Page 66 of I Will Break You
I excelled at the training and even gained the admiration of my peers. My time at this school for assassins was happier, but I knew it was a product of his manipulations.
Each time I killed a man, I imagined he was my father. Each successful mission tore a little piece of my soul. I lost my childhood, my humanity dissolving into the flow of blood on my hands. Over time, I even lost the will to destroy my father.
Fan questions:
Am I mistaking love for limerence? That’s an insightful question. Let me answer with a question of my own. Is it limerence if the feelings of that obsessive attachment are reciprocated? The love I had for my mother is real and still endures. She loved me until the day she died.
I expect the questioner wants to know about my romantic connections. The life of a killer is lonely, and showing vulnerabilities will be exploited. That said, I have found a woman for whom I feel a desperate longing. She doesn’t just see past my darkness, she embraces it. She is the one who shares my message with the world.
In answer to the second question: I’m not sure what happened to Bianca the cat. After my mother died, I moved into my father’s house, never to return. Her owners treated her well, and I like to hope she lived a happy life and died of natural causes.
Yours,
Xero
P.S. I will send the photos you asked for as soon as I can. Hopefully, some will work as backgrounds for the fan club.
THIRTY-SIX
AMETHYST
Chappy is dead. His tongue is in an envelope under my pillow. I nearly got hanged, and I’ve run out of vodka. Xero can’t expect me to lie on my bed all day just to wait for him to start severing body parts.
After the world’s fastest shower, I walk through the cemetery to catch the bus that goes to my favorite discount supermarket. They do home delivery, but I might be dead in twenty-four hours.
If Xero plans on dragging me into the afterlife for eternal punishment, then I’m going to need a motherfucking drink.
When I reach its double doors, I grab a basket and head straight for the booze. Thanks to Gavin, I have only $48 until Mom sends my monthly allowance.
I cringe at the thought of still being dependent on my parents at the age of twenty-four. It’s hard to keep a job on strong medication that fucks with my sleep schedule and short-term memory.
Some days, all I want to do is rot in bed. Thenbam!I wake up, ready to kick ass. The only time I feel normal is when I’m not taking the pills. That’s when ideas flow to me like water. I can regulate my weight. I even have the motivation to write.
However, the medication acts as a buffer from trauma. If I take it for long enough, I can look in the mirror for a count ofthree without seeing a monster. And I’m not haunted by people who don’t exist.
Besides, Mom and Dad will withdraw their financial support if I don’t pretend to take my pills, and I might even get institutionalized. It’s not like I sit around doing nothing. I’ve written manuscripts and tried to get them published. I also got several jobs. The last was at the karaoke bar across the road from Wonderland. It was great, until the manager fired me for turning up late for my shifts.
I did ghostwriting for a few clients, but they hated that I couldn’t stick to their outlines. My mind doesn’t work in straight lines like a normal wannabe author. It’s more of a free spirit. I can’t tame my thoughts, only suppress them.
The store’s liquor section spans four aisles, with a significant portion of it dedicated to vodka. Since I have no idea how long Xero will continue tormenting me on this mortal plane, I load the cheapest brands into my basket.
“Amethyst?” says a deep voice.
I continue walking toward the cash registers. My mind is either playing tricks on me, or someone has recognized my face from social media. It happens more times than I would like and never ends well, especially with men. They either sneer at me because I’m simping for a serial killer, want to sleep with me because they know I’m not getting laid, or want to snuff out my life. It’s one of the reasons I don’t enjoy leaving the house.
“Amethyst,” the voice says, sounding more insistent.
I quicken my pace and dart into the frozen aisle, where I pass displays of ice cream. Heavy footsteps hurry after me, but they could mean anything from a stalker to an auditory hallucination.
When a large hand lands on my shoulder, I freeze.
“I thought it was you,” says the voice. “Not many women have your hair color.”
Cringing, I turn my head, only to lock gazes with Whatshisname, Mrs. Baker’s hot priest. “Oh, hi.”
He beams. It’s one of those genuine smiles that makes the corners of the eyes crinkle and transforms him from intimidatingly handsome to endearing… if you like them wholesome and clean-cut. I want to glance over my shoulder to see who he’s grinning at, but I remember he already called my name twice.
“Reverend…” Heat floods my cheeks at already forgetting his name.