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early2000smovieimagines · 2 months ago

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Meeting David Allen Griffin

(Not my gif) (Requested by anonymous)

(I'll try to get the dating portion of this finished in the near future. I felt like there was too much included in this scenario to put it all in one post anyway. Hope you enjoy!)

“Have you ever noticed that the older you get, the smaller you become?”

- You don’t know the exact moment you started to feel insignificant but it felt as though the minute you turned eighteen, it was magnified sevenfold. Once you got out of high school and you got your license and you started working, you started to realize just how anonymous the rest of the world really was.

- You could pass by hundreds of people a day, and yet, you wouldn’t be able to recall a single one of them off the top of your head. You could sit on a curb for hours and no one would even bother looking your way. If you started crying, no one would ask if you were okay. If you were visibly struggling, they’d look the other way. It all just felt so …lonely.

- Maybe that’s why you started your humble radio show. Maybe a part of you was yearning: yearning to reach out and brave that daunting gap between you and the rest of the fast paced society that was whirling around you. To speak to the people who looked a lot like yourself: like-minded individuals who just wanted to talk to someone who was willing to take the time out of their day to listen; to speak to someone who wanted to make a connection with them regardless of how fleeting that connection may prove to be.

- Anonymity provided the people who called into your show with a sense of protection. They quickly found themselves throwing their inhibitions to the wind, allowing themselves to speak freely and comfortably, to vent their frustrations. Most of them were lonely: happy to speak about anything at all. Some were opinionated and prideful: wanting to talk about their views and passionately debate any point that you brought up that they didn’t agree with. Others were desperate: seeking guidance from another faceless person who tried their best not to judge. You’re not entirely sure where David fell on that list, though perhaps it was somewhere in the middle.

- You worked your radio show late at night which meant that most people weren’t around to listen to it: if you were lucky, you’d get ten or so callers a night, and if you were really lucky, none of them would be perverts. Most of the time, you’d just play music for your listeners or ramble on about relevant facts or whatever else came to mind that could help you pass the time.

- David's calls were a welcome reprieve, a break from all of the prank callers and heavy breathers. You always knew what you were getting into whenever you heard his voice, knew it would never let you down. After a while, you’d begun looking forward to talking to him.

- He didn’t call regularly and the lengths of his conversations always varied; ranging from guest speaking for a couple of minutes to practically becoming a co-host, but you were always more than happy to talk to him. That was, until his calls started taking a darker turn....

“Have you ever thought about hurting someone.”

- The question had thrown you off, your eyes glancing towards the line that connected the two of you. “I think most people have,” You’d answered after a moment or two. “When someone wrongs us I think it’s sort of natural to get upset and want to get even.”

“No, no. Not when you’re wronged. I mean a total stranger. Someone you don’t even know.” Came his reply.

“I can’t say I have David. …Have you?�� He didn’t speak for a moment, the silence feeling much more heavy than the ones you were used to. Finally, he let out an exhale and answered.

“All the time.” The way he said it made you shiver: the way his voice seemed to change, shift into something a little darker, something with more depth than you were capable of understanding.

“Why do you think that is?” You questioned earnestly, intrigued yet wary. David had never behaved like this before, and this slight crack in his facade had managed to fill you with morbid curiosity.

“I don’t know. It’s just always been there. Something in me just wants to do it,” He’d answered, pausing for a long moment before continuing. “What do you think about that?”

- The call ended soon after, and the next call you'd had with him made it seem as though things were back to normal, but after that, there was a noticeable shift in the way that David talked to you. He still spoke about music or the same types of things he’d always brought up, but amongst all of that were conversations about far more morbid topics.

- You wrote it off as an interest in psychology or forensics, sometimes an odd way of wording things while trying to have a deep conversation, but after a while, you couldn’t deny that there was something truly off about your anonymous friend.

- In a matter of months, he’d shifted from talking about bands to telling you about his violent thoughts: about how he’d stalked a woman, about her routine, about how he’d killed her, and about how it felt. You’d let him speak about it for a while, mainly out of morbid curiosity: unsure of whether he was reciting fact or fiction. You’d answered truthfully when he asked questions, you'd pried for more information, tried to pick apart whether he was being truthful or not.

