Page 25 of Voracious

The first thing I consciously remember learning is not to let anyone know what makes you happy. I stole a little light up bouncy ball when I was four and Yulia melted it, the dumb bitch. It didn’t even make noise and I never threw it. The light just made me feel better in the dark when I’d be locked in, but she put it in a frying pan and made me watch as it sizzled, and the rubber turned into a gloopy puddle. The light didn’t go out straight away, it was strong and stayed blinking until the wires had melted.I miss the bouncy ball.

That memory is what forces me to look at anything other than the sticker. I’ve managed to keep it, even when I’ve lost my name and my place in the world. I’ll always have that sticker to talk to. Me, the sticker and the moon, my friends and family. As long as I have the sticker it’s okay, someone will smile at me, and I can’t be alone. Even if there’s another 104 days, I won’t be alone.

I hum the made up song in my head and turn with my back to Dima to swap my contacts out. He’s already seen my eye, and he was staring. I’ve never seen him scared of anything and that was the closest to it with his heart rate speeding up and his jaw dropped. He’d probably have a heart attack if I took them both out. I might do it when he’s asleep and stand at the end of his bed. He’d scream, and it would be funny.

A heavy sigh comes from behind me as he picks his ass up off the floor. I turn and the world is duller again, like it shouldbe. He only has boxers on, and his hair is damp. It’s thick and doesn’t stick to his scalp but it points outwards, lucky bastard. Mine always makes me look like a creature. The brand behind my ear itches with having other people’s eyes on it all day. It’s stupid as fuck, showing how dumb Yulia and Marlo are that they did three brands. One was enough, it’s not like I can go anywhere without my head, for fuck’s sake.

Dima grumbles something about his shoes and I’m excited again. I like blood, it’s soothing to watch it flow out. Especially from someone else’s body and you know that the red puddles aren’t yours. Maybe the Grim Reaper keeps letting me escape because it likes what I’m doing, it agrees with me. So, it just follows me around wherever I go and gives me invisible high fives for another nonce that it collects.

I end up laughing, unable to hold it back as I look around the empty room. I hope it’s real. But if I was a ghost, I’d be able to see the Grim Reaper. My body gets heavier, and the tiredness comes back. I just want to know if I’m real.

My good moodwavers when I walk into the warehouse and Vlad is already here. He’s like a bad smell that’s stuck up my nose, refusing to disappear. I’d heard whispers of what he was doing, and no one ever knew his name. I stupidly thought he’d be a good person, but he’s weird as fuck and steals the jokes right out of my head before I can ever say them.

His missions with Dima and Stasi are too well thought out for him not to be a sociopath, but I force myself to smile so no one knows there’s nothing in my head.I think it’s a smile anyway, I can’t see my cheeks and when I practice without the sticker it always looks wrong.

There’s only one person alive in the warehouse and I contemplate killing Vlad for getting rid of the others. I like Inessa, she’s kind and tried to help me without asking me for anything. She’s the only person who looked genuinely upset when I visited every shelter or charity looking for Nina. She’ll be hurt if he’s dead, so will Tali and he doesn’t make jokes like everyone else, and he always gives me half of whatever he’s eating.They make me control myself and it’s harder when he turns around at the sound of our steps.

Being a weirder fuck than usual, Vlad stares at me with his brows coming together. He analyzes my hair and then moves down my face like a scanner. The woman spent hours on it and steamed my scalp before she massaged it. I don’t think it looks wrong, but he doesn’t stop staring at me. I give a warning, so Inessa and Tali know it was his fault when he dies.

“Stop staring at me, you old bastard.”

He lifts his foot and I square my shoulders and plant my feet in anticipation of him punching me in the face again. It’s usually me who gets the first hit in, but he only makes it half a step when Dima stands in front of him and begins talking about some random bullshit.

“What did your message mean?”

I leave them to their weird conversation about something I don’t care about. I don’t even listen to them when they’re talking about the safehouses the nonces keep. I go to the sniveling sicko and there’s a spring in my step as I swipe two knives from the table. I’ve always had this thought about anatomy, the phrase about people having black hearts has got to have started from somewhere and I let myself find answers. But he’ll die too quickly if I go straight for his heart. Tapping the edges of the knives together, I muse out loud in between each metallic clink.

“What to do, with you. There’s so many options.”

I’m not trying to have a conversation; I know that if I don’t use my voice for long periods of time I’ll forget how to speak.

My nose scrunches up, seeing the crotch of his jeans darken and the wet patch grows in a line, running down his leg and ending in a puddle below his hanging feet. That’s fucking disgusting. He’s older, at least late fifties if I’m being generous. He should know better than to piss himself.

The idea comes to me, remembering every fucked up punishment I gave out and I smile. I’ll replace the memories, scrub out the information from the folder and put this man’s name in place of the children’s. Finding the controls for the chains, I slowly lower them and nearly laugh as his emotions flicker from fear to hopeful relief. When it’s lowered enough for his hands to be free of the hook, I start tapping the blades again and don’t rephrase what I was taught.

“If you act like a filthy animal, I’ll treat you like one. Clean up your mess.”

It’s a script from someone else’s voice. I’m not the person doing it just like at Yulia’s. I’m sat in the middle of a forest and the moon is huge, shining down on me. Until someone laughs, it’s dark and twisted but there’s no reprimand from Vlad. Dima looks like he’s going to be sick and stands back, hiding his disgust as the kid fucker lowers to his knees.

He’s so fucking stupid and tries to clean his piss up with the bottom of his t-shirt. Stupid idiot. I stomp forward and my leg cocks back with my frustration of what he’s ruining. Kicking him in the face doesn’t help release it when there’s a fucking script. My anger stilts my voice and I fist the knives harder, not wanting to focus on anything but making him feel pain.

“Lick. It.”

Some of it lessens when he cries, and my laugh shakes my chest.

“I’m sorry, please, I didn’t know what it was.”

Just like I have a script, so do they. They all say the same things.

I didn’t know.

They lied about their age.

I didn’t know how old they were.

I have a wife.

I have children.

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