Page 73 of The Way We Rot
Adrian was watching me from the stage, right where I left him, when I walked into the theater and down the central aisle. He had one arm free, but was stillstuck, trapped like a caged animal. A scowl, a bump on his head, and questioning, resigned eyes.
“You stink,” I told him, climbing the stage steps and sitting cross-legged next to him, placing some of the food on his lap. A bag of chips, some soft apples, and a loaf of bread with no filling or spread.
“You look like shit,” he responded with a grunt, reaching for the bread.
I laughed, shifting about to get a position comfortable for my injuries, hissing when I landed just wrong. “You mutilated me.”
He shrugged, despondent. “Deserved.”
“I think so too,” I admitted, looking down, scooping up one of the almost too ripe apples and taking a bite. It was tart, making me wince.
“I keep hoping you’ll tell me that Jake tried to hurt you, you know. I keep hoping you’ll have reasons for everything you’ve done. I’ve been sitting here, the whole time, just fucking trying.” The words spilled from him, heavy and hard. “It wouldn’t make sense, but even if that’s what you thought…”
I handed him a bottle of water, listening. It was tough to look at him, but I did.
“If, maybe if you were defending yourself, I could stop.” He turned to me, eyes shiny, hard. “But I can’t stop. I can’t do it, little killer. This has consumed me for years, since you refused the stand, since I first heard your name. You’ve eaten me alive, and I can’t take another step without ending you. I saw you that night, talking to Jake, and since that moment, your death has been mine.”
Ripped apart, open and bare for him, I nodded. “I know. And he didn’t try to hurt me. I’m sorry.”
“Did any of them? Like you said?” he whispered, the plastic bottle crinkling in his grasp.
My lips pursed, jaw tensed. “I don’t think so,” I admitted, thinking only of those who I was convicted of killing. There were more, but I wasn’t ready to share that story with him. Maybe never would be. “That first one that I was… he hurt my sister, he did. He raped her. But the others… they were just men. Men I thought were harmful.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I shushed him, carrying on. “I spent a lot of those first years in prison seeing dozens of psychologists, trying to get a diagnosis or something — my family insisted on it.” I smiled atthe memories of my sister visiting me, insisting I let them speak to me. She was so good. She understood why I did it, and I think she felt responsible. “But they never found anything wrong with me. The last one I spoke to said I had a deep hatred of men and saw the worst in them. That it wasn’t repairable without the intense therapy I refused.”
I looked at Adrian then, finding his eyes defeated, curious. He sucked down some of the water and handed it to me, our fingers grazing. I took a swig too, nodding at him, that sense of doom sinking over me too.
“So you have no excuse?” he asked.
Did I? Was it mental illness or some burned up, crossed wires in my brain that made me this way? I had no idea, not really, and no one else had ever come close to giving me a reason. An excuse.
We were beyond any of that.
“I have no excuse.” I moved, straddling him, keeping my pussy clear of his body. “So I’m going to set you free, and you’re going to kill me. Move on.”
His eyes were hard as I reached for his ropes, before frowning at the mess I’d caused. “Shit,” I said. “How the fuck do I undo these?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out myself,” he huffed.
“I’ll get a knife.” With a grunt, I stood, glancing around for those tools he had. One of them would work. The time had come.
“On the table,” Adrian told me, nodding his head to a table across the stage. I crossed it, picked up the longest looking blade to carry back to him.
It took ages, but I worked him free. When he stood, I sucked in a deep breath, enjoying it for what it was. My last one.
But it didn’t come. I took another.
“Come on,” Adrian said, resigned, defeated. “I can’t kill you right now.”
“Why not?” I asked, my next breath all juddery, surprising.
Adrian cupped my cheek, his fingertips clawing into my skin. I winced, but stayed still, swaying a little. “I’m not ready.”
With a nod, I stepped away from him.
Both of us grunting and groaning, we walked through the theater, stumbled down the steps to the audience seating, and banged our way through the doors, through the halls and up the stairs to his apartment.
“Wait,” I said as we reached the front door. I’d left it open, so he could see the mess I’d made as I left, but he said nothing.
