Page 3 of I Will Break You

Grief hits me like a tsunami, making my legs buckle. My knees hit the wet tiles, and I gasp out a sob. Pain spreads across my heart, overshadowing the rawness around my throat.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper through tears.

His execution would have been hours ago. I swore to keep him company as he fried on the electric chair, but I left the onlyman who ever showed me love to die alone. That was unforgivable enough, but I also missed the wedding we were supposed to have in the prison chaplain, followed by three hours of conjugal bliss.

Xero died among enemies today because I couldn’t put aside my trauma. That guilt will plague me until I die.

Swallowing hard, I pick myself up off the floor. Movement through the window turns my attention to the unlit garden, where I swear I see a dark figure standing among the trees.

“Call Dr. Saint,” I mutter under my breath, wishing Xero hadn’t convinced me to stop taking my meds.

Instead of the prescription-induced haze that’s been my life since leaving college, my experiences now are immersed in agonizing clarity.

An hour later, after taking the longest shower, I apply enough concealer to hide the finger marks around my neck. Then it’s the usual process of applying makeup without looking myself in the eye.

When I said I hadn’t hallucinated in over a year, I was referring to people or objects outside the mirror. That’s the domain of the monster who wears my face. My spectrophobia means I can’t escape her—not in videos, photos, or even puddles.

It’s been like this forever. A doppelgänger haunting me through every reflective surface. I tried describing her to Dr. Saint, but I can’t articulate why she’s different from me. She’s a being who mimics me to perfection, except she’s evil.

It’s strange because I spend ages looking in the mirror when I’m taming my unruly curls or bleaching the left side of my hair platinum blonde. If I close one eye, I can even bleach the right brow to match. Focusing on one element of my face is fine–I just can’t see both eyes or the whole thing in its entirety.

Turning my attention away from the mirror, I wear the black leather corset dress Xero bought me, along with black stockings decorated with silver snakes. Long gloves hide the scratches on my arms, and a thick choker draws the attention away from my bruised throat.

After adding the chunky silver crucifix Xero sent me for an early birthday present, I walk to the green room. It was originallya large pantry and utility space, but Mom let me move everything out and cover the walls in chroma key paint. That’s where I shoot the podcast and the social media clips that pay my living expenses until I can get a publishing deal.

My heart pounds so hard that I feel its vibrations between my legs. It’s a reaction that’s plagued me since my first killing, where the release of adrenaline increases the blood flow to my genitals. Dr. Saint called it violence-induced arousal and explained that it was a trauma response.

I looked it up online, and it doesn’t exist. Dr. Saint probably made it up so I wouldn’t feel like such a freak. I’m not a sadist. That would imply that I seek pleasure from causing harm. I really don’t.

But it isn’t normal. Nothing about me is normal. A normal woman wouldn’t become infatuated with the mugshot of a killer. A normal woman also wouldn’t send said killer letters every other day, accept his gifts, or his proposal of marriage.

A normal woman also wouldn’t have left the love of her life at the altar, then get aroused after stabbing another man to death in her kitchen. I push forward through the exhaustion, through the trauma, through the disorientation and pain for Xero. He would want me to give his fan club some kind of closure.

After setting up the ring lights, I log into my account, OfficialXerofan club, select a background for the green screen, then go live.

“Good evening, Xero Maniacs,” I croak, my voice hoarse. “It’s your president here with an update from the man himself.”

Fingers trembling, I clutch Xero’s last letter. I stare so hard at his angular handwriting that my eyes blur with tears. I’ll never hear from him again. I’ll never get that excited flutter every time I visit the mailbox, anticipating one of his letters. I’ll never get an early-morning phone call from the exercise yard, never get another text or clandestine photo or video, never feel that soul-deep connection with another human being.

Because he’s dead.

There’s a reason I fell in love with a killer. His soul is as tainted as mine. The man I murdered today wasn’t my first. Andwith the way Mom and Dad keep me at arm’s length, I wonder if my suppressed memories contain more deaths.

I blink, loosening two fat tears that roll down my cheeks. My phone chimes, bringing me out of my thoughts. I stare at the screen to find a slew of messages on the live chat, demanding Xero’s final words.

“Right.” I clear my throat. “Sorry… Here’s what he wrote.”

I try not to cry as I read and force my voice not to waver, not wanting to ruin Xero’s beautiful message with a breakdown. After the last word, I pause, letting every Xeromaniac soak in the finality of his ending. A quick check at the corner of the screen tells me that I already have a thousand viewers who have sent nearly a hundred gifts. There’s also a line of people wanting to chat.

Most nights, I stay for at least an hour, making sure as many people as possible get to hear me read out Xero’s letters. Tonight, all I want to do is curl up in a ball and grieve. Grieve for Xero, who I jilted and left to face the executioner alone. Grieve for myself, who missed the chance to say goodbye. Most of all, I want to grieve for what we lost.

Without our sacred union, we might never find each other in the next life. Our bond was so profound, yet we haven’t even touched, let alone met in person. Xero was on death row, which gave him barely enough time each day to walk the grounds to the cell phone jammer’s dead zone where he would call me and forward me photos and videos.

Despite all the barriers to our love, I managed to fall for the man behind the voice and the honeyed words. Now, I don’t know how I’ll cope without hearing from him every day. My throat closes, and my sinuses burn with grief.

Fuck it. I’m going to bed.

Turning off the live, I navigate to the screen that allows me tocreate a regular video to post on my page. I set up a different green screen, read out the excerpt of Xero’s final letter, click send, and walk upstairs with a bottle of vodka.

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