Page 12 of Psycho Killers

Out of breath, his legs painfully cramping, Dom let's go first, heaving a deep sigh that sounds heavy as it leaves his chest. I lay my head against his shoulder, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart, our bodies glistening with sweat beneath the unflattering garage lighting.

“I gave somewhere I need to be, Dom,” I whisper, hoping he doesn't interrogate me.

I can't tell him yet. I can't tell any of them—not yet.

He doesn't speak; he just holds me, his body a solid anchor in the chaos. The scent of his cologne, sharp and comforting, is a remedy in the suffocating darkness still completely surrounding us. I'm hit with a million emotions all at once, and the tears begin to trickle down my cheeks, Ash front and center in my mind even after getting my brains fucked out of me.

Slowly, the intensity of my grief begins to ebb. The rhythmic rise and fall of Dom's chest against mine, the steady pressure of his arms, the gentle strokes of his hand through my sweaty hair—these small acts of comfort weave a fragile tapestry of peace. The silence between us is not empty; it's filled with the unspoken understanding of shared pain, of a love that transcends words.

Eventually, my sobs subside, replaced by a quiet trembling. Dom pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine, a mixture of concern and tenderness in their depths. The darkness is still there, a shadow lurking at the edges of his gaze, but it's less intense now, softened by the shared vulnerability. He wipes away a stray tear with his thumb, his touch soft and soothing.

"Better?" he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion.

I nod, unable to speak; the words caught in my throat. He pulls me closer again, his embrace a silent promise of continued support. The rain outside continues its relentless rhythm, but inside the garage, a fragile warmth has begun to bloom, a fragile hope taking root in the fertile ground of grief. The darkness remains, but for now, it's held at bay by the unwavering strength of love.

SEVEN

ADDICTION

SPEAKERS BLOWN: HIT THE LIGHTS

KILLIAN

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 took Cali's list. I knew I shouldn't have, but I needed to see the fucking truth for myself. I had to confirm that my father's nameremained on the list—uncrossed. I needed to see it with my own fucking eyes.

With Ash still in a coma, and no updates, these past two weeks have felt fucking interminable. Everyone in the apartment moves like a damn zombie, heavily medicated, barely functional. But it's the only thing that helps. It's wrong, yes, but it's the only fucking way to dull the crushing pain. Right now, shit, I'm swallowing a handful of Xanax with Crown Royal vanilla. I hate the fucking bitter taste, but I endure it, knowing the oblivion it promises.

We're fucking addicted. To drugs, alcohol, sex, even fucking violence. And it doesn't look like things will change anytime soon.

Glancing back at the list, I trace my finger over the crossed-out names, remembering the fierce girl who changed our lives, despite Ash's current plight. It's not her fault, yet she blames herself. Cali, I fear, is spiraling faster than the rest of us, and if something doesn't change, we'll fucking lose her again.

Dom's shout jolts me back to reality. I quickly pocket the list and head out to see what's happening. It's a rare Friday night with everyone home—unusual for us. Cali looks furious, her fist raised, ready to strike Dom. Five tries to intervene, but for once, she's faster, dodging his grasp.

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