“Don’t look at me like that.” My words begin as a plea because I can’t bear to look at him like this, but I’m quickly swallowed by the chains of rage. He’s unwavering in the way his puppy dog eyes reach through the anger that courses through me. “I said don’t fucking look at me like that. If I’m going to die, I’m going out on my own terms. I’m not going to go out like your preacher did. I’m not going to get shot in the back of the head when I’m not looking by someone I trust.”
He nods. “You trust me?”
“Maybe I did.” I throw my hands outward. “Doesn’t really fucking matter, now does it? This is why I don’t trust people because nobody knows how to tell the fucking truth.”
“You seem more upset that I didn’t tell you what I did than what I actually did.”
“And tell me, Seven. What did you do?” I approach him, stepping around the hood of the car. “I want to hear you say it.”
He looks me straight in the eyes. “I killed a man.”
I grab him by the throat and throw him onto the hood. It feels much different from any other piece of shit I’ve choked. Somehow, it feels grimy. But once the rage takes hold, I’m no longer in control.
And I fucking hate losing control.
Hate that he squirms beneath my grip, his body fighting against the hood. Hate the way he claws at my hand. Hate there’s nothing he can do to save himself as his throat reddens.
“You’ve been playing me since the jump,” I scream. “My gut instinct was you had the charm of a serial killer. That you could be the next Bundy. Turns out I was right. Is this what you do?”
He gasps. Life teeters on leaving his body and then he’ll be nothing more than another ghost of my past. Another shadow that’ll chase me until the last mile of this dead-end road.
Tears bleed from his eyes, staining apath down flushed cheeks.
My mind goes back to a place I swore I’d never return.
Back to the bathroom in a nightclub so long ago.
Kevin locked the door behind us.
He stood behind me, his breath hot over the nape of my neck.
And he made me watch in the mirror, the crux of his elbow hooked over my throat, as he promised he’d kill me the next time my eyes wandered to the body of another man.
Back when he was strong. Back when I was weak.
After he stormed out of the bathroom, leaving me to collect myself so I didn’t look so fucking pathetic, I whispered myself a solemn vow into the neon-lit mirror—I’d never be responsible for making someone feel the way I felt then.
I’ve broken my promise.
My grip on Seven’s throat loosens as I come to, the rage dissipating back into the ether. And then suddenly, the harsh light of the sun isn’t enough to keep me standing. All the caffeine, all the sunshine, all the adrenaline isn’t enough to keep me upright.
I collapse onto my back beside Seven.
He sits up, gasping for air. He should be running, but perhaps he’s waiting to catch his breath.
“I pushed my husband down the stairs,” I confess quietly. “He’s not dead yet, but he’s living on borrowed time. The cancer will take him soon, but it’s a lotharder to fight the disease when he’s six months deep in a coma. That’s right, I killed a man who’s already dying.”
“We’re all dying,” he says just as quietly.
“Not fast enough.”
“I know I should be running?—”
I knew he knew. He can be irritating at times, but he’s not stupid.
“I know you basically just committed felonious assault,” he continues. “And I know it’s stupid that I don’t care. The truth is you don’t really know me. You have no way of knowing I killed him because it was him or me. You have no way of knowing I suffered at the hands of his ideology for almost two decades. I fought so hard to escape that place and that cult for years, and when I finally managed to get the hell away, he came roaring back, prepared to drag me back to hell with him.” He hops from the hood of the car and spins to face me. “So, I shot him in the head. I know I’m not a good person. I know I’ve done bad things, but…”
He pinches at the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply.
