Page 78 of I Will Break You

“It’s me.” He points at his broad chest.

I take in his small eyes, chubby cheeks, and weak chin, not recognizing a single thing about his round, unremarkable face.

“The Well Hung Man?” he says with a hopeful smile.

“Oh!”

I sit beside Myra for the short journey to the casino and allow myself a few sips of champagne. The hangman tries to speak tome, but I’m exhausted from a whole day of meeting people, posing for photos, and pitching my new book.

Tonight, the champagne hits differently. Maybe it’s because I’m fatigued. Or because of the bubbles rising off its surface are also alcoholic. It usually takes me a while to feel the effects of drink.

The effervescence tickles my nostrils and dance across my tongue. My eyes droop, and I sink deeper into the plush leather seat. By the time the limo stops, I’m so drunk that I slump like a ragdoll beside the hangman.

“Is she out?” BJ asks.

“Not yet,” the hangman replies. “Is yours?”

“She sucked it down.” BJ leans forward and knocks on the partition separating us from the driver. “Make another loop. Take us through the VIP entrance. Tell the concierge we’ve got two sleeping beauties who need discreet handling.”

FORTY-ONE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,

Your words of compassion haunt my days, but that video of you in the red lingerie haunts my nights. I replay that clip after lights out while inhaling your pussy-scented letters to remind myself that beyond these bars, I have my perfect soulmate.

The letters you send me are so precious, yet I find myself wanting to fuck each one of them and smother the sheets of paper in my cum. Help me preserve your words by including extra sheets of paper in the envelope. Please smear them with your heavenly scent.

I mark my decision not to return to my father’s home as the beginning of my corruption because that’s when I learned the truth of my assignments. Before then, I almost believed my targets were evil men I rendered unconscious to give the authorities time to search their homes.

During induction week at the new academy, the lead instructor informed us that we were training to become assassins: contract killers who eliminated targets for payment. When the man listed the methods we would master, I finally realized what we had done.

We hadn’t been sedating our targets, but injecting them with a deadly poison.

I was shocked but stoic. As one of the youngest children in this new facility, I couldn’t afford to show any horror or upset. We boys had been conditioned into believing emotions were weaknesses, and I wasn’t about to become the target of bullies again.

It took several weeks for me to process the weight of what I had done. Over four years, I must have killed at least thirty men. When I confided this to the new facility’s counselor, his eyes lit up, and he told me I had a promising future as an assassin.

By then, I was so brainwashed that I accepted his words as praise. The initial shock I felt at being a murderer melted away, replaced by a perverse sense of achievement.

Over the next four years, I focused on my studies. We learned modern languages, ancient languages, chemistry, anatomy and physiology, weapons, hand-to-hand combat, etiquette, hacking, urban warfare tactics, tracking and surveillance, psychology, and an array of other skills required to become an assassin.

Think of the academy as a high school for contract killers, set within a fortified campus hidden deep within a forest. I’m pained to say that, outside of the time I spent with my mother, the four years I studied there were the best of my life.

There were two types of students: permanent borders and those who only trained with us during the weekends. The weekend students were those who already attended other boarding schools. I learned much later that my father’s company employed handlers, who would groom ostracized students to attend the classes on the pretext of learning self-defense.

It was a clever yet diabolical way to guarantee that the academy had a constant supply of fresh recruits.

Fan questions:

Why would I forgive my father and stepfamily? I may have spared some grace for the brothers, as they were children following the lead of their evil parents, but each one of them grew up to become even more corrupt. There will be no forgiveness until I’ve purged that entire bloodline.

Music wasn’t part of my upbringing, but I enjoy several classical tunes. Camille Saint-Saëns’ DanseMacabre, Giuseppe Tartini’s Violin Sonata in G minor, and of course, Beethoven’s Funeral March.

I remain your humble admirer,

Xero

---