Page 25 of Shattered In Darkness

The world goes silent. Long enough that if I had a heart, I might hear it breaking. But I don’t. I only feel that quivering emptiness. Maybe hope. Maybe hate.

He drops the badge and lets it land face-up, the logo staring at me.

I say nothing. I want to destroy him. I want to rip the answer straight out of his clever, useless mouth.

“What coverup?” I say it in a flat tone.

He leans back, chair sighing under his spine. He’s not going to tell me.

“Does it matter?” His voice goes loud, then cold again. “You want revenge, you do what I say. You’re not here to question me. You’re here to do work.”

What the fuck is he hiding?

The image of Lola burns in my brain. If she is involved with the death of my mother, I will make sure she suffers. My father seems sure of it. He wouldn’t lie to me. He saved me. Why would he pull me back from shooting myself only to lie?

It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

The dark curls around me, and I slither through it. The need to fall into destruction tugs and tugs like a demonic presence. The need to see her burns through me.

In an effort to calm the storm within me, I rummage through my drawers until I find it. My skull mask. The one that makes me unstoppable. The one that lets me be nothing but hunger, violence, and need.

It’s cold against my face as I pull it on, followed by the gloves. I find the vial, the needle, the tiny spoon. The drugs are a friend, a curse, a necessary step into unreality. The powder melts, the needle slides under the skin. The sting is nothing but the burn is everything. The world softens at the corners, colors leech out, leaving only shapes, shadows, and the pulse under my skin. My heart is a war drum. Thunder rages in my veins. The mask is my true face now.

I stand in front of the mirror. My reflection is a monster, tall and stretched, limbs too long, eyes blacked out. My pulse throbs with my father’s voice in my skull, over and over: Bury it. Channel it. Don’t let grief control you.

Obey.

Obey.

Obey.

Tonight I’m not going to obey. I’m going to take what’s mine.

I move through the night, silent as a shadow. Her house looms ahead, windows dark except for the faint glow of her bedroom. I stalk through yards, slip past fences, boots silent in the wet grass. I pick up a stone and toss it at her window, just to make sure she’s asleep.

No movement.

I climb up to her window. It’s unlocked. She’s careless. Or maybe she wants to be caught.

I slide it up. The air in her room is warm, heavy with the scent of her. The curtains ripple as I slip through, a breeze of shadow and purpose. She’s there. Sprawled on her back, hair wild on the pillow, lips parted, one arm flung across her chest. The moonlight traces her curves, the rise and fall of her breath. She looks peaceful. Too peaceful. Like she never betrayed anyone. Like she never lied.

The mask makes my breathing sound like a storm. I move to the bed and stand over her, staring down like a god, or a demon, or nothing at all. My hands shake. With want. With rage.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the rag. The chloroform-bottle is heavy, glass cold. I soak the rag, watching the liquid seep into the cloth, a black shadow spreading before I press it over her nose and mouth.

She jerks—reflex only. Her arms flail, weak and clumsy, but I lean my full weight across her chest. Her breath comes faster, then slows, then stops fighting.

I count. Fifteen seconds. Eighteen. Twenty-two.

She goes limp.

I hold the rag there a little longer, just to be sure. I want her nowhere near awake for this. I want her lost, floating, as far from herself as I am from reality. My father’s voice echoes in my head, ‘Make it useful. Make it yours.’

Dropping the rag on the floor, my hands shake as I pull the knife from my jacket. The blade shimmers, moonlight caught on steel asI press it to my forearm, just below the elbow and I drag it across, savoring the sting, the bright flare of pain. Blood wells up, thick, dark, glistening. I press the cut to her mouth, painting her lips with my blood. Marking her.

I press my thumb into the wound, then smear a bloody cross over her forehead. My mark. My property. I strip the covers from her body, leaving her bare to the waist. Her nipples are tight, skin chilled. I trace a line of blood down her throat, over her collarbone, between her breasts before slicing my palm, pressing it to her stomach, and leaving a red handprint, sticky and spreading.

She moans, half-conscious, lips parting, eyes flickering under closed lids.