Page 107 of Little Psycho

She gives me an affirming nod and heads toward the door, pausing briefly."And Cali?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself tonight.You’re stronger than your past, but don’t forget to breathe.”Her eyes soften, and with that, she leaves, closing the door with a gentle click that echoes in the silence.

The quiet envelops me again, but this time it feels different.Less oppressive, almost inviting.I take a deep breath, the air cool and bitter, but I hold on to the idea of the future—whatever it may hold.I face the night knowing that I can start piecing things back together.Outside, the wind howls, but I’m no longer simply hiding from it; it's calling to me now, and I'm eager as fuck to embrace it.

Taking a calming breath, I bundle up, dressing in a thick black hoodie with my insulated joggers, knowing I'll need to be warm for my adventure.Sitting down to put my shoes on, my attention is drawn to the same nightstand where my pills were, my heart racing as my gaze catches the crumbled piece of paper containing my famous list.I grab it, holding it in my hands as if it were fragile, gliding the tip of my finger over the next name currently not crossed out.

1.Mother

2.Father

3.Holden Graham

4.Gunnar

5.Adam Moretti (Ash's father)

6.David Blacksburg (Kill's father)

7.Jackson Gray (Dom's father)

8.State Senator Pete Gallagher

9.Mayor Kyle Benjamin

10.City Councilman Marcus Rutherford

11.Judge Hayden Wilson

12.Brockton Chief of Police Robert Bailey

13.City Councilman Mr.Josè Brown

I force myself not to look at the guys' fathers names, instead focusing on the next high-profile figure on my list: State Senator Pete Gallagher.

The fucker dressed me up as a little girl down to the frilly white socks and put my hair in pigtails, grooming me into his "little girl" for the entire time I was with him.He's just another pervert who loves sticking his cock in young kids, and it makes me fucking sick.

I've been keeping an eye on him and recently found out he's been molesting his ten-year-old niece, which is why his time needs to end now.

I tuck the list away, grab my black ski mask, and slip out of the motel room door, intending on trekking into the city and braving the snowstorm, all so I can cross his name off my list.

* * *

It’s not ascold as I had imagined.In fact, I find myself getting really warm in my layers.As I stroll through Dorchester, snowflakes drift down in heavy clusters, and I can feel beads of sweat forming beneath my clothing, creating an uncomfortable sensation.Yet, I keep my focus on the journey ahead, reminding myself that I’m almost there—all the while, my anxiety begins to creep in.Thanks to the considerable amount of medication I’ve taken, I feel completely numb, a grin fixed firmly on my lips as if nothing could possibly phase me.

Thoughts of Dom, Ash, Killian, and even Five flutter through my mind, and as much as I want to deny it, I fucking miss them.Perhaps Addy was right when she said they were a distraction, but regardless, I’m still on the path I’ve envisioned for years—crossing off the names on my list one at a time.

I push aside the joyous memories of the boys and my unpredictable emotions, my breath growing heavier with each step.The streets sparkle with festive cheer—looking like an image straight off a postcard—adorned with Christmas lights strung across trees and lampposts, while decorations grace nearly every house I pass, reminding me that the holiday season is just around the corner.

I’ve never truly experienced a happy Christmas—not that I can recall.Even in my early childhood, long before the trauma began, my home lacked warmth and the "normal" family dynamic.My father was always away, absorbed in work, campaigning, or anything else that would take him away from his family, leaving my mother feeling bitter, miserable, and resentful.While I still got presents, they were never what I wanted.My father would urge me to write my list for Santa, yet his absence on Christmas made those prompts feel hollow.

My mother handled all the shopping, and I found it unsatisfying.I ended up with countless pairs of pajamas and slippers, too many to know what to do with.While other nine-year-old girls excitedly unwrapped Barbies or dollhouses, I was left with flannel pajamas or bottles of shampoo and other mundane items.

To this day, I’ve never experienced a memorable Christmas, and shit, I don’t expect that to change.

Approaching the senator's house, I pull out my black ski mask and slide it over my head, covering my face from the world.Slipping into the darkness that surrounds his house, I prowl the backyard looking for the window I know he keeps open.Luckily, it's on the bottom floor, so I don't have to risk slipping on the ice coating the side of the house.

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