Page 12 of They Call Him Reaper

For the past week, she has sat in the same place, staring out at the ocean and barely remembering to eat, then she’llrandomly curl up into the fetal position on the floor and go to sleep. She barely talks unless I address her and sometimes it takes her a moment to realize I said anything at all.

It’s not a complaint or even a concern; it’s fascinating. Most predators stalk their prey to gather information of the best time to strike, but we’re past that. This is an open study of an unraveling human. One of the amusing side effects of her departure is the open honesty that falls out of her mouth.

I just finished grilling some fish I caught when I passed her. She’s still staring, but her sniffles grab my attention.

“Still crying, I see.”

She doesn’t respond for a while, making me think she didn’t hear me. Continuing with my plans, I move from the concept of conversation since it’s not anything I seek anyway.

“Yes, but not for you. You don’t care about my tears.”

True.I stop and stare at her face, watching them trickle down her cheeks to see if they move me. Nothing.

“You’re right. Are you eating today?”

“You should at least tell me what he did to you.”

I pause, because that’s the first direct thing she’s said about why she’s here. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“ButIowe you my life because you’re upset with a man I hardly know?” She’s caught up. She gets why she’s here. I'm no longer "upset" with him, but his suffering and death are necessary. He still grossly betrayed me and must pay for it. “The other people, I get it. They assisted him while doing heinous things, but I’m just a product of his DNA.”

“And therefore, the only thing he cares about.”

She snorts. “Okay. What’s the charge? What am I paying for?”

Interesting. Most people beg for their lives or mercy, but she wants to know why.

“Shut up and eat,” I tell her to close the conversation. She grabs a filet, shoves it in her mouth, then disappears inside the bungalow. She needs to be happy there aren’t any bones, because I would’ve let her choke. “And sleep in the bed. You’re not a dog.”

This bungalow is small and great for one person who wants to be isolated. The bathroom is the only room with a door. Everything else is open concept. It's one of the places I go to disappear. Finding squatters pissed me off. After I killed them and cleaned my place back to my liking, I collected the dummy from the beach. We'd have to share the bed, but that should be the least concerning part for her.

I take my time eating because there's no schedule for now. Sometimes not plotting everything down to the minute is hard, but there's something about my island that allows me to relax off grid. I allow the slight breeze to toy with my overgrown hair as I eat my food.

One of the drawbacks and benefits of my training is my sensitivity to changes in the environment. Not outside conditions; the social environment. After cleaning my area, I move inside cautiously because she’s too quiet. We all make noise, even while sleeping. Some are just less noticeable than others. I inch into the bungalow, mentally preparing for every outcome. My body is tense and ready to fight in case she’s lost the rest of her mind. The open concept gives me the advantage because there aren’t many places she can hide.

My fighter instincts relax when I find her sitting in the middle of the bed, but my inner tension rises. She has my lighter and she’s staring at the flame. We’re both aware of the other’s nearness. I can tell by the slight rise of her shoulders, she’s not completely relaxed.

She drops the lid back to distinguish the flames. “Orejón.”

Hearing my last time makes me feel like small droplets of acid are gnawing at my skin. I shake my head once and pretend that she didn’t say it.

“Orejón, Orejón, Orejón,” she repeats. She’s not looking at me but staring into space again. “I used to hear it all the time. I thought it was a rare last name. I didn’t hear it unless my dad was saying it. ‘Orejón will fix it. He’s my best worker. Orejón wouldn’t fuck up like that,” she mimics, then snorts with a smile that displays no mirth. “I used to think you were an employee, but that last statement,Orejón wouldn’t fuck up like that, was said before I saw him shoot someone. Right before I ran, the last thing he said was, “‘Find Dante…’”

Hearing my first name is worse than hearing my last. He only used it when he asked for “special tasks.” Things other people wouldn’t do.

“Shut up,” I order her, although it’s not as authoritative as usual. My mind is already being pulled back into that angry but hopeless place of my childhood.

“He talked about you so much that I got curious and looked you up one day.” She looks up at me, her eyes still the blank slates they’ve been since her dip in the ocean. “So much tragedy for a child.”

The six-year-old in me rages. My emotions feel exposed, ripped open and displayed to the world, except it’s not going to manifest in any way that’s good for her. I move too quickly for her to react and grab her by the neck, pulling her off the bed.

“Shut the fuck up!” Dragging her to one of the few walls in the room, I cuff her to one of the installed hooks. “You’re snooping like you have a death wish. I’ve allowed you to roam freely, but you’ve broken that privilege.”

“I don’t have a death wish; you marked me for death,” she points out.

There’s no inflection in her voice. It’s not a challenge; it’s her interpretation of the truth. I’ve never forgotten my name but have gotten some peace from not hearing it for years. It irked me when Andrea said it, but he only used it once. The live wire she almost unearthed still needs to be appeased. Images of my slain parents flash in my head, reminding me of the biggest lie I’ve believed until a little over a month ago. They didn’t abandon me. No, he viciously killed them. He made me hate the only people who loved me.

I’m mad at myself for not seeking out the truth as soon as I had the ability, but he’d already thoroughly brainwashed me and bent me to his will. Had I known, I could have killed him so many times over in the years I’ve been out from under his thumb. All I had to do was look.

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