Page 246 of I Will Break You
Cooking oil.
Paper towels.
Disinfectant.
Matches.
Each item is a step deeper into the abyss. Each movement is automatic, driven by a primal need to cleanse and destroy.
I return to the study and take another look at the movie. Only Xero’s legs are in the frame. Judging by the yellow stream of fluid hitting my face, it looks like he’s adding degradation to defilement. Non-consent wasn’t on the approved list of kinks. Neither were water sports or gang rape.
My mind fills with memories of Mr. Lawson’s eyes staring up at me as he fell. As blood spreads around his head like a halo, his face morphs back into Xero’s.
Shaking my head, I try to dispel the images, but they only grow stronger, overlapping with the footage on the screen.
Mr. Lawson used a drug to kill our baby.
Xero used a drug to kill my soul.
I watch the tail end of the movie, where I’m lying in the dirt, covered in semen and soil. I’m not even nauseated anymore, just numb. Numbness turns to detachment, and detachment to a cold, calculating rage.
The movie’s closing credits say: PRODUCED BY X-CITE MEDIA. I should gasp, but even that part makes sense. I scroll backward, watching the movie in reverse, proving it’s not a hallucination. My brain isn’t that adept at illusions. Even if it could conjure up this grotesque footage, it can’t replay the shit in reverse.
The only delusion is that I allowed myself to believe Xero Greaves is human.
My stomach cramps, infusing my core with bolts of agony. I double over, my gaze dropping to the floor. Warm blood trickles down my legs.
When I blink, it’s gone.
Rage and betrayal and ruin has me spiraling. I couldn’t stop this descent into madness, even if I tried. My thoughts splinter, each one a shard of fury and pain.
The lines between past and present blur completely. I see the young me, screaming under the torture, and the adult me, covered in blood.
I see Xero, and I see Mr. Lawson. They merge, become one.
The rage builds, consuming every rational thought, leaving only the fire, the need to end it all.
It’s time to give Xero the execution he deserves.
ONE HUNDRED ONE
AMETHYST
First, I walk into the crawlspace’s hallway and check my escape routes. The hatch that leads to the cupboard under the stairs is unlocked, but Xero has stationed people outside the house. If I run through the front door, then one of his men will capture me and send me back.
He’ll be so incensed that his mask will drop, and he’ll switch from his lover boy persona to the ringmaster rapist.
Instead, I reach into the shelves and pull the lever of the doorway separating my space from Mrs. Baker’s. It springs open, revealing her neatly organized basement filled with supplies. I cross the room, try the other secret door to the tunnel beneath her backyard, and leave it ajar.
I might be insane, but I’m not stupid. At least not anymore. I walk back into my space, pick up my bowl filled with fire starters, and continue to the bedroom.
Xero sleeps on his side like a slumbering beauty, his artificially darkened hair fanning across the pillow like a dirty halo. This color suits him better because he no longer looks like the Angel of Death, but an unearthly creature sent to deceive and defile.
Pulling my gaze away from the sight of my soon-to-be-dead tormentor, I reach beneath the bed for my overnight bag and fill itwith my car keys, phone, a change of clothing, and a range of knives.
After placing the bag in Mrs. Baker’s room, I return to Xero, crack open the somnochlorate, and drizzle a few drops on his pillow. The chemical is so potent that I step back to avoid inhaling the fumes. A trained assassin like Xero won’t easily succumb to sedatives, even when he’s already half asleep.
Once his breathing deepens, I pick up a cushion and douse it with so much chloroform that the fumes make my head spin. After putting it aside, I place a hand on Xero’s shoulder and shake him awake.