Page 54 of Psycho Killers

A flicker of realization crosses my mother’s features—the shift from defiance to fear mixing with an urgency I find profoundly satisfying.

“No, Calista, please!” she pleads, but I surge with the strength of my decision, pulling back from the precipice of murder.

With a last glare down at them, I pull the flash drive into view. “This will be your new reality. You’ll have to face everything you’ve done.” I point to the drive. “And believe me, I’m making sure the truth gets out.”

"They’ll never see the inside of a jail cell," Addy whispers again, and again she has me thinking. "You know they have the feds, detectives, even local police in their back pockets. They will make damn sure they use the motherfuckers they're paying to make all of this disappear. You have to fucking kill them; it's the only way to end their reign of terror and for you to be able to move on completely."

I think long and hard about what she's saying, and she's not wrong. In fact, she's the furthest thing from wrong. She's fucking right, they'll never face the consequences of their actions. Killing them is really the only way to end it for good.

Gripping my knife even tighter, I press it deeper into my mother's throat, seeing the evil in her eyes that I know I'll never be able to forget. I have to end it. I have to kill them, and I always promised to have a smile on my face as I did it. So I smile, and drag the knife in deep across her throat, not giving a fuck about making her suffer. All I want is for her and my father to die, and then I want to go home with the guys and see what the future holds for all five of us.

As the knife slices through flesh, a sharp gasp fills the air—a sound of defeat that ignites an exhilarating rush within me. I can feel the warmth of her blood cascading down my hand, slick and fulfilling, like the completion of a heavy burden I neverknew I carried. This is the release I craved. With every ounce of hatred I’ve ever felt towards her, I pour it into that single thrust of victory. And then I slice her throat again, holding her bloodstained hair in my hand, pulling her head back. I cut so deep her head becomes removed from her body, and I'm left holding her hair, dangling it from my hand as I laugh, swinging it hard against the wall just to fuck her up some more. By the time I've finished beating her decapitated head against the wall and dropping it onto the floor, I've never felt more alive.

But the moment is raw, visceral. The realization crashes over me. I look into my father’s eyes, witnessing the myriad of emotions—shock, horror, disbelief.

“You—” he stammers, his voice weak, but I see the truth dawning on him. He knows I’m not a scared little girl any longer.

I pull back and wipe the blade against her crimson-stained clothing before spinning to face him, teeth gritted, a new fire igniting in my veins.

“You were never my protector. You chose her over me. Look where that got you both,” I spit, my voice cutting as sharply as the knife in my hand.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, shaking his head as if the denial could erase the reality unfolding before him. “Calista, don’t?—”

But his words fall short, drowned out by the torrent of emotions tugging at my heart. I'm filled with an intoxicating sense of power—a euphoria that pulsates through me like a rhythmic beat. I want this. I need this.

With a swift flick of my wrist, I redirect my attention back to my mother, whose eyes have now lost their fire—just two lifeless orbs staring back at me. My heart races as I take a step back, the adrenaline still coursing through me, leaving me gasping for breath. But what I see next freezes me in place.

Her body slumps forward, lifeless; blood spills onto the floor like a morbid painting. And yet, even amongst the chaos,a reverberating question echoes through my mind: Was that enough? Am I done here?

“Cali, finish it. Now!” Five’s voice breaks through my haze, urgent and demanding, reminding me of the ticking clock that looms over us.

My gaze shifts back to my father. His face is a grotesque mask of fear and regret, his spirit crushed. It should bring me joy, yet an unexpected pang of guilt twists in my gut. I could end it for him as swiftly as I did for her, but something holds me back. The drive. The evidence. I can't let their twisted legacy perish in a single act of rage.

“Why did you let her manipulate you, Dad?” I demand, my voice steady but hollow. “This was all avoidable. You could have been better.”

He looks at me, desperation bubbling to the surface. “I just wanted to protect you, to give you a life free from all this. I?—”

But I cut him off with a shake of my head. “You were just as complicit. And now you’re going to face the fucking consequences, too.”

With that resolve in my heart, I see the flicker of desperation morph into disbelief. I lunge forward, knife poised above him, my expression fierce. But I hesitate. No, I can’t let him die without facing the truth, just as I’ve allowed myself to emerge from the shadows of my own torment. I grip his collar instead, dragging him closer, my knife hovering perilously, a reminder of what he’s lost.

“You think I wanted this shit? That I wanted to be chained by your choices and hers?” I breathe, rage, and hurt tangling within me. “I’m taking control of my life, but first, you’ll face your fucking justice.”

“Calista, listen to me,” he pleads, his wide eyes searching for mercy. “You don't need to do this. We can work something out?—”

“There’s nothing to fucking work out,” I retort, retracting the blade. “You both made your choices, and now, you will face them alone. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

Before he can reply, I take a step back and grab the flash drive from my pocket, holding it up for him to see. “This will be your new reality, father. You think you can run from it? No. I’ll make sure you’re all over the fucking headlines tomorrow.”

His expression shifts, panic turning to the sharp realization that no plea will save him now. The weight of his past actions bears down more heavily, and for the first time, I see a flicker of fear that mirrors the torment I held for years.

I make the first stab into his groin, hitting him where it hurts the most. He screams as my knife sticks in his dick, blood staining his crotch. I feel a small weight lifted as the once sincere look in his eyes turns to rage, and I know I've made the right decision. The guys—and Addy—cheer me on, watching closely from the sidelines, their support only fueling my hatred and revenge further.

"Calista, please," my father begs through gritted teeth as he tries to ignore the blinding, burning pain.

"Yes, beg me, dad," I encourage him, a twisted smirk dancing happily across my lips. "Beg me to fucking stop and spare your life."

To my surprise, he actually continues to beg me, only making me laugh at his foolishness. I have no intention of sparing him; I just like to hear him begging me, because it reminds me of all the times I begged him for help, and not once did he ever fucking listen.

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