His warmth was real, which helped pull me from the dark place my mind lingered. The steady rise and fall of his chest was a rhythm I could match. One I could use to calm my own ragged gasps. I buried my face between his shoulder blades and just held on, fingers twisted in his shirt, trying to anchor myself in the present.
Slowly, the nightmare released its grip. My heart rate settled. My breathing evened out. But I didn't let go.
The clock on the nightstand read three forty-five. It would be hours before the alarm went off. Right then, in the dark silence, there was nowhere to hide from the memories the nightmare had brought up.
I'd never told anyone about my childhood. Not the real details, anyway.
People knew I was a freelance killer. They’d assumed I'd grown up rough. The rest were details.
No one needed to know about the foster father who'd used me as a punching bag, or the woman I refused to call mother who'd watched and done nothing.
No one needed to know about the foster system that had shuffled me between homes like a broken toy no one wanted to keep, ignoring the obvious abuse.
No one needed to know that by the time I was twelve, I'd already figured out that violence was the only language that got results.
"I was seven the first time a foster parent broke my arm," I said quietly into the darkness.
Henny went still, his even breaths halting and telling me he’d woken up.
I kept talking before I could stop myself. "He was drunk. I'd spilled juice on his newspaper. Such a small thing. But he grabbed my wrist and twisted until I heard the snap."
The memory was crystal clear and painful.
Henny started to turn over, but I held him in place, kept my face pressed against his back. This was easier if I didn't have to look at him.
“The hospital asked him what happened. He told them I’d been goofing around and fell. They didn’t ask questions after that. Just set the bone, gave me a lollipop, sent me home." I laughed bitterly. "That was the first time. Not the last."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of what I was revealing. I'd killed people, had done terrible things without flinching, but this felt more exposing than anything else I’d experienced.
"Eventually the state took me away. Put me in a new home." My fingers tightened in Henny's shirt. "I went through six more in three years. Some were okay. Some were worse than the first. All of them made it clear I was temporary. A paycheck with a behavior problem."
Henny's hand came up to cover mine where it gripped his shirt. The touch was grounding. It reminded me of where I was. OfwhoI was.
"The last home had a son. Seventeen and angry at the world. He liked to pick on the foster kids." The words came easier now, like a dam breaking. "Started with small things. Hiding my clothes, breaking my stuff. Then escalated. Pushing, hitting when his parents weren't looking. Making sure I knew how fucking worthless I was."
I could still remember the rage that had built inside me during those months. It had nowhere to go. Nothing seemed to make it better.
"One day he cornered me in the garage. Said he was going to teach me my place. There was a wrench on the workbench. I grabbed it and hit him. Kept hitting him until he stopped moving."
Henny's breathing had changed, but he didn't pull away.
"He lived," I added. "Fractured skull, broken jaw, three cracked ribs.”
"Pip," Henny said quietly, but I wasn't done.
"I ran away before they could lock me up. Met people who taught me that violence could be useful. That the thing everyone said was wrong with me, that rage and lack of fear, could actually be valuable. Profitable." I finally loosened my grip on his shirt.
My past wasn’t pretty. Sharing this side of me could change how Henny saw me. It could send him running to know how deep my issues were.
Then again, he’d been putting up with my chaos just fine. He never seemed bothered when I made things more difficult or bloody than they had to be.
"After everything, you became an assassin," Henny said.
"Became someone who mattered,” I corrected. "My whole life, I'd been disposable. Something to be thrown away when I became inconvenient. But as a killer? People needed me. They paid me damn good money. They respected what I could do, even if they feared it."
I took a deep breath. The truth of my confession settled over me.
"And the best part? The absolute best part? I was good at it. Better than good. Exceptional. I was Pip, the assassin no one could match. Look out assholes. Pip is ready to smash your head in."
