Page 8 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

A few minutes go by, trapping me in my own world. Thankful to be alive and bringing my body back down to normal, it’s then that I register the sounds around me.

A wet, squelching thumping, mixed with grunts and soft gasps. I don’t pay it any mind because my heart is still racing, my hands still trembling, and I think I’m going to throw up. A few more minutes pass, and my headache starts to subside, but I still won’t open my eyes. I can’t. What if I’m dead? What if I open my eyes and see white fluffy clouds or lava streams? What if the Devil himself is standing in front of me, ready to welcome me? Guess it wouldn’t be too far from how I’ve lived my life…

I do a few rounds of square breathing, something I was taught as a teenager to ease panic attacks. It never helps, but I do it just the same. Maybeone dayit’ll work.

The breathing must be working on some level, because my brain switches gears.

Steven let me go.

He let me go.

No, he didn’t let me go.

There was a strange man in my house. He was standing by the door. He—

I force my eyes open, sucking in a sharp breath as I seethatman, the stranger, with blood splattered all over his handsome face. There’s something long and metal in his hands and he brings it down, over and over and over again, onto Steven until there’s nothing but a loud thud—the metal hitting the hardwood floor. I look down and see Steven’s throat gone. Just… gone. Where it was is just black and goopy… mush. This intruder hit him so many times, stabbed him so many times with the sharp end of the fire poker, that it mangled Steven’s throat so badly that it’s just…gone. Beheaded.

The amount of blood pooling on the floor is grotesque, and the smell is choking me in a whole different way than Steven wasmoments ago. I push off the floor and fall back to it seconds later, unable to hold my own weight. Crawling away, I huddle in the corner, trying to catch my breath.

This is so like you, Lilah.

Rid yourself of one awful man only to get into the arms of someone much worse.

Only, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t find this man. He found me. And not only that, but he saved me. He saved my life.

The stranger stares at me from where he’s standing, across from the fireplace, chest heaving, eyes wild. He’s covered in blood, fire poker in his hand with bits of Steven’s flesh hanging off the end.

I should be sickened by this. I should be throwing up. But unfortunately, this is all too familiar to me, and there is a strange comfort knowing that someone was so keen on protecting me, that they killed someone for me. Toxic, I know. Red flag, totally. But I am who I am, and I can thank my father and his psychotic genes for that. Holding my elbow that’s still sore, I stare up at this man, wondering if he’s going to kill me next.

Is that what he’s here for? Is that why he broke into our house? Is he some crazed serial killer rapist, making his way through town?

People get murdered around here all the time. It’s nothing new, and our deaths will be just another folder on top of some detective’s desk that’s “too busy” to even open it. Unsolved. Neither me nor Steven are important enough to care about. Steven Lewis, son of Henry Lewis, an infamous Boston oncologist who diagnosed people with cancer when they didn’t have it. He performed expensive tests on them, gave them medicine, and then declared them cured. All for money. When he was put in jail about ten years ago, Steven inherited everything. I’m not sure how all of that works, but the DA wasn’table to prove all the money came from illegal actions, and so Steven was able to keep it.

Then there’s me. Lilah Spencer. Daughter of Victor Spencer, the father who lost his mind. They couldn’t even come up with a catchy name for him, so he only got a headline. Though, there were a lot of reports about him and the case got pretty big, especially because his brother was a cop. Apparently, he had some form of schizophrenia that went undiagnosed for years, but doctors say that isn’t why he did what he did. He was a psychopath who kept people chained in our basement until he got tired of them, then killed them. When he was finally caught, he said he did it all for me. That he took bad people to rid the world of them to protect me.

It’s morbidly sweet, that he loved me so much he’d kill for me. And I know that isn’t right. Murder is wrong, but how do you ignore someone who makes a gesture so damn grand, well aware that they are risking it all, just for you? My love language is acts of service and I’m not ashamed of that. I accepted these parts of myself long ago. Maybe I’m a little tapped in the head and in need of therapy, but what’s the point? I like who I am. I like this darkness in me—the darkness that is attracted to weird, strange, and scary things. Like my father, I guess. We were close. I never saw anything wrong with him. Sure, he was a bit odd and liked some dark things, but that’s just who he was. It’s who I was—who I am. I refuse to change myself just to fit into a society that is beyond broken.

I get myself to my feet when the bloody stranger doesn’t move. Maybe this is my chance to escape. He’s much taller than me, close to a foot taller, with a wide build. Like a football player who hasn’t worked out in a few months. I must be faster than him, and I have the upper hand of knowing the layout of this house. I could run upstairs and exit through the fire escape. But that’s not what I do.

“Are you going to kill me?” I ask instead of running.

Yeah, because that’s smart. Talk to the strange man who just beheaded your boyfriend, Lilah.

He blinks once… twice… then says, “That depends.”

“On what?”

He drops the fire poker, the rattle echoing through the room. I flinch but hold his gaze.

“Are you going to tell anyone what happened here?”

I shake my head, keeping my eyes on his. They narrow slightly, and he stays silent for far too long. Long enough that I could have been around the block, but my feet are still glued to the floor.

“Why do I believe you?” he asks softly.

“Because I’m not lying.”

When he doesn’t move or say anything, I walk to him, not a single ounce of fear in my body. Even though I just watched him destroy Steven’s throat, I’m not scared. Not much scares me these days. Not when I’ve seen real monsters all my life. Steven was the monster in this house, not this guy.

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