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“What gives them the right to kill such a beautiful soul?” she says, her words choked.
My breath hitches as his body seizes with the first volts of electricity. He heaves a breath, his prominent pecs pressing against his prison jumpsuit, then the greenscreen goes black.
“That’s all I can show,” Lizzie says to the camera, her face streaked with tears. “The rest of the clip is behind a paywall at a website called X-Cite Media. I have to warn you that all their footage is about death. In case anyone is sick enough to watch the full execution, I’ve linked it in my bio.”
“What?” My jaw drops, and I gape as her video loops back to the beginning. “Are you making money from Xero’s execution, you opportunistic old hag?”
I navigate away from The Unofficial Xero fan club and read an article in the New Alderney Times, where the reporter who attended Xero’s execution calls for the end of the death penalty. Her description of his death is so graphic that the phone slips from my fingers and falls to the floor.
“He died alone and in flames,” I read, my voice a trembling whisper. The words sear through my conscience, each syllable a knife. I should have been at his side, filling the last few moments of his life with joy. My mind churns, replaying wasted moments, lost seconds. I could have helped Xero.
Guilt gnaws at my soul, a relentless beast. I imagine his face, twisted in agony, and shame crushes my spirit. He trusted me, and I let him die alone.
My chest burns with resentment. Resentment at myself for getting distracted by those photos of me as a child. Resentment at the police, who took their time getting to the house and spent over an hour interrogating me about being in possession of child porn. Resentment at Xero’s family for treating him and others so horrifically that he was compelled to extinguish their lives.
The phone by my foot buzzes, making me flinch.
Whoever is impersonating Xero is trying to get in touch. I reach down, pick up the phone, and glare at the screen.
Enjoying the show?
My nostrils flare. How did he know I was watching the execution? Is he a hacker?
I don’t reply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response.
He sends a picture of a sex contract I signed that outlined the terms and conditions of my relationship with Xero. In the right-hand corner is my lip print in Purple Damson lipstick.
Fury ignites in my chest, filling my veins with molten fire. I should take this handset to the police and report whoever’s behind the messages for harassment, but I’m overwhelmed by the urge to put him in his place.
He writes:
Was anything between us even real?
My fingers tremble as I type out a reply:
You know what’s more pathetic than a prison guard who brutalizes their charges? One who scavenges a dead man’s possessions to harass his girlfriend.
The phone you’re playing with belongs to Xero’s estate. No matter how much you try to impersonate him, you will never measure up to his greatness.
Three dots appear, and I clench my teeth, waiting to see what he’ll say next. Hopefully, something incriminating, so I can hand the evidence to the police.
You didn’t answer my question.
I scroll back to see what he asked. Reading the question again makes my throat burn with even more guilt at leaving Xero at the altar, mere hours before his execution. Before I can even process the emotion, another message pops up on the screen.
From the way I’m looking at it, you used me for fame.
Without thinking, I tap out a reply:
Stealing Xero’s phone doesn’t make you him, asshole. What I had with Xero was genuine, and I can tell the difference between a real man and a maggot.
Three dots appear, but I’ve had enough of this creep. Before he can type out a message, I pick up a hair pin and jam it into the tiny hole on the side of my phone. When the metal tray pops out, I extract the SIM card and toss it on the nightstand.
“Fuck that dickhead,” I mutter. “He won’t get the satisfaction of driving me crazy.”
I open a drawer and slip the phone inside, determined to leave it there forever. Whoever’s trying to harass me can howl at the fucking moon. I am nobody’s prey.
SEVEN
