Page 41 of His

“But you kill others. Torture them.”

He smiled sadly and wrung hot water over my shoulder. The washcloth felt rough against my skin, and I wanted his hand back on me, as much as I hated to want it.

“I told you, kitten, these are not good men that I find. I need to kill, and if anyone has to die, it is a good thing that it is them.”

I looked back down at my wrists. The white scar almost glowed against the redness of my skin in the heat of the steam.

“Have you ever thought about it?” I asked quietly. “Suicide?”

“Killing myself?” He laughed out loud, and the sound echoed against the bathroom tiles. It was such a strange reaction, but his laugh made me want to laugh along, that’s how infectious it was. “God, no. That’s abnormal.”

“Abnormal?”

“I’m not judging,” he said, spreading his hands. “It’s simply abnormal.”

I blinked hard. His reaction took me completely aback.

“I can’t believe a serial killer thinks I’m abnormal.”

“Take it as a compliment. Most people are like me: we enjoy life. Or at the very least, we don’t want it taken away from us. I think that’s what joy is.”

“I can’t… I don’t…”

“Don’t worry, kitten,” he said, smiling. “But answer another question for me, please. A trade, if you like.”

“Sure,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. It felt crazy to have a serial killer laughing at me for trying to kill myself. Then again, there wasn’t anything that wasn’t crazy about this whole situation.

“Tell me, kitten,” he said, still smiling boldly at me, “why exactly did you try to kill yourself?”

Gav

Delicious, her body. The water turned the pale skin pink, reddened her cheeks in the white fog of the water. She held her arms up obediently on either side of the tub, the bandages only a few inches above the waterline. I kept waiting for her hands to slide down accidentally toward the water, but they never did.

She was perfectly in control of her body. I could see it from the way she moved. Carefully, her toes tested the water, slipped in only when she was sure that it wouldn’t burn.

I wouldn’t burn you, I wanted to say.I wouldn’t hurt you.

Of course, that wasn’t quite true.

“Why did you try to kill yourself?”

It was a simple question, but from the way she reacted I could tell that it was one she hadn’t had to answer in a long time. Her plump pink lips parted, her chestnut hair darkening almost to black at the roots from where her sweat had moistened it. A strand of hair lay stuck to her neck, and I wanted to brush it away and kiss the spot it had left.

“I was bored,” she said.

“Of life?”

“Yes.” The word slipped out past her lips, and she stared as though watching it go. I was silent. I wanted to listen. I wanted to understand.

“I hated my parents,” she said. “My stepdad was horrible, and my mom didn’t stop him when he…”

She waved her hand at me as though I knew what was in that lacuna - a lifetime of abuse, maybe, or some kind of emotional torment. The memories choked in her mouth, and she looked down. Was she looking at her body under the clear hot water? Or was she trying to find her reflection there between the ripples?

The silence was broken by a single drop of water falling from the faucet into the tub. Her head jerked up and she continued as though reawakened.

“I didn’t like anything… anything at all. It was like the world was empty, black and white instead of color, like you said. Mostly black.”

“Black?”

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