Page 7 of Snowman

I blamed my father for planting this sickness inside me. I blamed my mother for letting it take root. And I blamed myself for not being strong enough to cut it out, for not being able to stop it.

My fists clenched at my sides, standing in the middle of the room as my chest rose and fell with each uneven breath. The compulsion seared under my skin, restless and insistent. It whispered to me, tempting me, promising release. I knew the cost. I'd seen it play out a hundred times before. But it was still there. And I knew that no matter how tightly I tried to hold myself together, the cracks would keep spreading. The curse was part of me now, as undeniable as the blood in my veins. I was ill. I knew it. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

The only sound in the room beneath my boots was the soft hum of the radio above. The red carpet, worn and frayed from years of use, hid the weight of secrets. I crouched, my fingers curling into the edge of the rug, pulling it to one side. The old fabric bunched against the sofa as I folded it away, revealing the carved square of wood beneath. The edges of the hidden door had been a bit rough, but it had served well. In the middle, it glittered with a round iron handle and dimmed light. I grasped the handle, my palm feeling the coolness of the metal, and pulled.

I lifted it and swung it to the side, the wooden lid creaking with the weight of what was beneath. Before me yawned the opening,a passage framed by rough wooden stairs leading down. I stood and placed the cigarette between my lips. As I lit it, the cherry-red tip of it seemed to glow in the dark as I inhaled. Then I stepped down, each creak of the stairs awakening the silence.

The air was heavier down here, thick with the smell of wood, rust, and something more metallic. The walls were close, almost suffocating, and the dim bulb that hung from the ceiling cast long shadows on the dirty floor. Chains swayed gently in the air, dangling like silent sentinels from the beams above. In the center of the room was a wooden table, its surface scarred with years of use.

I walked to it, the cigarette hanging loosely from my lips. The tools were laid out precisely, their sharp edges gleaming faintly under the weak light. Next to the radio was my mask, a plain white one, almost featureless apart from openings for the eyes and small holes for the nose. It was ordinary and that was why it worked. It hid my face, and in doing so, stripped me of anything human.

I stubbed out the cigarette on the table and began to strip to my underwear. The chill in the room immediately pricked my skin. Reaching for the neatly folded black jumpsuit on the table, I slid into it. The nylon clung to my skin, waterproof, erasing the last vestiges of softness from me.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror propped against the wall, and the reflection staring back was my worst nightmare, an avenger, but not the kind to save anybody. No, I was the villain in this story, the bad kind.

I turned to the table that was next to the wall, a tilt in my head so that the woman bound tightly to it could be regarded full on. Against dark wood, her body seemed very pale, her skin bruised, wrists and ankles tied rather tightly by coarse rope. She was nude, bruising, shaking all over. Only her red eyes looked up at me amidst the swelled face, from multiple hours of crying. Hermuffled sobs came through with weak strength through the duct tape that was pulled over her mouth.

"Fuck,momma," I rasped, the words dry and hoarse through the mask. I tilted my head, letting the notes of the songSweet Dreamswaft from the radio. "Being a killer is a full-time job."

Her body flinched at my words, trying in vain to pull away. I walked to the tools, selecting a needle and a tube. As I tested the needle's sharpness against the pad of my glove, I turned back to her.

"You know," I said, "when I read your file, I thought,Wow, this poor woman's been through a lot." I chuckled, a sound that echoed off the walls. "But then, I sawhim."

Her head was shaking violently, desperate denials muffled behind the tape.

"Little boy," I continued, my voice lowering, "bruises covering a small body. Fearful, wide eyes stared back at me, screaming for help."

I exhaled, "Do you know what he gave as his explanation?" I leaned in closer to hear her whisper, my face inches short of touching hers. "I fall down the stairs."

Her cries grew louder, her head thrashing. I reached for the duct tape, peeling it off in one sharp motion. Her scream ripped through the room, shrill, but my gloved hand clamped down over her mouth before she could finish.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," I shushed her. "Typical. But no one can hear you,momma.You're eight feet underground."

I let my hand slip away slowly, giving her the chance to speak.

"Now," I said, "if you'll bea good girland listen, maybe I'll be fast with you. Anything to confess?"

She gasped, her sobs coming in heaving bursts. "Please," she choked out. "Please let me go."

I tilted my head, and my tone dropped to a dangerous whisper. "So, nothing to confess?"

She shuddered and the tears streamed down her cheeks. "I will," she said hastily. "I will... just please... let me go."

My jaw clenched as I leaned in closer.

"I'll think about it," I muttered.

"I…" Her voice was quaking, her body shaking. "Maybe…"

"SPEAK!" I barked, my voice cutting through her hesitation like a blade.

"I pushed him!" she shouted, the words tumbling out in a wild rush. "He wasn't listening, and I just—just exploded! But that doesn't make me a bad mother!"

I froze, tilting my head. "The problem is," I whispered in her ear, "you're not his mother."

"I am!", she cried. "I am!"

"Nah," I said only, stepping back as her sobs grew louder.

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