10. West
“ S ix months, West,” Dad reminds me for the umpteenth time, prompting an eye roll from me. He’s repeated this so often that it’s all I can think about now. “It may feel long, but it’s not. Time will pass faster than you can blink, and I need you to keep it together. You can’t fuck this up.”
I nod at his warning look. “I got it, Dad. I know what to do.”
“No, you don’t,” he protests. “How long has it been since you had a real girlfriend? A year? Ten?”
Since I turned eighteen, and with my birthday coming up soon, it’ll be twelve years. “Yeah, around that. But it doesn’t matter. I know how this works.”
He slaps my knee, and only then do I realize my leg has been shaking nonstop since we arrived at the park. I’m not used to being out like this, and the scorching sun is making me feel hot, annoyed, and fucking angry. I can sense people staring at me as if I’m some sort of showpiece in a museum.
“I don’t believe you, West,” he says through clenched teeth. “Look at yourself. You reek of all the powder you’ve been snorting, and you’re acting like a psychopath. We’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes, and all you’ve done is draw unwanted attention.”
I run my hands through my hair as the ends tickle the sides of my forehead, only adding to my irritation. Maybe I should shave it all off; it’s driving me fucking insane. “I—I understand what?—”
“What was that?” he asks, leaning in. His eyes scan mine, penetrating through the lenses of my sunglasses. When I shrug, unsure of where he’s going with this, he starts mimicking my stutter, swinging his hand toward my face before abruptly pulling it back, realizing we’re in public. “Look at yourself. You’re almost thirty, and you can’t even fucking talk like a normal human being.”
I grit my teeth, trying to push back the flicker of resilience that flares up inside me. “I can talk, Dad. I just?—”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand, the golden wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. He hasn’t taken it off since Mom died—not even for a second. Unease and disgust churn in my stomach at the reminder that I was the one who killed her, and I turn my face away from him.
“Pathetic. You’re fucking pathetic, West.” He pauses, letting out a huff. “I just hope Venetia can set your brain straight.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “I’ll control myself, Dad, but I can’t promise the same about her. She’ll be at my throat all the fucking time; I know that.”
“You think anyone cares about that?” he asks, laughter bursting from his chest. Of course, not him, not her father—they don’t care that they’re forcing two people who have spent years spitting in each other’s faces into marriage. “I don’t care what she does to you or what you do to her behind closed doors. Hit each other, scream, fight, but keep it private. And—” He trails off, his hand clenching into a fist. “I know she burned your car, even though you deleted the footage. It was too fucking obvious,” he says. “If anyone asks, you didn’t put out your cigarette in the ashtray properly because you’re a fucking idiot, and it rolled onto the floor while you were already out of the car. Got it?”
I bend my fingers, relishing the pleasant crack of my bones and the nagging wave of pain that spreads through my knuckles. “Got it.”
“Good. Play it the way you need to and do something right for once in your life.”
A hush settles between us as I lean back on the bench, my back pressing against the hardwood. I survey the surroundings, the greenery of the park makes my eyes itch, even through the thick lenses of my sunglasses. Families fill the space, their laughter and smiles grating on my nerves.
It feels ironic to be surrounded by happiness and carefree laughter when I’ve never truly experienced those things myself.
“Ah, almost forgot,” Dad cuts in, handing me his phone. The screen glows with some man’s name and an address written in his notes. “Got something to lighten your mood.”
He used to hand me long lists detailing those he needed to take care of, but over time, he realized I didn’t care who they were or what they did. I just wanted to get the job done. So now, he gives me only a name and an address.
“Our distributor. He stole a couple thousand and thought I wouldn’t notice. Get rid of him tonight. I can’t fucking rest knowing he’s still breathing.”
A smirk spreads across my face as I nod, quickly transferring the information to my phone. After everything that’s happened, this feels like a breath of fresh air—exactly what I need to let off some steam and calm down before heading out with Venetia.
“Will be done.”
The screams reverberate off the cement walls, a symphony that pleases my ears. I raise my head, allowing a faint golden light from a small window near the ceiling to illuminate my face.
The best way to spend a Friday evening.
“You know why I find this so amusing?” I ask, slowly turning to the man—whatever his name is, I’ve already forgotten—and walking toward him. He’s not even tied to a chair and hasn’t attempted to escape. Probably because I stabbed his knees, but also because people like him freeze up when it really matters. They can steal, lie, and cheat, but when the chips are down, they’re utterly paralyzed.
I stop just an inch away from him, my eyes scanning my handiwork. His face is battered, a black eye nearly engulfed by the shadows of the room, with streaks of blood smeared across every inch of him—especially his chest and knees. Blonde hair clings to his forehead, slick with sweat and grime, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to suppress a smile.
He bears a striking resemblance to Eli, albeit a bit taller. Fuck, even this piece of shit is taller than Venetia’s precious boyfriend. It’s clear that she’s torn apart whatever picture of a relationship they had. We’re getting married, and she’s just realized she won’t be able to see her little plaything anymore.
I didn’t think news like this could bring me joy, but here we fucking are. And now, I get to toy with a guy who looks so much like him.
“Because you always think you can get away with whatever you’re planning behind our backs,” I continue the thought I started voicing a moment ago. “Every single man in your position thought the scariest thing that could happen was getting fired. Who would’ve guessed you’d end up in the basement, bloodied and bruised, huh?”
“Please,” he begs, sounding like a broken record. “I just want to go home. I want to see my family!”
They all seem programmed to say the same fucking thing. Each man I’ve killed gave zero thought to their family; each had secret affairs, some even juggling multiple at once. They disrespected their wives, abused them, and wiped their feet on them, thinking they were untouchable gods because of their money.
I’m no hero, but honestly, it feels good to give them what they fucking deserve.
When I was younger, I thought my dad had cursed me. Not many twelve-year-olds get to witness torture and blood, and then go to school as if nothing happened. I kept thinking how wrong and unfair it was. While my peers worried about whether their crush liked them back or about the upcoming math test, my mind was consumed with thoughts of men I’d seen like this.
But over time, I got used to it. More than that, I started to enjoy it. There’s a twisted satisfaction I take from this process. Not that I ever got off on it, no. It’s more about mental relief—finally being able to stop thinking about how miserable your life is and how alone you feel, immersing yourself in the torture instead.
Knowing that tomorrow is a pivotal day, I let myself lose track of time in the process tonight.