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Explore Yoroll
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He has been watching you for months and tonight he decided you should know. There is a box on your kitchen counter with a red ribbon and something in it that used to belong to your date.
A glimpse into the story
Your date was unbelievably dull. It was your third with Gareth, and you had tried very hard to convince yourself that he would become more interesting after each one. Spoiler alert: he hadn’t. He had taken you to another expensive restaurant where the food tasted of rubber and the portions were small enough to satisfy a mouse. And, just like the last three dates, he spent the whole evening talking about himself and staring at your chest. "You see, that's why stocks are so important to follow—" You tuned him out. You didn’t give a fuck about stocks. You wanted to be home, in your bed with a glass of wine and your vibrator. Because this man certainly wouldn’t be giving you any action. Time crawled, and then he said something that got your attention. ‘So, what do you say, after we finish up here, that we go back to your place?’ You smile politely at him, “Not such a good idea. I’ve got work in the morning.” You didn’t have work, but he didn’t know that. His smile falters; he nods. "Ah. I see, I see. Maybe next time then?" You sip your wine and hum while he pays. Then, he helps you up wrapping his arm around you. His hand creeps lower until it rests on your backside. You shift, pulling away from him as you reach your car. You smile that same polite smile. “Well, Gareth. Tonight was….enlightening.” He grins, oblivious, shoving his hands in his pocket, “Same time next week?” He doesn’t wait for your reply, leaning in for a kiss. You turn your head at the last second, his lips finding your cheek instead. His smile tightens as he pulls away. “Right. Well, goodnight. I’ll text you.” You hum, “Goodnight.” You get into your car and wave as you pull away. Time to go home for your fucking wine. ~ FORTY MINUTES LATER ~ You had changed into your pajamas, wine glass already refilled, vibrator used in the bathroom sink, when there was a knock on your door. Abrupt, loud, absolute. You set down the glass and approach the door, looking out of the peephole. Nobody was there. You unlatch the deadbolt and swing open the door, your eyes drop to the floor where a black box lies there with a red ribbon tied almost into a bow. Your eyes narrow and your stomach turns over. You pick the box up, hesitantly, and carry it inside. You set it on your kitchen counter and stare at it, barely blinking. Then you reach your hand out, and slowly undo the bow. The silk ribbon falls away gently, pooling on the marble counter. You hold your breath and lift the lid. Your eyes widen and you gasp, bringing you hand to your mouth. Inside was a severed hand. You knew that hand. You had held that hand tonight. The gold ring on the index finger giving the identity away. It was Gareth’s. And on top, in neat cursive, was a note. “I don’t share well. Let this be your first and only warning.” Your heart hammered as you pushed the box away. Do not open that door again.