The Disguised

It was a brisk January morning.

A typical, brisk January morning.

Business men and women were weaving in and out of crowds outside the doors of the tiny coffee shop, trying to dodge the falling snowflakes.

Meanwhile on a barstool, isolated in the corner of that same coffee shop, sat a tall, young, brunette journalist, slowly stirring sugar into her coffee mug.

Beatrice tugged down the orange knit beanie that perched on her head. She serenely watched the hustle and bustle of the small New York town she grew up in. So many new faces that she didn’t recognize traveled the streets- new faces that she had never seen before.

The isolated village of Cold Springs was basically just one large historic district. The paneling on the buildings continued to peel off every day, while the colors faded lighter and lighter. The antique window shops were adorned with alluring objects that constantly gathered dust and the boutiques were decorated with eloquently dressed mannequins. Friendliness between neighbors and acquaintances was expected, and if someone asked for help, it was given to them.

Although the town itself was quite welcoming, the coffee shop, “Deja Brew,” did not occupy the friendliest people- but that’s how Beatrice liked it. Visitors minded their own business and she minded hers.

Periodically, Beatrice would detect the stench of old mildew entering the café. Because the musty odor was so unbearable, it would force her to bury herself into her work to avoid it. Turning her head to the door, she would watch the figure leave before she popped back out into the open again. Oddly enough, Beatrice never saw the face to this figure.

She never thought much of it, though.

Passers-by filed into the old, rundown coffee shop quite frequently. One by one, they each gave the menu a quick glance, pondered on if they wanted to try something different, and then proceeded on getting the same thing that they got every morning. Fumbling to pull out the extra change in their wallets, they scooted to the side of the counter to wait for their order.

It was the same routine every day.

How did Beatrice know this?

Because she sat in the same old coffee shop herself, cramming for the same old deadlines, sipping the same old unsweetened soy latte every morning.

Just as she was finishing off the last bites of her cinnamon-raisin bagel, the chime of the door let in a frigid breeze. In flew a crumpled newspaper from three weeks before, with a headline so large, Beatrice could easily read it from her seat. The New York Times: MYSTERY GUNMAN KILLS 4 AND INJURES 7 IN RESTAURANT SHOOTING.

Glancing at the newsprint, the large, bolded letters screamed at Beatrice.

She craved a headlining article of her own.

She craved to show the world what she was capable of.

She craved to showcase a piece of work that described something other than the new brand of pepperoni sausage that the pizza parlor down the street was using.

Ironically enough, the pizza parlor that she interviewed was the restaurant ravaged by the mystery gunman three days later.

Lost in thought because of disappointment, Beatrice sat motionless as an intense aura abruptly began to circulate the café. It pulled her away from her thoughts; however, no one else seemed to notice the strange phenomenon.

She shuddered.

What was happening?

She felt her pulse in both her throat and under the grip of the hand holding her coffee mug.

His stale, acrid breath slapped her in the face.

The familiar, pungent scent forced her mind to spin.

The repulsive stench of mildew radiating from his trench coat brought her back in time to three weeks ago when she first noticed the smell entering the cafe.

A gleam of metal shone from the outside of his pocket like a shot of adrenaline to Beatrice’s heart.

She discovered what was happening way sooner than the rest of the coffee shop did.

“What do I do?” She thought.

“I have to get out of here.

I have to find a way to safety.”

But then it was all too late.

Beatrice heard the intense, deafening boom of the handgun.

Once, twice, three times.

And then all went black.