Lovefool (Folie à Deux #2)

Taina

BONE COLLECTOR

If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that you can’t anticipate anything.

If there’s one thing men have taught me, it’s that you damn sure better try.

Bright-red blood spurts out of the side of this man’s neck, and the dry pavement soaks it up like it’s parched. I watch as the light leaves his eyes and his breathing slows to a halt until he’s just a sack of flesh staring at nothing.

You know what they say about people dying with their eyes open.

With a grimace, I wipe the blood from my hands on my dark hoodie, shoving the knife into my pocket as I glance up and around, making sure no one noticed us and there aren’t any cameras to take care of.

Alleys are safe for the most part, which is why I led him down one when I realized he was following me.

With my hood up and my head tucked into my chest, I whipped around and shoved my blade into the side of his neck before he could utter a word.

The Devil never travels alone, and I’m purging the earth of as many of his demons as possible.

But it’s dirty work, and I have somewhere to be.

Now I’ll have to stop and clean myself up before heading to the office a few blocks over, where I parked my car prior to doing some recon.

I’m typically not messy with my antics, but I’m in a rush and my therapist hates when I’m late.

Tardiness is inevitable today, but I still try to mitigate it as much as possible, ducking into the nearest fast-food restaurant to scrub at my skin, making sure I get under my nails.

They’re painted bloodred anyway, but you never know when someone is gonna take a good look at your fingers.

The backs of my hands are raw by the time I’m through. I take off my navy hoodie and wrap the knife in a bunch of paper towels, shoving it inside the hoodie I’m now carrying. I head toward the bathroom door and out into the restaurant.

No one is paying me any mind as I head toward the register, ordering a small fry and a soda. When I’m handed the cup, I walk over to the bank of fountain drinks and push the button for orange soda.

I’m staring at the wall when I start to slip away, my mind no longer present.

Empty moments where I no longer exist are all that are keeping me from losing my mind. When sticky soda splashes over the edges of the cup onto one of the hands I’d just scrubbed clean, I jump back, removing my finger from my button.

I slurp the excess soda, the shock of sweetness jolting me fully back to the present. They call my number for my fries just as I finish placing the lid on the cup.

A man I hadn’t noticed when ordering is holding my bag, a smile on his face. He’s attractive in an obvious way; a way that has made it far too easy for him to get pussy, I’m sure. Straight white teeth, looking like Barbie’s Ken or something.

I reach up to grab it, and his smile widens.

“Have a great day,” he murmurs, his eyes roving over my face and my breasts under my black compression shirt.

I snatch the bag, staring at him with unblinking eyes. He slowly pulls his arm back to his side, his smile beginning to lose its strength. I’m still staring at him when I take the pocketknife wrapped in paper towels out from my balled up hoodie and shove it into the bag of fries.

Only when I’ve finished do I turn on my heel, finally blinking.

Men need to feel uncomfortable around women far more often.

Shit, men need to fear women. Our rage is far too calculated.

Once outside, I rush around the side of the building and toss the bag into a dumpster, grimacing at the smell that wafts out when I release the heavy lid and it slams shut.

The streets aren’t busy, and thankfully it’s much warmer than it was this morning when I began my routine.

Wake up, have breakfast, take your body back as you maneuver a monster toward his inevitable and excruciating end.

That wasn’t always the plan.

Honestly speaking, for about six months, there was no plan. I was as present as my reflection. I looked alive, but it was a mere 2D existence within the confines of my grief.

The five steps of healing from my assault were out of order for me. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance were all tossed into a bag like marbles and scattered throughout my journey.

First came bargaining. All through the brutality, I bargained.

Acceptance followed suit when he didn’t care about how much I cried or my offer to have my family pay him for my freedom and safety, knowing I was going to die a violent death.

When I was released, there was almost an angry denial that he hadn’t just killed me and gotten it all over with.

And then depression set in and made me a ghost—a poltergeist, if you will—a haunting of my previous existence. I spent most nights screaming in my sleep and waking up in a cold sweat, my mother shaking me.

Then one day, I decided that if I didn’t know peace, neither would he. So for the last few months, I’ve been the dust that kicks up behind him, my form filling out his shadow. I’ve followed him, studied him, and often poked fun in little ways.

Batteries go missing, shoelaces ripped from every left shoe, doors left unlocked. My best trick was unlocking his safe and leaving it wide open, its contents still inside. I almost wanted to stick around, just to see his reaction. But he’s installed cameras in his home. No fun.

So now I send messages other ways.

