10:22 p.m.
SIMON HAS NOT locked the door. I sit on the floor and stare at the metal door before me. Count the scratches on its surface for the third time. Again I reach the number forty-seven. They are scratches of my own making, from nights when I went mad and tried to rip my way to freedom. Three years of insanity shown on that surface, should someone pay enough attention to look.
Simon has not locked the door. I noticed the oversight at 9:50, leaving a chat midsession, my feet bringing me to standing, my naked body heaving as I stared at the door, my eyes trailing down the thin crack between door and jamb and failing to see the thin view of dead-bolt lock. I ended the chat, leaving a fifty-year-old husband in Nevada hanging with his junk in his hand. I’d gingerly walked to the door, not touching its surface, not doing anything but looking. Verifying, my eyes close to the crack, that I was, in fact, unsecured.
10:23 p.m. It does not escape my attention that this is the precise time of night, roughly five years ago, that my mother was halfway through killing my family. That’s not why I am shaking; this is not necessarily my genetic hour of killing. For me, the killing is not restricted to night—my last kill occurred at the time of day when most individuals were diving into a bowl of Cheerios. But night is my weakest; night is my most vulnerable time. Hence my mandate that Simon lock me in.
Simon has not locked the door. He might be on the way now. Realizing, in whatever drug stupor that’s claimed his body, that he is late. Flooring his Kia’s gas pedal, not wanting to anger his source of pharmaceutical assistance. I move closer to the door, my bare feet sliding out, gripping concrete floor, my ass dragging across the cool surface as it plays catch-up with my heels. Closer now. Close enough that I see a dried line of blood, no doubt shed in a past attempt to break down my door and kill someone.
It hasn’t been long since I’ve had blood on my hands. Too short, really. Too short for me to want it like this. I had hoped, some twisted form of hope, that by killing, I would pacify the bloodthirstiness of my soul. That’s how it works in books. The serial killer kills every once in a while, and that death tides him over until the next psychological breakdown. But I only got a few days of solace, a few days where my mental state was so ruined that I could only sleep. Sleep and lie with Jeremy and let him take care of me. He had been so caring, so worried. I wonder if he’d have been so nurturing had he known what I had done.
I let the sharp blade sink into Ralph’s skin and yank left, cutting the throat as I have, through books and videos, been taught, the blade jerking in a wet sweep across his neck until it breaks loose of the skin.
I close my eyes and savor the memory. Wrap my arms tightly around my knees and rock back and forth, focusing on the images in my head, the way his blood pooled in the dirt, the look in his eyes, the steal of death across his features. The power. The rush. This is what Dr. Derek has taught me, this is what I know. When the urges get too strong, I am to contain myself and let the fantasies run wild. But I am not contained, my door is unlocked, and I can’t focus on anything but the opportunity before me. Time is wasting. Any minute I could hear the scrape of metal on metal and my opportunity will be gone. I bounce to my feet and stand, my breath quickening as I fight what I want with what I know. I know I shouldn’t. But I am weak. My hands shake. My heart pounds. I step forward and wrap my hand around the knob. Mentally prepare myself as—very faintly—my brain screams at me to stop.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I repeat the words and pretend to believe them. I can do this. I can leave the house at night. Just cross the street. Ice cream. I’ve gotten ice cream before. Ice cream and lotto. Maybe scratch-off or maybe I’ll buy my Powerball early.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I twist the knob and pull open the last barrier before me.