- You went to the police once you were certain, telling them everything you knew, trying your best to recall all of the details he’d told you about himself; things you’d forgotten about as time went on. They’d chosen to tap your radio station, encouraging you to talk to him and try to get as much information out of him as you possibly could without being suspicious: a taxing request which involved listening to some gruesome details that you’d rather not have heard.

“You went to the police, they’re listening in now.” He stated with complete certainty one day. It wasn’t a question and you were sure there was no way of denying it.

“They have my lines tapped. They tried tracing your calls but they can’t link you to any one place,” You’d answered truthfully before hesitantly asking your next question. “Does that make you upset?”

- He took a long pause before he replied. “You’ll have to do more than that to upset me, y/n. You said it yourself: all they’re doing now is listening in like the rest of your audience. They might as well be sat in their cars.”

“I guess you're right. …Is there anything you want to say to them?”

“I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to you. I tried with them, but it didn't work: they didn’t get me like you do. You’re the one who understands me, who sees me. We used to have such great conversations. ...You talk differently now. I liked us better before they got to you.” Us. You weren’t sure how to feel about that one.

- Some days he’d make conversation like normal, tease the police with useless small talk, call just to check in and see how you were doing. Other days he’d spill clues: have the police rush to investigate, have them form a massive swat team just to find another cadaver and get no closer to finding him than they had before. Whenever they tried to talk to him themselves; trying to reason with him or angrily cursing at him in frustration, they’d be met with an empty line or a passive aggressive reminder that he called to talk to you, not them.

“Did you sleep well?” He’d asked one day, curious yet casual.

“I slept fine. Why?”

“No reason. …You just look a little tired lately.”

- The comment made your heart sink, body stiffening in your seat as your eyes shot over to the police man who was stationed in the room with you, finding his eyes already on you. You struggled to respond, your tongue feeling heavy and dry in your mouth as you tried to form words with it. "You've seen me.”

"I see you a lot." He answered, as if it was the easiest thing in the word to admit.

"When?"

"Whenever I can."

"Why?" You couldn't come up with anything else, floundering at this new piece of information.

"Because you're nice to look at." You faltered, unsure of what to say. He hung up after a moment of silence.

- Then came the call that changed everything....

"Hi, it's me." You nearly dropped the phone. Your home phone.

"How do you know my number?"

"I know a lot of things about you.” He answered casually, almost teasing, you could practically hear the smile in his voice.

"Yeah? So what's my roommate's name?" You wanted to call his bluff, wanted to deter him a little with the promise of someone else living in the same house as you— being there to protect you from him if it really came down to it.

“Oh come on, y/n. Really?” You didn’t like the amusement in his tone.

“What is it?” You insisted.

- He paused before speaking, a heavy beat of silence that felt far longer than it actually was. "You don't have one.”

"Why are you calling?" You attempted to steel yourself, trying to keep a level tone and calm your shaking hands.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"We spoke last night." You reminded as if he could have actually forgotten.

"I wanted to speak to you in private." He clarified and it made your chest tighten.

"Why?" You asked, though he ultimately ignored the question.

“You never told me you had a boyfriend. In all our times of talking, you never brought it up.” His voice was more serious now, taking on a sort of grave tone which was rare for him. No longer his chipper, sometimes taunting self.

“I didn’t?” You replied, trying your best to remain calm. Your question wasn’t too far off from what you were thinking: out of all the times you’d spoken; especially before he let his real self shine through, you would have imagined bringing up your significant other at least once.

“No,” He insisted, pausing before continuing. “I don’t really know what you see in him.”

- You’re not sure how to reply, and so you don't, waiting for him to continue, knowing he will. “What does he think of all this?”

“I think you already know.”

“You’re right. He doesn’t like it, though that's when he’s actually around to talk to you. He doesn’t make a lot of time for you, does he? I wonder why he even cares if you continue helping the police, continue talking to me, it’s not like he’s doing much to protect you anyway.”

“He’s a busy guy.” The words feel alien, strange on your tongue. The concept of verbally defending your boyfriend to a serial killer is almost comedic.

“So am I. I still make time for you.”

“Why do you?”

“I’ve told you before.”

“Tell me again.”

