Page 204
“There was a mugger, in Central Park.” I shrug. “He was going to hurt my mom, so I just…did it.”
“How old were you with the mugger?” she says softly.
“Eleven.”
Her hand tightens in mine.
“Anyway, there was this serial killer at large in the city. The papers were calling him Dr. Bathory…Doctor because the notes he left police were scrawled in messy handwriting, like a doctor's. And Bathory—”
“I remember this story,” she frowns. “The guy who was bathing in blood?”
I nod. “Yeah. He’d bleed out his victims and then take a fucking bath in it.” I exhale. “Anyway, I tracked him down and eventually found him.” I laugh coldly. “Motherfucker really was a doctor…a plastic surgeon on the Upper East Side. I found his lair, this big underground space underneath his clinic that used to be a chemical plant. He had all these big vats with catwalks over them…”
Bella winces, and I chuckle.
“Bringing back any Carl Bigsby memories?”
She smiles wryly.
“Anyway, long story short, we got into a scuffle on the catwalk. I cut his throat, but he grabbed me as he tumbled over the edge and we both fell into one of the vats of blood.”
Bella’s face pales.
“Human blood,” I add in a voice that sounds like it's coming from outside my body. “There was all this tubing and pump apparatus at the bottom, and my foot got stuck in it.”
“Jesus, Dame…”
Her arms encircle me, hugging me fiercely.
"It was so thick,” I say quietly. “It was in my nose, my mouth, my eyes…I couldn't tell which way was up or down, and I remember thinking that I was going to drown in it and no one would ever find me.”
The room is dead silent.
“When I finally freed my foot and crawled out, I got myself home, ran the shower, and just started scrubbing. I scrubbed until my skin bled. Then I did the same thing the next night, and the one after that. I eventually figured out how to do it without making my skin bleed. But…” I huff out a breath that isn't quite a laugh. "I guess I never really stopped.”
Without a word, Bella climbs into my lap and faces me as she wraps her arms around my neck.
"I am fucking weird, baby," I murmur. "I'm wound so fucking tight that I weigh my toothpaste, and I’ve spent my entire life making sure nothing is ever out of place, and never, ever messy."
I rest my forehead on hers, cupping her cheek with my hand as our eyes lock, an inch apart.
"And then I met you."
She lets out a shaky laugh as she hugs me tight.
“And you're the only mess I've never wanted to clean up."
35
BELLA
The nightmare starts the way it always does.
Rough hands reaching for me. Pushing. Hitting. Hurting.
Dirty fingers and untrimmed nails clawing at parts of me no one should touch.
The smell of stale cigarette smoke.