Deadlier ways.

One, two, I’m coming for you.

Three, four, don’t bother locking the door.

I’m five minutes late when I get in the elevator, pressing the close button several times as I see a woman rushing to make it as well.

I hate people. Don’t want to be confined in small spaces with them, don’t relish the thought of interacting with anyone.

If they’re close enough to touch me, I’m on constant alert. It’s exhausting.

I press the number six and lean against the wall for the ride, hoping the good doctor doesn’t feel like being a pain in my nalgas today.

The doors open, and I straighten, preparing myself for whatever this shrewd bitch throws my way.

“You’re late,” I hear her before I see her, my foot just stepping over the threshold onto the worn, speckled carpet.

Cono.

She knows I’m coming, even when I am late; knows that therapy is a stipulation my parents came up with, threatening to cut me off if I didn’t go.

I think the nightly screams were the last straw for them .

With a sigh, I approach the receptionist desk, but it’s empty. I guess no checking in, then. She steps out of her office and stands there, arms crossed. A gray cardigan and black slacks with navy loafers assault me like something out of a nightmare.

Rich coming from someone who was violently sexually assaulted for days.

“Aren’t you supposed to look at the glass half full?” I ask, my voice monotone as I stare at her. “I’m late, yes. But I made it. Something could’ve happened to me, I could’ve?—”

She cuts me off, waving her hand. This bitch.

I raise a brow, but it’s the only tell I allow. Because if I lose it, none of us are making it out of this motherfucker.

Not alive, anyway.

“Ms. de la Matta, you waste my time like it’s a hobby of yours.

” I watch as she peers down at me with her glasses perched on her nose like some sort of schoolteacher.

She eyes the orange soda in my hand. “It’s a wonder your parents insist on your attendance when you aren’t getting much out of this. ”

“We’re here to discuss my trauma. Not your grievances,” I mutter as I walk past to her to enter her office. It’s sterile-looking, void of any bit of personality. The good doctor appears as boring as one would think.

But I know better.

I’m seated in my usual chair as she settles into her own across from me. I place the orange soda on the table beside me, knowing it’s going to leave a sticky ring on the glass.

She only offers a leveling stare, the sound of her clearing her throat, and then she begins. “Last we left off, you were explaining that your parents don’t hold space for?—”

“Shouldn’t you grab your notepad? Come on, Dr. Greene, we’ve done this far too long for you to be so unprepared,” I toss out, frustrated that I have to sit here just so I don’t end up on the street.

That pointed fucking stare of hers eats at me as she stands, marches to her desk, grabs a notebook, and sits back down across from me. Her perfect brunette bob barely brushes against the tops of her shoulders, and I eye the plain gold wedding band on her left ring finger from where I sit.

I wonder what she’ll write today.

As if she can hear my thoughts, she grabs the pen tucked in the spiral binding and scratches a few words onto a fresh sheet.

“Your parents, Taina,” she starts, leaning forward, her eye contact unnerving.

Like she’s trying to see through my bullshit.

But she doesn’t know I’ve piled it miles high.

To know me, to truly know me, is to get your soul dirty in the process.

I spare them the contamination with my surliness.

“I can’t badmouth the people paying you,” I mutter, glancing around the room before settling back on her. “Politicians don’t like dirt. Darling news anchors don’t like personal scandals. They have to have pristine backgrounds with no incidents.”

The words taste bitter as I stare down at my hands that were covered in blood less than an hour ago.

I wasn’t always this person.

If I allow myself to think back, I remember my thighs, covered in bruises and blood, my skin raw under the translucent hospital lights. Everything sounded like I was underwater, like nothing could quite reach me, not even sound.

I remember being asked if I’d like to press charges and the look on my mother’s face before she asked for the police officers to give me privacy…

that I wasn’t ready to talk. And she may’ve been right, but the moment they left, she sat on that hospital bed, the paper crackling under her weight, and stared her battered child in the eyes before telling me that it’s better that I tell them I don’t remember.

That this could be a blip in my life rather than a drawn-out tragedy.

That if I said anything, they wouldn’t want it to tarnish our family.

Because they don’t want to be tainted by the girl who got raped and tossed aside like garbage. She didn’t say it, but I listened between the lies.

It never became a “blip” in my life, as she claimed it would be.

It became my life.

But now?

Now I’m out for blood. In the meantime, I collect secrets and hold them close to my chest like armor.

Bones stolen from the closets of others now litter my own.

And they keep me safer than I’ve ever been.