Well, I guess we’re not mincing words tonight. “Everything just felt so fucking hopeless. You saw what sort of situation I was in. My husband had promised me a beautiful life so long ago, and I got stuck with him after he slowly isolated me from everyone and everything else. I had tried to leave once and go to a shelter, but he found me, and he hurt me so badly that I couldn’t risk trying to leave and getting caught again. It’s hard enough to leave a relationship like that in any normal circumstance, but it’s even harder when the man you’re trying to leave holds so much power and influence. I’d already been struggling with depression for years, and it just got worse and worse until I hit my breaking point.”
“And what about now?” He asks. “Do you still feel that way?”
I pause for a moment to consider my words. “No. I do think there will always be that little bit of darkness—it’s not something that simply goes away—but I don’t feel as crushed by the weight of it as I did before. It’s like a fog now that comes and goes rather than a brick wall. Life feels possible again.”
“It sounds like you’ve been dealt a bad hand in life, but I genuinely hope it’s an upward trajectory from here. It is an act of rebellion and strength to continue living in a world so intent on knocking you down.”
“Who do you target when you take lives?” I ask, because I’m suddenly desperate to change the subject and suppress the tears welling in my eyes. The topic of murder feels like the most obvious juxtaposition to the raw emotion overwhelming me.
“For a long time, I had the same sort of vengeful streak you seem to be on,” he says with a low chuckle. “Killingpeople who had done such vile things that I thought the world would be better off without them.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’ve slowed down on it a lot since I accumulated so many years of life in my earlier days. It’s only about once a year, and it’s rarely something I plan. I suppose I just have the tendency to gravitate toward death.”
His response makes me wonder if there’s sort of supernatural pull there, that maybe he’s drawn to death—was drawn tome—in some wild twist of fate.
We’re both silent for a long time before I say, “You didn’t have to trick me into a deal with you. I would have come with you and stayed willingly.”
He hesitates, opening his mouth as if there’s something he wants to say but can’t find the right words. But he says nothing. He simply moves to join me on the couch, pulls my body close to his, and wraps me in his arms, though there’s a tension tightening his muscles.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs.
Despite my reluctance to get close to him, I lean into his side and rest my head on his chest. I shouldn’t be allowing myself this sort of vulnerability around him. I keep telling myself the same thing—that I need to keep my walls up—but he seems to break them down so easily. My eyes close as I soak in the heat of his body and ground myself in the steady rhythm of his slow breaths.
And for a moment, I can pretend like everything is alright. Like this is a life I chose, one where I’m safe and content and loved. Nothing exists outside the two of us in this quiet, cozy cabin.
Ambrose’s tension slowly dissipates before he lifts his hand and absentmindedly runs his fingers through my hair,and the gentle gesture almost brings tears to my eyes. If only this was more than a fleeting moment; if only this was real…
It won’t last, and I know that, but pretending I chose this makes it hurt just a little bit less.
CHAPTER 30
I’ve started thinking bigger lately. Not just about my own existence on this planet, but about how I can fulfill my lifelong goal of making the world a better place. Ironically enough, I’ve managed to work toward that goal through this deal I’ve made with Ambrose.
Killing men who make people’s lives worse might be a controversial way to make the world a better place, but it makes sense to me. If one person is terrible enough to cause so much pain and suffering, their erasure from this earth will prevent any future misdeeds, rights? The guilt I’ve felt after killing both the bartender and the pastor are outweighed by the satisfaction of knowing they won’t cause harm to any more people.
But like I said, I’ve been thinking bigger…
The bartender and the pastor were a good start as victims. The bartender hurt women in the community; the pastor took advantage of the elderly. Now, after hours of research on my tablet, I have my next target: a slimy politician who intentionally and systemically harms entire communities. It’s not like killing one (or even ten) of them will makea difference in the political climate—they’re like cockroaches, where even when one gets squished, there are ten more lurking in the dark—but it’ll at least cause panic and fear in those similar to him, wondering if they’re next.
I’ve been doing my research over the past week to figure out what Edward Abbot does in and out of office. The words on my screen blur together as I scroll through yet another article about Senator Abbott’s latest proposed legislation. My head throbs with a mixture of rage and disgust as I read his quotes, each one more callous than the last.
“Most claims of mental illness are simply excuses made by those who would rather stay home and take advantage of government handouts,” he proclaimed at a recent rally. “These people don't need government handouts or crisis hotlines. They need to get off their couches and do some hard work like the rest of us.”
The ignorance of his statement makes me want to scream. Mental health has only worsened over the recent years, but instead of looking for the true cause of this crisis, people like him turn those who are suffering into the enemy.
It’s so fucking predictable. Men like him control the masses by placing blame for society’s issues on a small or struggling portion of the population rather than trying to do something about it. It’s easier to turn people against each other than it is to make systemic change, and that’s exactly what they count on.
In another tab on my tablet, his latest budget proposal is open. The numbers are bleak. Millions slashed from mental health programs, addiction treatment centers closed, crisis intervention services gutted. All while he preaches about society’s “lack of discipline” from his ivory tower, his own pockets lined with “donations” from pharmaceutical companies and private prison contractors.
“The weak-minded are destroying our country,” reads another quote, this one from a committee hearing where he argued against funding for psychiatric care in low-income communities. My fingers tighten around my mug of now-cold coffee as I imagine them wrapping around his throat instead.
The more I dig, the deeper the corruption goes. Campaign contributions from companies that profit from human suffering. Backdoor deals that funnel money away from social services and into private enterprises. All while he stands at podiums, condemning those who are suffering as morally deficient.
My research shows he'll be speaking at a rally next week four hours from here. Security will probably be tight, but men like him always have weak spots. Their arrogance makes them careless, and their sense of superiority blinds them to danger. I've learned that much from my previous kills.
This one needs to be different though, more meaningful. His death needs to send a message to others like him, make them feel the fear they so casually inflict on others. Make them understand that their actions have consequences.
