Like I want to destroy the world. To burn it all down. To push the eyeballs of whoever is making her suffer, into the back of his skull, then rip out his heart through his chest, and crush it in my hands.
To jump from the tallest mountain in the Catskills, because I knowI’mthe one making her suffer.
No. She deserves it. She fucking deserves it.
She deserves death, but I won’t give it to her. Death would be too merciful for a fucking traitor like her.
I’m going to chain her to me for life. I’m going to fuckingkeepher.
Two hours tick on, and at last the sobs subside and she falls into an uneasy sleep. I hesitate, my hand on the door handle. I want to look at her, inhale her so bad my throat aches.
Inhale all of her. Open her legs and bury my face in her. Drink in her musky sweetness, lap my tongue across her folds. Bring her pleasure.
But only when she’s asleep. When she’s awake, she’ll know nothing but pain.
No, she’s too light a sleeper. She’ll wake up. And even if she didn’t, she’d find pleasure in her dreams.
No pleasure from me. Never again.
But I can’t take it. Creeping out of my hiding place, I reach her bedside in two steps. I gaze at her, and try as I might to keep it, my anger melts, if only momentarily. She’s more stunning even than I remember. Her glossy black hair is tangled around her face, and her pale skin seems to shimmer in the soft glow of the moonlight. Her dark eyelids tremble, and I wonder what she’s dreaming of. She moans and turns her face toward me, and I can’t help but reach a hand out and drag my fingers over her tear-stained cheeks, wiping away the wetness. I was worried about waking her, about having her see this weak, pitiful side ofme, when all I want her to see in me from now on is danger and suffering. But I was wrong to worry. My stroking fingers seem to bring her into a deeper, more peaceful sleep. My throat clenches as I remember how my touch always used to soothe her.
But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to make her stay. She ran from me. She thought she could escape.
Well, I’ll show her running. I’ll make her run for her fucking life.
I try as hard as I can to access my anger. It’s futile. I slip my fingers into my mouth and taste the saltiness of her sorrow. She’s mine, all of her. Her soft beauty, the voice she hasn’t used in all these months, this sadness that I can’t understand.
Yes, sadness. Not fear.
She should have been terrified of the devil carved into Bill Henson’s forehead. She should have taken it as a sign of her damnation. And I thought she had, when she closed all the windows. Maybe she was sad, for a little while. But now, all fear has vanished, replaced by this strange, incomprehensible sadness.
It’s almost like she’s struggling under the weight of a broken heart. It can’t be because of me. She left me. Anger surges up as I realize this means she must have found someone else. Maybe she fell in love. I want to strangle her. I want to fucking strangle her.
I put a hand to her throat and squeeze it, just enough to feel the feeble lifeforce beat within. It’s intoxicating to realize that I could crush it with just my thumb. Stomp it out. She could stay in those dreams of hers permanently. She’d never even know.
It would be a merciful end for someone who deserves no mercy.
But then, that very same thumb is all it would take to protect her. To keep her.
She’s so small, so fragile.
I know she killed two men. She might have fooled the FBI, might have fooled a lot of people with the way she viciously stabbed her own father and the Feds guy.
But I know the real her.
Poor, scared, breakable little Seraphina.
Lying, cruel, traitorous little Seraphina.
Mine.
My anger at her dissolves again as she takes a deep breath, her heartbeat slowing against my thumb, as if my touch, no matter how tinged with darkness, is enough to lull her into the kind of sleep she clearly hasn’t gotten in months, given the dark circles under her eyes.
And then, the anger forms again, but this time, it’s directed at the object of her heartbreak.
Did someone else hurt her? If so, I’ll cut the fucker up into little pieces and throw them to the stray dogs I saw on my way up to this desolate town.
I begin once more to stroke her, tensing as she moves slightly, the thin blanket sliding away from her. I’ll have to remember to buy her a thicker one. She must be freezing in this cold night air.
