Page 7 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m leaving the house, needing fresh air and to let off some steam. I just need to be very, very careful in how I do that. Problem is, this darkness in me doesn’t have a fucking conscience and he’ll do whatever he needs to satisfy his hunger.

By the time I’m back to myself enough that I can focus, it’s been over four hours, and I have no idea where the hell I am. I lose bits of time frequently. It’s something that started happening after the accident but isn’t always an issue. I can surmise what I do during these times, but it’s yet to be a problem. At least the darkness in me is careful—to some extent.

I’m in some nice neighborhood now, one not much different from the one I live in, but I don’t recognize anything as I walk down the street. The air is crisp with the oncoming aura of fall coming soon. The days are sweltering, but the nights are tolerable. Fucking New England weather.

As I pass side streets, I catch sight of their names, trying to figure out where I could have gone. They’re all the same, no matter what town, so it isn’t any fucking help.

Center Street. Main Street. Fifth Street. Broadway. Essex. Union.

The large houses are spread far enough apart, making me think I’ve moved away from Boston instead of closer to it. If I go far enough, walk long enough, I’ll hit New Hampshire. It’s happened before. Just once, during one of my really bad black outs. I’d been gone for two days, not a memory of what I did or what I got up to while I was gone. At least there wasn’t blood onmy hands when I came to and realized I wasn’t home. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t there at all, only that I had the wherewithal to clean up after myself.

I may black out a lot, but I’m very aware of what I’m capable of—what I’ve done. There are plenty of kills I remember completely, but many more that I can only recall flashes of. Some I don’t remember at all. I know I’ve done them, but it’s like I’m seeing them through another lens. I couldn’t begin to guess how many there have been, only that it’s been a lot.

A car door slams and a woman yelps, pulling my attention across the street to a house that’s smaller than others I’ve passed. There is a tall brick wall enclosing the front yard, the wall going up the side of the driveway to block it off from the house. There is no gate to get into the driveway, and at the top is a shiny black car, where I see a man yanking a young woman out from the front seat by her hair. She’s gripping his arm, trying to get free, but he pulls her harder, causing her to screech.

“Stop it, let me go!” From her words, I can tell she’s crying. Or was. I hate when people cry. Not in an emotional way, but in the way it grates on my nerves. It feels like electric zaps to my nerves, and I can’t fucking stand it.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid cunt,” the guy growls.

I look around the quiet street, wondering if any of the neighbors hear this. Is it common behavior from this couple? Do the neighbors look the other way? If so, that man has had his last lucky break because he’s exactly what I’ve been looking for tonight, and I am grateful as fuck that I’m aware enough to enjoy it.

Like an animal, I home in on my target, moving quickly but carefully across the street and up the narrow driveway. Darkness swirls within my chest, making my body calm and relaxed in a way nothing else can. My senses are on high alert. The man and woman are already in the house by the time I reach the frontdoor. I go for the handle because, like the arrogant asshole I know he is, he doesn’t lock it.

Doesn’t he know better?

In his shouting, he doesn’t hear me come in. He has the girl pressed against the wall across the living room, hands around her throat and squeezing. Both of their faces are red, but he’s spewing words at her, spit flying, while her lips are already a beautiful shade of blue. Her arms flail, slapping him in the face, on the chest, scratching his throat, doing anything she can to survive.

This girl wants to live.

She’s fighting for her life because she wants to see tomorrow. This woman doesn’t want to die. In her panic, her gaze darts around the room, landing on me and time stops. It just… fucking stops. Those bright, crystal blue eyes are a contrast against her dark hair. Eyes that hide no secrets. They’re full of emotion and stories and scars and pain. So much like mine, but also so very different.

I’m not Dexter Morgan. I don’t have a fucking code to this shit. I’ve killed innocent people, but it was never on purpose. Sometimes I just snap. When my darkness is hungry, he needs to eat. I feed him with the worst sorts of people when I’m in the right frame of mind. I’m capable of knowing the difference between good and bad, on most days. Problem is, I’m not always “here” enough to care.

This guy? He doesn’t deserve the air he breathes, doesn’t deserve to walk this earth and take in the moon and stars and everything wondrous. He is a cockroach. A disease. He’s nothing.

I am not a good man and some days I am most definitely a bad one. All the other times? I’m just me. Atticus fucking St. Claire, The Boston Phantom, and tonight… I’m going to feed my darkness a delicious meal.

Chapter Four

Lilah

This is it. This is finally it. I should have left weeks ago—months ago. All the opportunities I had to leave without him knowing, I shouldn’t have passed them up. I shouldn’t have chosen to give him another chance. Hell, I never should have dated him in the first place. The red flags were a mile long and a hundred feet high, but this is just what I do. Even if I survive this, I won’t change. I’ll never change because this is who I was born to be.

My head feels like it’s going to explode. My vision is dark around the edges and my chest burns. I’m not sure there is a good way to die, but I don’t think this is it. Everything hurts. The panic is real.

In a last-ditch effort to save my life—because even though it’s not the best life, I don’t want to die—I look around for something to hit Steven with. Maybe something I can stab him with. Something that’ll hurt. I won’t feel sorry about it. Not even a little bit. It’ll be self-defense and if I get a good enough lawyer, maybe I won’t even do jail time if he dies.

As I frantically look around for a weapon, finding nothing in reach, my gaze settles on a man. I don’t recognize this man. I’ve never seen him before. Yet he’s standing inside my front door. Maybe I’m closer to death than I think, and this is a hallucination of Death himself come to take me away to a better place.

Who the hell made Death sexy?

I dig my nails into Steven’s wrists, my mouth open in hopes he drops his hand so I can suck in a breath.

“You’re nothing but a whore, Lilah. A dirty fucking whore with a loose pussy. I should have killed you ages ago, you pathetic little sl—”

His words cut off as his hands fall from my throat. He drops to a heap on the floor and I go down right after him, falling onto my elbow that makes a weird popping sound. It’s the least of my worries as I gulp for air, heaving for breath so I don’t pass out. My head is fuzzy and heavy, my fingers numb.

I roll over, leaning on my forearms and knees, and just breathe. God, the air never tasted so good. I swear I’ll never take it for granted again. My head is pounding, along with my heart. I close my eyes and wipe my face with the back of my hand, ridding it of the tears but end up smearing snot. So I sit back on my knees and grab the hem of my shirt to wipe it clean before focusing on slowing my breathing back to normal. Every inch of me is shaking, and everything aches.

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