Chapter 8
Enzo
“Fuck…” I groan as the drug wears off. How much did that asshole give me?
Talk about a fucking out-of-body experience.
I couldn’t move, but I was kind of aware, like I was in a dream state, but not.
The hallucinations were fucking freaky, like I envisioned my attacker crying next to me in a fetal position.
But that’s nuts because he ran off. Still, the entire thing made me want to panic, but I couldn’t because I was calm as fuck.
“Asshole,” I muttered.
I’m still disoriented and nauseous. While under the drug, I couldn’t feel a damn thing, but now the pain in my hand is returning from when I punched the dickhead’s face. At least my nuts stopped throbbing.
But when I feel pressure and warmth against me, I freeze. I crane my head to the side and see my attacker curled into me like we’re fucking lovers or something. Is he… fucking sleeping against me?
Jesus fucking Christ.
What a surreal evening. I want to be angry at him, but my mind is still under the influence. I feel calmer than I should at the moment. If I hadn’t been drugged, I’d beat the fuck out of him again. I don’t give a fuck if he’s passed out.
And why the hell is he sleeping next to me?! Did the idiot drug himself? Nothing surprises me anymore.
My head is starting to throb as the drug leaves my system, but I need to move away from him, no matter how I feel. I slowly slide my body across my floor, careful not to wake him up, not that I care about being polite, but I need to process and decide what to do with him.
When I move away, I sit up, wrap my arms around my raised knees, and stare at the fucking psycho. Despite being more alert, I feel too good to hate him right now. What the hell did he give me?
I stand to test out my legs. While I’m still dazed, I can walk and move around fine. I head toward my closet and from the top shelf, I quietly grab my box of toys I used whenever I bring a guy home to fuck, and pull out my handcuffs.
With a deep breath, I bound over to him, quickly flipping him onto his stomach.
I handcuff his hands behind him before he can react, but he quickly wakes up and makes a strangled keening noise as he starts to struggle.
Ignoring his sudden panic, I sit him up on the floor and lean him against my bed.
I quickly close my door and lock it in case he tries to escape, but he doesn’t. Instead, the man cowers and whimpers, shrinking away from me. For someone bold enough to break into my home, attack me, and drug me, he is terrified. I’m stumped as to what the hell is going on.
“Who are you?!” I yell, though no rage is coursing through me.
Still, I needed fucking answers. I flip on the light, and we both blink at the brightness.
“Did you kill my brother, Enrique Escarra? Who sent you? Was it the Da Costa family? Do you work for them? Or were you hired? Why try to kill me? Why kill Enrique? Answer me now!”
The man visibly trembles and rocks back and forth, shaking his head as he mumbles, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Wrong, wrong, wrong… It’s all wrong. How could I have made such a mistake? How? Stupid, stupid…”
I walk over to my nightstand, open the drawer, and pull out my loaded gun.
Without removing the safety or loading a bullet into the chamber, I point the gun at him.
He freezes and instantly shuts up, but tears are streaming down his face.
Fucking hell. Am I still hallucinating? It’s hard to tell, but I don’t think so. I feel more lucid than I did earlier.
I squat in front of him, keeping my distance as he eyes me warily with bloodshot blue eyes. His face is starting to swell and bruise, and there’s blood dripping from his brow and bottom lip, which is crusting in his short beard.
“Let’s keep it simple, yeah? Because one way or another, I’m going to get answers.”
“Pl-please don’t hurt me. I-I-I…” He swallows visibly and tries again. “I thought I was helping.”
I raise a brow as this surreal situation gets even stranger.
“Helping? You think killing me was helping me?”
He quickly nods. “Y-you were hurting. I saw you. Heard you. You needed me… Or s-so I thought. So wrong. I was wrong.”
Holy shit, this guy is off his rocker. “Did someone send you?”
He shakes his head. “You did. You were hurting. I wanted your pain to end.”
“You’re not making any sense!” My voice booms, and he cowers again.
“If-if I explain to you and tell you… Just please don’t hit me again. Please. I beg you. It’s… I can’t. I can’t…” He starts rocking again, and now he’s sobbing.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, and then I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming or imagining all this. Never in my wildest dreams…
“No promises, but if you tell me everything, I’ll… think about it.”
His forehead is glistening with sweat, dampening his hair, which falls over his eyes. He flips his head back to get it out of his face to see better.
