Page 20 of The Carnage We Keep

I shower, even though I’ll be showering again once I get back from this errand. But that’s me. When the water reaches precisely 112 degrees, I remove my clothing one article at a time and fold each one neatly before placing it in the laundry basket. I grab the soap and start with my head, moving down over my whole body until I’m suitably lathered. Once that’s rinsed off, I pluck the scraper from its place in the caddy and methodically go over every inch of my body, gently running it over my skin to ensure I don’t miss any dead skin cells.

For someone who's half Italian, I’m not actually that hairy, thanks to my mom's Russian genes. Still, I systematically use the straight razor next, shaving the stubble from my face, chest, and abs.

I learned a long time ago that most people think it’s odd if a guy shaves his arms, legs, and armpits, and one thing I’ve always been anxious to do is not call attention to myself. So I leave those. I skip my groin, too, and opt for a close trim with an electric body shaver instead. But that’s because I don’t like the feeling of my balls being totally shaved, and it looks weird anyhow.

After I’m out of the shower, I grab the rough mitt and give my body a final once-over, sloughing off any last loose skin cells.

I brush my teeth, dress all in black, then grab Beckford’s head by the hair and stuff it into a small black trash bag.

Now I’m ready to go.

The cliffs at the edge of campus that drop down into the dark blue of the Long Island Sound are one of my favorite places at Knightsblood. For one, they’re beautiful, and for reasons I cannot understand there’s rarely anyone walking along the path at the edge of them. The tides here also are extremely favorable if, say, you have something you’d like removed from the shoreline.

For instance, a head in a bag.

I pause at the railing by the gravel path and exhale as I rest my forearms on it, staring out over the dark water under the cloudy night sky.

I come here a lot. The whole “no one else is ever here” thing is a big perk. But the soft crash of the waves against the rocks below bring me to a sort of Zen.

And yet, once again, I find that Zen shattered by thoughts of her.

The gremlin.

Murder Muppet.

Bella.

I scowl.

Things were a whole lot simpler when I was the only monster on campus.

Although if I’m being honest, part of me feels more than a little…intrigued by the idea that there is another “me” so close.

I’ve known what I am since I was a kid. Dad saw it first because, well, let’s just say there’s not really any confusion about whose genes influenced what I am.

But Dad, being the amazing guy that he is, wasn’t scared of what he saw in me. Instead, he taught me to hone it. To channel my urges. To be smart. Clean. To leave no trace. Dad took his experience leading a mafia family, not to mention with his own urges, and used all that to shape me into a perfect predator.

Meanwhile, my mom the professional ballerina taught me the importance of precision, attention to detail and a passion for excellence in whatever you do to feed your soul.

But as incredibly loving as they both are, and as much as they’ve done all they could to make sure I never wind up in prison, they’re not actually like me. I mean, Dad doesn’t shy away from violence or bloodletting, but his darkness is the kind that comes from a man who has to be dark, if that makes sense.

Mine comes from somewhere much deeper.

So when I was sixteen, a few years after my…ordeal, I decided to look into the eyes of people like me and talk to them. I wanted to understand how similar we were and know what I should expect as I got older.

I faked a school assignment and got permission not only to visit Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center on Wards Island, but to have interviews with some of the most violent, unhinged patients there.

The whole thing was a bust. I imagined I was going to sit across a table from Hannibal Lecter and wax poetic on the broken condition of the human spirit, why I feel the need to kill, and how to keep that killer focus on bad people.

In reality, I met with three different versions of the “it puts the lotion on its skin” guy. These guys were so far gone that they didn’t even know I was at the table with them. One tried to eat his own thumb.

That was the last time I interacted with another diagnosed psychopath.

But now, there’s Bella.

I don’t know for sure that she’s diagnosed, but…like…c’mon.

I know what she is. I’ve seen it in her eyes both times we’ve crossed paths, and it intrigues the fuck out of me.