Deathtrap (Murder and Mayhem #1)

Chapter 1

Alexa, play ‘Mr. Sandman’ by SYML

“The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.”

—BUFFY SUMMERS, BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER

T he first person I ever killed was my mother. I ripped the life from her on my way out of her womb.

Of course, I was an infant at the time, so I don’t remember seeing the Reaper in the birthing room — but I know he would have been there.

He always was.

The next person to die was my father. My aunt told me I was playing with my blocks when he tripped down the stairs. He broke his neck and died on impact. I was two at the time, and this is the earliest memory I have of Death. He loomed over my father’s body, staring at me from beneath the shadows of his hood. I was too little to be afraid, but I should have been.

I went to live with my aunt and uncle after that.

That didn’t last long, either.

Three short years later, they both died in a horrific car crash. The police came to the house and found me in my bed, staring at the cloaked demon that stood silently in the corner of my room. I had known my aunt and uncle were dead before the cops found me because the Reaper had found me first.

The police hadn’t believed me when I told them it was the monster who watched me from the shadows. They told me it had just been a horrible accident.

I knew better.

After that, there was no one else to take me in, and I was put into the system at six years old. It was recommended to my foster parents that I receive some form of counseling. The little girl who kept talking about the shadow man who watched her sleep and killed her loved ones was clearly mentally ill.

Unfortunately for me, most of my foster parents didn’t have extra money for therapy. Unfortunately for them, my demonic stalker didn’t care if they had money or not. He killed them anyway.

I was sixteen the first time I tried to commit suicide.

It hadn’t worked.

It never worked.

When the idea first came to me, I did quite a bit of research before making an attempt. I wanted to get it right , you know? I found some suicide forums online and did my best to learn the most effective way to take my own life.

Deathbringer4367:

Always go down the road, never across the street

if you want to make it to the other side.

Deathbringer4367 seemed to know what they were talking about. They had ten thousand suicide-obsessed followers.

I’ll never forget the first time I tried. It was like my mind had burned it into my memory so I would remember the failure and take it for the lesson that it was.

I followed the instructions perfectly.

While my newest foster parents were out for the day, I filled their antique clawfoot bathtub with warm water and climbed in with my razor blade. The bathroom was outdated, with its fluffy pink bath mat and seashell-shaped soaps. The woman who had taken me in this time had clearly made an effort to keep her home clean. The linoleum floors were cracked, but they were spotless. They didn’t have much money, but they did their best to keep their belongings in good condition. I felt bad about the trauma my new guardians would likely inherit after finding my dead body in their bathroom, but I supposed it was better than winding up dead themselves.

I made sure I cut deep enough that there was no chance of survival. I was so thorough with the first wrist that it had been nearly impossible for me to do the other.

Once the blood flowed from both wrists and spread like crimson ink into the water around me, I lay in the bathtub and waited.

And waited .

And waited.

Finally, Death came, but he didn’t take me away.

His presence was announced with the flicker of the dusty overhead light. The bulb sputtered in the ancient fixture as if it were fighting for its life. I watched my demon seep up through the floor as the light finally succumbed to the darkness.

He stood in the corner of the bathroom and stared at me, his face hidden as it always was in an endless hood of shadow. He ran his ink-black fingers up and down the pole of his scythe, stroking it gently as he stared. I watched as the demon’s cloak curled around him as if it were a living thing. He had no reflection in the double vintage mirrors that lined the wall over the cracked, flaking, mint-green countertops.

Instead of being afraid, I stared back and willed him to take me with him. Silently, I begged him to end my pain and free me from this lonely prison called life.

Of course, he didn’t take me. I could feel his hatred. My pain amused him. He enjoyed watching me suffer, and I wondered what I could have done to upset this demon so much that he wanted to watch me die but refused to grant me the peace of death.

So I lay there in a tub filled with my own blood until the water turned cold and the sun went down. When I finally stood up, I could feel his eyes on my sinfully naked body. I now had two perfectly healed pink scars on the insides of both wrists. It was the only proof that I had tried to end my life at all.

My shadowy stalker watched me closely for two weeks after that.

Every subsequent attempt to end my life was the same. Each time, he hung around longer and longer. So, I eventually gave up on suicide. At least when he came for the people around me, he didn’t stick around for longer than a night.

I hated him.

I hated the way he stared, and I hated the way he took everyone I cared about but refused to take me.

It didn’t matter.

There was no escape.

The older I got, the more suspicious people became. People started to notice as I collected a string of seemingly innocent accidents. Why did someone seem to meet their end in every home I moved to?

I was held for questioning for the first time shortly after my initial suicide attempt. A mentally ill homeless man pushed my most recent foster mother in front of a subway train. Was I somehow involved? Did I tell that man to push her? Where was I when she died?

By now, I knew there was no use pointing to the cloaked figure who watched with glee from the shadows of the interrogation room. I knew they couldn’t see him. He was only there for me .

As soon as I turned eighteen, I knew I needed to get out on my own. I couldn’t rely on anyone else if I wanted them to live and if I wanted to avoid ending up in prison. I knew the truth wouldn’t be enough to protect me if this went on much longer. I would eventually end up behind bars. So, when I could, I started looking for work that would pay well without much experience. I just needed enough to manage rent for one.

That was how I found myself working at Voodoo.