blackout curtain slowly shift its way across the ceiling. 

Right. 

She forced her eyes closed and forced the effervescent images of Room 513 out of her head. They just shifted to Caleb’s melon getting popped. She sat up and the blanket cocoon slumped around her to reveal that the metamorphosis had failed and she was still a frumpy caterpillar in gray sweats. This wasn’t going to work. Maybe she should just quit work. Vin had probably been joking about the job offer, but Paloma could make any crime scene untraceable and she’d probably never have to rinse a bedpan ever again. Gangsters had to make some serious bankroll. 

Counterpoint, Vin lived in the same apartment complex as her. 

Suddenly the life of crime seemed a lot less glamorous. Shouldn’t a killer be getting paid more than someone in a prolonged flirtation with the poverty line? Did career criminals even have health insurance or a dental plan? Was Vin actually even a hardened killer or just some punk tiger trying to act tough? The distracting thoughts  were enough to temporarily reignite her engines and leave the feeling of exhaustion stranded along the side of the turnpike. Paloma kicked herself free of the clinging sheets as she grabbed for her phone. It was all such juicy stuff. She had to know more. 

She scrolled through her contacts until she got to the V’s, her thumb hovering over her newest contact, before she scrolled away. If Vin was some psychopathic thrill killer then wouldn’t it be better to not poke that tigery bear? Paloma’s lip thinned. Maybe she should reach out for a lifeline instead, at the very least to let someone know that she wasn’t planning on taking any sudden trips out of the country and if they hear otherwise to check for her head in the freezer of her neighbor’s fridge. Her finger paused as it hovered over another name. Maybe she was just listening to too many murder podcasts. Vin was a proper gang member and more importantly her minion after all, which meant Paloma had to be protected by some kind of omerta. She scrolled back down, before scrolling back up.

For a minute she debated on who to pester as her finger flicked back and forth like a metronome before making the call to the unlucky winner. It rang.

[color=springgreen]“C’mon, pick up,”[/color] muttered Paloma into the receiver as she paced around her tiny room.  [color=springgreen]“I’m dying here.”[/color]