Page 8 of Snowman

She begged, her words incoherent, a tangle of pleas and apologies. But the sound faded into the background as I focused on the task ahead. Her tears fell freely, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation.

"Please," she whimpered, "please."

"Hmmm. I'm still thinking about it," I muttered, tilting my head to one side as I watched her squirm against the bindings. Her tears streamed freely now, cutting streaks through the grime on her face.

"I took him when he was five," she blurted, her voice shaking. "I never knew he'd be such a pain in the ass, but please—"

A thin, mirthless smile curled around my lips, and I leaned the needle toward her arm. "He is a child, not an animal," I said, ridiculously calm.

Her head thrashed about, desperation etched into every strained movement. "Nooo, please," she screamed, her voice cracking.

"You see," I said, crossing my arms, letting the needle hover just above her skin, "I know you're lying."

Her breathing hitched, the words tumbling from her lips in a frantic rush. "No, I swear! I—"

"You took him when he was a baby," I said, cutting her off. My voice was ice, flat. "From a nursing home." The needle pricked her skin, sliding in gently as I began to draw blood into the tube. It flowed in a slow, crimson stream, dripping into the bucket beneath her.

"They were after you for poisoning thosepoor little angels. And then when the walls started closing in on you, you took one with you. You stole him—and turned his life into one big misery."

Her sobs grew louder, her head shaking violently. "I was helping him," she said, her voice cracking. "I wanted to make him better!"

I scoffed, my eyes rolling. "Oh, how sweet." Sarcasm oozed out of my voice. "You made him better by breaking bones, pushing him like a dog?" The dark chuckle escaped my lips. "You disgust me."

Her eyes turned hard, flashing defiance, even as her strength ebbed. "You're no better," she spat out. "Monster!"

I laughed, and it sounded hollow in the room. "Yeah," I said; my tone came out sharp and cutting. "I am."

It is people like her that monsters are born of, made by their hands, shaped by their cruelty, and unleashed upon the world. I had no illusions about what I was: no heart, no conscience, justa purpose.

"Killer!" she screamed, the word torn from her, tattered and weak. She spat at me, spittle wetting her lips.

"Yep," I replied, smirking. Her words didn’t cut. They didn’t even graze.

"Why are you doing this?" she croaked, her voice little more than a whisper now. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You didn't," I said, leaning forward, my voice low even. "But someone else did." I chuckled darkly and shook my head. "And I'll be damned if I let it happen to that boy from anyone else, either."

Her eyes fluttered shut, her body trembling as her strength was drained away.

"Fuck you," she whispered, the words faint and slurred.

"Yeah,bitch," I muttered, leaning down until I was eye-to-eye with her. "Fuck you too."

I straightened, turning to the table as her body stilled behind me. Lighting another cigarette, I inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl out of my nostrils as I tugged the mask from my face. The cool air kissed my skin, and my reflection in the mirror caught my eye.

The face hiding behind the mask wasn't the monster I wore for the world; it was the broken boy, hurt by all those who were supposed to care for him. The mask made it easier to do what I had to do. Beneath it, though, vulnerable, I still held the scars of a stolen childhood. They had made me this way. And if I was going to hell, I'd make damn sure to take every one of them with me. Monsters aren't born; they're made. And, I'll be damned, I had been a good one.

The space was silent, while the heater hummed softly and blood occasionally dripped into the bucket. I leaned back in a rickety chair, its legs groaning under my weight, and lit another cigarette. The smoke swirled in slow patterns in the hot air while I watched the blood seep steadily into the second bucket.

Draining them made the job neater, and more effective. Once the blood was gone, it was far easier to separate them, piece by piece, less mess, and splatter. I had prepared the room before sitting, wrapping the space around her in thick plastic curtains that hung from the ceiling. The warmth helped slow the pumping of her heart and made sure the blood flowed at just the right pace. I learned a long time ago, that it was easier this way.

The file sat on the table before me, its edges smeared from weeks of handling. I flipped it open and turned the page over the page of photographs and notes that were in handwriting until I found her name in printing. I read it out loud,"Sigrid Halvorsen."

The name hung in the air like a question.

Her story lay before me, scant as it was: orphaned young. Grew up in a nameless home, her parents unknown. No police record. It would seem that she also had a talent for slipping in and out, leaving no evidence that she was even there. My only picture is the one holding the little boy, the same child now lying beaten and broken in the hospital.

I stared at that photograph, my cigarette burning down to the filter as the memories clawed their way back. In the picture, the boy had such hollow eyes; clinging onto her, screaming at me from the page.

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