Page 6 of Reaper & Ruin
I barely remembered what day it was anymore. That part of my brain—the part that kept track of weeks, months, birthdays—had gone quiet somewhere along the way. Didn’t feel important.
But I could feel the passage of time in other ways.
My clothes didn’t fit right anymore. My shirt hung loose across my chest, the collar stretched, the fabric stiff from dried sweat and dirt. My pants sagged around the waist, and the belt I’d come in with had disappeared somewhere along the line. Maybe the masked bitch had taken it. Maybe I lost it when I passed out from dehydration that first week before she remembered she had towater me.
She’d said sorry. Told me that she was more used to having a cactus than a flesh plant. Said she forgot flesh plants needed water.
I was sure she was psychotic. She wasn’t a killer like I was—it wasn’t just a way she made money, or a thing she’d fallen into after growing up with a father who ran a gang.
My new cellmate asked for my name, pulling me out of my head. I didn’t give it to her. She didn’t need it.
It made no difference who I used to be.
After a few more moments of babbling, I stared at her again. As she spoke about the men who would come to collect her. The ones I presumed were the reason she was here, seeing as I doubted it was her fault. It was hard to listen when I was so… bored. Tired. When I felt nothing like the man I used to be.
The stubble on my face never grew into a full beard, but it itched constantly. My nails were too long. Dirt had packed under them and stayed there. My skin looked gray in the low light, like I’d been dipped in ash. Nothing like the usual sun-kissed shade I had, thanks to my mother being from St. Kitts.
Not that I could remember much about her anymore either. She’d been dead longer than I’d known her. Sometimes, whenit got extra dark and quiet, I could hear her singing to me. Soft little lullabies about heaven and happiness.
But I didn’t believe in heaven, and happiness was not something men like me got to have.
Even my mind felt slower as the stranger kept talking and talking. Thoughts took longer to form. Words came out wrong sometimes when I spoke, like I’d forgotten how to be around people. Like the language itself was rusting.
The version of me that walked into this place hadn’t been clean or whole, but he’d still been something. A man with direction. A plan. A purpose, however dark. I didn’t know what I was now. Not exactly broken. Just dulled down to the bare minimum of being.
And the worst part? It didn’t scare me.
I should’ve been panicking. Screaming. Plotting revenge.
Instead, it just sat inside me like everything else.
And I knew why.
Because I deserved it.
That wasn’t some dramatic self-loathing bullshit. It was just the truth. I was a terrible person. Not in the abstract way, either. Not in the way that made you drink too much or say the wrong thing in fights. I’d done things. Really messed up things. The kind you didn’t bounce back from.
I killed people for a living. Not in combat. Not in war. Just for money. Whoever paid the most got the cleanest job. I never tortured anyone. Never dragged it out. That was the only line I ever drew. But it still made me a killer.
I didn’t feel bad about it. I never had. I just took the payday and moved on to the next target.
So, no—I wasn’t surprised someone wanted me gone. Maybe it was a family member of someone I killed. Maybe it was a former client tying up loose ends. Or maybe it had nothingto do with business at all. Could’ve just been some sick freak collecting strays.
Didn’t matter.
What mattered was that I was here. Buried in a hole in the ground, next to a girl who clearly didn’t belong in one.
She wasn’t like me.
Not just because she still wouldn’t shut up. But because there was something still alive in her. Something that hadn’t been numbed out of her yet. Her voice cracked when she asked questions. Her hands kept twitching like she didn’t know what to do with them. She looked at the walls as if they might move if she stared long enough.
She’d been terrified when she woke up, but it was the kind that came from not knowing what was happening. Not the kind that came from knowing exactly how bad things could get.
She didn’t move like someone used to violence. Her limbs were clumsy, her knees kept buckling, and her fingers trembled whenever she wiped her face. Even now, sitting in the dirt, she looked like she wanted to disappear into herself. She pulled at her tights as if they were supposed to shield her from the cold. Rubbed her arms like she was trying to erase whatever was touching her skin.
She wasn’t a criminal. Not even close.
Whatever brought her here, it wasn’t anything she’d done.
