Page 72 of Razors & Ruin

I don’t know when it happened, but a blissful, weighted unreality settled over me like a snowdrift, entombing me in a cold but comforting alternate reality.

There was never any part of me that was good. I terrorized Veronica, then took her life and that of the man she truly loved. The hands that hurt her were mine, not his.

It was payback. Retribution for the crime of not loving me right, or enough, or in the ways I understood.

I thought I’d done terrible things for love, but in truth, I did them forme.

I want to stay in this moment and wallow in my agony, but there’s a voice coming from somewhere. In my delirium, I cannot be sure I hear it at all, but I see Sommers redirecting his attention to the door as the sound comes into focus.

“Papa?”

A young face appears around the door. It’s the boy from the church, his eyes obscured by his cap.

He’s wearing a coat, and I realize it was he who left the front door ajar. He must have been attending to some final duties outside before he and the priest escaped.

Sommers beckons him, and he goes to his side, tucking himself beneath the old man’s arm. I detect no inkling of fear; this child feels nothing but love for the priest.

It’s humbling and beautiful to see, and I’m ashamed to be in their company, shedding my evil like some flea-bitten hellhound.

Sommers takes off the boy’s cap and strokes his wheat-colored hair.

“It had to be this way,” he says. “Johanna was special to me, and I kept her away from prying eyes, but the Beadle found a buyer for her—a real one. I had no choice. So I told him the girl had died. The rest was easy enough. People who do not look never truly see. ”

I look at the boy again, seeing faces I once knew well, but not my own.

“Johanna,” I whisper.

36

Nellie

The air is stifling, thick with the tang of raw meat and the iron scent of blood. My neck still hurts, and my breathing is a painful rasp, but I am alive.

Outside, the hubbub has been growing steadily, but as opening time comes and goes, it reaches a crescendo.

The starving masses can see the bloody pies through the shop window—the place is set up and ready for a solid few hours’ trade—but with me locked away and Mr. T God knows where, there’s nothing to be done.

I could yell for help. Someone would undoubtedly hear me; the bakehouse is not soundproof by any means. But to be freed is to guarantee my world will unravel, and as of now, there’s a chance things may work out.

Sweeney Todd, who lay waste to so many, could not stealmyfragile life. It fluttered beneath his palm like a wounded butterfly, and he retreated, chastened by what he almost did.

He loves me.It’s raw and broken but authentic, unlike his love for Veronica. That slack, useless limerence was nothing compared to the inferno he and I have created between us.

Poor, foolish woman.

She had the man heusedto be, but she never knew him like I do. What they had was weak; she probably fluttered her eyelashes and whispered sweet little words about how much she adored him, but love like that is hollow, empty.

It’s no wonder it all went up in flames. She could never have stoked the fire, never set him ablaze the way I can.

He was wasted on her.

The room feels smaller as unknown time drags on, the heat from the ovens making my skin prickle with sweat.

I stretch my legs out, feeling the ache in my joints, and the staleness of the air clings to me, mingling with the scent of the pies above.

But I won’t speak up. My throat feels like it’s wrapped in nettles, but I will not yield. I’ll sit down here in my own filth until I die, if that’s how it goes, and never raise my voice in supplication.

Hewillcome back.

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