“Because we understand each other. Because you were the only person I had, and even while being in a relationship, I was the only person you had too.… Your boyfriend might as well have been a ghost: never there but never fully leaving. He's just a namesake, you’re better off without him. At least then you'll be fully free.”

- You didn't speak for a long moment, taking in his words. “Thank you.” You hesitantly responded.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for being there.” You don’t know why you said it.

“Break up with your boyfriend.” His voice was quiet but there was something deeply commanding in it, something your words seemed to have awakened. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

“Break up with him.” He repeated after a moment of silence.

“I can't do that.”

"Yes you can, you can and you will. Break up with him or I'll get rid of him myself."

“I thought you didn't kill men.”

“I don't, but I'll do it for us. I'll do it just to make sure he's out of your life.”

“Why?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“I want you to say it.”

“Not yet,” He replied, pausing momentarily, hanging onto the silence that formed in both your voices absences, savoring the connection between the two of you. “Goodnight y/n.”

- You don’t tell the police he called. You don’t know why.

- It eats you up inside, and yet, you still can’t bring yourself to do it. You keep it to yourself and let it consume your thoughts, uncertainty riddling your mind. When he asks if you told anyone, you answer truthfully. When he asks if you will, you tell him you won’t. You don’t know why you do.

- He calls you at home in the early mornings. He tells you things he doesn’t say in front of the police: not things that would help them but nothing entirely innocent either. Most of the time he talks about you: about the way you look, about your day, about your connection and the things he likes about you. When he calls into the radio show, he acts as if the calls never take place, as if all the communication you have is inside that room and that you won’t be talking mere hours later while the officers are at the precinct without a clue.

- It becomes obvious that his fascination with you isn't entirely platonic, that he believes there's a deeper connection between the two of you that's brewing beneath the surface. He never outright tells you how he feels, never tells you that he loves you, but he gives you hints. When you break up with your boyfriend, tears falling from your eyes just as the phone begins to ring, he praises you and tells you that it’ll only bring you closer. He can't imagine the inner turmoil that those words bring to you.

"I want to meet you." You tell him one night. Decided.

“We already have.” He replies, referencing the times he's recalled seeing you in person, interacting with you without you even knowing.

“Not like that. I wanna see you. I wanna talk to you.” You insist.

“We’re talking now.”

“I wanna touch you.” The words come out of your mouth as if your voice doesn’t belong to you. It’s late at night, you're lonely, you don’t know why you say it.

- He’s silent for a long moment, and for some reason, you worry that you’ve scared him off, as if that's not something you should pray for and rejoice about.

“How?” He finally speaks and you know right then and there that those words were your golden ticket. His voice is deep with something and it sends a chill down your spine.

“I don’t know," You answer truthfully, faltering. "I just want to feel you, to make sure you’re real, to feel something solid, something that doesn’t disappear.”

“I want you to see me. I think about it all the time.” He comments, taking in your own vulnerable admission and giving one of his own. He trails off for a few moments before he finally speaks again, giving you an address and a time before he hangs up without another word.

- In a moment of clarity, you finally tell the police, feeling as though you’re going insane. You lie about everything else but you give them that, scared of being arrested for keeping away what they might consider crucial information.

- The police swarm the area but they never find him and you return home later that day, shivering with nerves and feeling as though you’re walking the plank; even as the officers with you insist that you’ll be fine and that they’ll be right outside your apartment in case anything were to happen to you.

- You almost expect it when you turn around at the sound of your bedroom door shutting, when you find him standing there, basked in the light of your apartment, far more handsome than you ever could have imagined. He stills under your gaze, shoulders squaring, standing tall as you take him in; seeming almost proud of himself. He doesn’t look particularly angry but his eyes bore into your own— as if he can read every thought you’ve ever had. It’s the most seen you’ve felt in a long time, as if you’re completely naked and vulnerable.

- When he walks closer, you’re certain he’s going to hurt you: that he’s going to kill you and instantly end whatever the two of you had after a taste of your betrayal. Instead, he grabs your face, shushing you as you try to explain why you did what you did, gazing into your eyes for a long moment, watching them shine with tears. All before he leans down and kisses you.

- You don’t know why you kiss back….

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