CHAPTER TWELVE
I walk tonight, carrying my little parcel under my arm like a guarded possession. I don’t have any fears as I walk through the dark streets.
Teenagers have been throwing rocks at the overhead lights until they are destroyed, so the way is not well lit.
Most women would think twice about walking such a dangerous path, but I’m not scared.
I walk a far darker path than anyone I could meet on these roads.
I guess I didn’t just stumble into this way of life. I think it was always something inherent in me. When I was younger, a lot younger–long before I had Shiloh–I once was rebellious. I fought with activists and pacifists and all the ‘ists’ in between. I was always a rebel, but there had always been something darker in my soul.
When I was a child, I used to pull the wings off flies. Catch them, pin them, and rip off their wings slowly. No one knew. At least, I don’t think anyone noticed. My mother was too busy with her feminism to notice what I did.
Then there was the time I drowned the little boy. That was my first death. It activated something deep down inside me. He had been a toddler, but he kept getting in my way and we were alone, left to play by the pool. A foolish mistake.
I first pushed him in, then I held his head under water. I left him floating in the water while I went inside to play with my dolls. They each had their place in my dollhouse. The screams that echoed through the house when he was discovered stirred something deep inside of me. A happiness I hadn’t been able to explain.
At first, I had been worried about being caught. I don’t want to go to prison; I have no intention of it. My mark is to be left on this world more tangibly than others, and for that, I cannot be locked up.
I need to be able to move freely.
I moved within the shadows and dealt with the back door–the black market. I moved stealthily in the shadows, while playing an innocent angel during the day.
At nighttime I came alive.
I didn’t want to push drugs. That wasn’t the lifestyle for me. Nor did I want to mug people. No, I wanted to perform a service. The more people I got to know, the more I learned about forbidden services people performed. Assassins. Bounty hunters.
These were the people with whom I could relate to, though I didn’t ever make friends. There is no place in this world for friends. No, instead I absorbed every ounce of advice they had to offer me, until one came along and mentioned it.
La Douleur Folle.
A secret so well-kept it took me many years to uncover it, and then a few more to uncover its location. No one would speak of it. It was for civilized company, not that I kept company with anyone civilized to begin with. It was a death trap; it was reported. The root of evil. The place in which hell was built. A place where people went to–to die.
I had made my way there and expressed my willingness for a room. There had been others, but we didn’t interact. We never interact.
It isn’t in our nature. We have our spaces, and in those spaces, our greatest imaginings can come to life.
This was a sanctuary. A place where I could be myself–completely myself, and perform the real work I was destined to do.
I hadn’t hesitated when they brought me my first, nor my second, nor any after that. Sometimes there are lulls between contracts and the demons inside of me roar in anger, but I keep them under control.
I will not be taken by madness like he was.
No, I am in control, and Shiloh will learn that from me. She will learn control, and that the darkness is not to be feared.
Even now, the shadows follow me almost longingly. Calling to me from their darkness. Recognizing me as one of them, a movement against the light. Where there is brightness we shrink back, but in the night, we grow and we feast.
We devour the light and bring forth an eternal night.
A couple walks toward me, if they’re surprised to see me they don’t say anything. They’re arm in arm. Safety in numbers, some would say, but there have been times when there’s been more than one contract to complete at a time, and numbers didn’t keep anyone safe.
The package is squeezed tight against me. It’s in protective Styrofoam so I can’t accidentally crush the syringes or vials of adrenaline.
I wonder if Boy is ready for tonight. Has he moved onto acceptance? Has he realized his fate?
Only time will tell.
I start up the hill towards La Douleur Folle, and once I reach it; I slip through its doors like a snake slipping through the eaves of a house unseen,ready to startle anyone who comes across me, ready to strike… but there’s no one. I can hear the crematorium in the background, but that’s the only noise I hear until I reach the boy.
He’s groaning. Begging for help.
I’m surprised he has the energy.
I open the door, and he squints in my direction.
“No. Somebody help!” he yells before I shut the door.
“Good evening,” I say.
“Please, no.”
I set the package down on the bedside table and go take off my coat and purse, leaving them both in the bathroom. I wash my hands and go to unwrap the package.
“Did you get any rest?”
“Please.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Exhaustion can do a lot to you, but I have just the pick-me-up.” I take out a syringe and take off the cap, protecting the needle. “It’s all sterile, don’t worry. My supplier is top market.”
I set the syringe down and make a tourniquet on his arm from a strap I found in the chest of drawers. His veins pop out, and I insert the needle and squeeze the plunger.