Chapter 9 #5
“You absolutely do not.”
“Not useful ones,” he says, lifting a plate from the counter. “But I made breakfast.”
My stomach twists.
It should be funny. For half a second, it almost is. Johnny in my kitchen, standing beside my chipped mugs and shitty toaster, acting like this is normal. Like last night was a bad date instead of the worst decision I’ve ever made angry.
“You need to leave,” I say.
“You haven’t even thanked me.”
“For what? Not burning down my apartment?”
His smile widens. “For being thoughtful.”
“You don’t do thoughtful.”
“No,” he says, walking closer. “But I do memorable.”
Something in his voice makes the room feel smaller.
He holds the plate out.
“Look.”
I don’t want to, but my eyes drop anyway.
For a second, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing. Two tiny bodies sit on the plate, curled and wrong, slick with butter and garlic, too small to be food and too familiar to be anything else.
Hermit crabs have no meat. No meal. No point.
That’s what makes it worse.
He didn’t cook breakfast.
He staged a sick fucking joke.
My eyes move past him to the tank by my desk. The lid is crooked, the cave is knocked over, and the sand is torn up in ugly little tracks.
Empty.
No Ernie, and no Bernie.
The blanket slips lower, but I don’t care. My whole body goes cold at once, shock moving through me so fast I can’t even breathe around it.
“No,” I whisper.
Johnny watches my face like he has been waiting for this exact second. “Terrible yield, honestly. You should’ve picked pets with more substance.”
I shove the plate away from me.
It hits the floor and cracks, butter smearing across the wood, and I barely make it to the trash can before I’m throwing up so hard my throat burns.
My knees hit the floor, one hand gripping the edge while the other clutches the blanket to my chest because some stupid part of me still cares about being covered in front of the monster in my kitchen.
Johnny sighs behind me. “That feels a little fucking dramatic.”
I turn on him, shaking so hard the room blurs. “Get out.”
He glances at the broken plate, then back at me. “Now we’re both wasting breakfast.”
“You killed them.”
“They were crabs, Alice.”
“They were pets, you sick fuck.”
That shuts him up for half a second, but it’s clear from his expression he doesn’t feel bad. His head tilts, and I see the exact moment he realizes this hurt me differently.
The moment he realizes he didn’t scare me, or hurt me in the same way he did in the dark room. No this, this is different.
And because he’s Johnny, that makes him interested.
Something ugly rips out of me.
I grab a mug and throw it. It shatters against the cabinet beside his head, pieces scattering across the counter and floor.
Johnny looks at the mess, then back at me with a slow, mean smile. “Careful. You’re going to run out of dishes before you run out of feelings.”
I slap him.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the apartment, and for once, his smile disappears.
For the first time since he knocked on my door, there’s no heat under the fear. No pull or sick little spark telling me to step closer. Whatever ugly wire he found in me last night, he just cut it.
All that’s left is disgust, grief and some much needed fucking clarity.
“Get the fuck out,” I say.
Johnny studies me like he doesn’t understand what changed.
He knows he hurt me. He wanted that, because he likes hurt. Johnny is the type of guy that likes turning people inside out just to see which parts make noise, but he doesn’t understand this kind. He doesn’t understand that some things don’t make the game more exciting when he ruins them.
Some things end it.
He pulls his shirt on slowly, still trying to look amused. “You can be mad. I don’t mind.”
“I’m not mad.”
His eyes brighten. “No?”
“I’m done.”
For a second, the smile doesn’t come back. Then it returns thinner and meaner, no longer playful, just cold amusement wearing his face.
He walks to the door, taking his time because even leaving has to be a performance. Before he steps out, his gaze flicks to the empty tank, then back to me.
“You still chose to let me in.”
Then he leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him, and for a long time I stand there with the blanket clutched to my chest, shaking so hard my teeth hurt.
The kitchen smells like butter, garlic and horror.
The broken plate sits on the floor. The tank by my desk is empty and wrong, the quiet inside it louder than anything Johnny said.
Johnny thinks he won because I chose him.
He doesn’t understand what he killed.
I sink down in front of the tank and press one shaking hand to the glass.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Nothing answers. There's no scraping or sand shifting. No stupid little clink from Bernie knocking into the food bowl or Ernie hiding in the water dish, ignoring me like I’m the embarrassing one in the room.
Just quiet.
My apartment doesn’t feel like mine anymore, but the grief hardens while I sit there, pulling the sickness and shame into one clean thought.
I am done playing with Johnny Cutter.