Page 210 of Safe Word

Jerking my chin towards the far corner, I looked at a cracked plastic folder that sat beside an empty syringe. ‘The address is there. Don’t fuck it up.’

He glanced at it. Then at me.

Then he moved, too slow, as if a part of him longed to test my boundaries just to see what would happen.

I almost hoped he would.

He whipped his head towards me, the movement quick enough to disturb the atmosphere.

For a heartbeat, the thought perched there – right on the edge of make-and-break – before he let it drop with a scoff.

‘I don’t know if you’re crazy or just pedantic,’ he said.

I realigned my jaw until it clicked, swallowing the I’m not crazy that used to come so easily – too loudly. That line had stayed behind in another country – buried with the white walls, the priests, the pills that were meant to drown God’s voice. Mother’s rosaries, her whispers – all gone now. Long gone. My parents hated that sentence.

You’re not well.

You need help.

Take the pills, love.

Pills. As if pressed powder could silence the voice of God. As if a chemical could dull His pulse inside my veins.

It was then I’d realised my true calling. It had been through them that I had learnt what could truly hush the voices in my head. Too bad they hadn’t lived long enough to understand it, too.

They were sinners anyway – unrepentant and blind.

So I’d given them to Him. My first offering. Proof of obedience and love.

‘Takes a thorough kind of man to get close to his targets,’ my new employee said, turning now to face me fully – a dark smirk spreading his mouth. ‘And they never even saw you coming.’

‘Take the fucking folder,’ I snapped, sliding my hands into my coat pocket, fingers curling tight around my switchblade. The metal cooled my skin. It was hungry. It always was. But I couldn’t very well feed it with his blood. That would have been desecration.

It was meant for her.

Her blood.

For anointing, not spilling.

He gave a knowing laugh then, as if he thought he could see through me. As though he’d figured out what I planned, what I felt.

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He was just another wretch, crawling through the filth of this world and calling it pleasure.

I watched him long after he left, headlights slicing a crooked path down the cracked, unfinished road. The night swallowed the sound of his engine, but the echo stayed – like a curse half-spoken.

She was mine, but purpose demanded sacrifice. I had to let him touch her. Just enough.

My hands trembled. I rubbed them hard, as if friction could burn the envy out.

The bike waited under the skeletal frame of the building, sleek and black as a grave. She purred when I touched her. So faithful and patient. Such a pretty girl.

There was still time.

One more sin before redemption – one more hymn in steel and blood.