“God, it’s all over. I thought… My name is Arthur. Fuck, I hate that name. He made me hate my own name… But you should know. Yes, you should know and understand.”
I’m starting to feel normal again, at least physically, and with that comes my lack of patience and agitation. The thing is, I’m more curious than angry with this asshole.
“Focus,” I snap.
Another sob escapes him, and his head drops. “I failed. Oh, god… I can’t wait until next year. What have I done? I don’t know if I can take it…”
There’s that anger, and I tap into it. “Dammit! Shut up, Arthur! Tell me what the fuck is going on here.”
“I hate that name so much. Call me Constantine.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Speak!”
“God, you may as well know. It’s all over. I’m done… Oh, god!” He cries out and drops his head. With a deep breath and exhale, he says, “I’m the person they’ve been calling the… Silent Night Stalker.”
My eyes go wide, and I fall on my ass, but I don’t take the gun off him.
Holyfuckshit. Yep, this has got to be some fucking fever dream.
I must still be hallucinating. This night has gotten crazier and crazier.
I’ve heard on the news about this guy. How does someone so bumbling not get caught by the cops?
That can’t be right. No way. He’s got to be lying.
“Impossible. That serial killer makes no mistakes. That can’t be you.”
His face turns beet red, and he clenches his jaw, snarling.
He went from zero to a hundred in a second.
The mood shifts so fast, it stuns me. “I’m not a serial killer!
I’m not Steve! I’m an angel of deliverance!
” He growls out his frustration before he looks at me with terrified eyes again and withdraws into himself.
I’m still coming to grips with the fact that I have a literal serial killer sitting handcuffed on the floor of my bedroom. And who the fuck is Steve? This dude belongs in a loony bin. “You’ve killed a lot of people.”
“No! No, no, no. I helped them! They needed me. I saw their pain and suffering. The holidays make people suffer. Just like me. I suffered a lot. I know it when I see it. For so long, I wished someone would save me, too. No one came. No one saved me. So, I had to save myself, and God helped. Yes. Yes. He helped me. But a person? No. I didn’t get any angels.
Don’t you understand? I thought you would.
You were supposed to understand and accept my help, but you…
hit me. That really hurt. That was so mean. Steve hit me all the time.”
A picture is starting to form in my mind. Years of my own abuse have taught me to recognize trauma and PTSD when I see it. It takes me a moment to process his rambling and crying.
Even in my roughest times, I had Enrique by my side to help me get through it all.
It’s clear this dude had no one. You don’t break so hard with a support system, right?
Then again, everyone copes differently. So, someone named Steve must have really hurt him, and hurt him enough to make him truly believe he’s doing good in the world, and that he’s not a murderer.
He truly believes he’s saving people. It doesn’t seem like he’s lying.
He’s too erratic. His emotions are all over the place.
Then the epiphany suddenly hits me like a hammer to the head as I slide to the floor. I lost Enrique on the day I was at the bar. Arthur—or Constantine—saw me there in my grief. He must have assumed… Jesus.
I cross my legs, only slightly relaxing now that I know he hadn’t killed Enrique. If he had, he’d be dead on the spot.
Before I can open my mouth, he says, “You’re also an angel. I see all your pain.” His eyes have stopped leaking. They’re wide and pleading for me to understand.
I shake my head slowly, not sure I should bother trying to rationalize with this person, who’s clearly missing a few bolts.
“I’m grieving. I just lost my brother… well, my foster brother, but he’s still family.
Someone murdered him, and until now, I thought it was you.
He was shot in the head twice, execution style. ”
Constantine’s eyes turn sad, and his frown deepens. “I don’t shoot people. And I haven’t saved anyone this year yet. It wasn’t me.”
“I see that now.”
“Y-you don’t hate Christmas? It doesn’t make you hurt or sad? You don’t want to die?”
I huff a laugh at the strangeness of it all. He really did seem to care. He was royally fucked up, no doubt about it, but he really believes he’s the good guy in all this. Well, he could be playing me, but I don’t think so.
“No, I don’t want to die, and no, I don’t hate Christmas. I’m just grieving my loss and that we haven’t found his killer yet.”
Arthur… Constantine sags, and his head droops as a sob escapes him. “I got it so wrong. I’m so sorry. God, what am I going to do now?” He lifts his head and glances at the clock. His face grimaces, and he cries harder. “It’s… Christmas Day. It’s too late. It’s over.”
Then, he simply falls on his side and curls into himself much like I’d found him earlier. Fuck, this is weird.