Chapter 17 #2
It’s the name they gave me. That’s what they do, give us different names that are similar to ours.
Like they’re teasing us with our past, treading it into our new beginning.
Another form of torture. But I pretend that name isn’t me.
I’m Elsie. That’s who I’ll always be. They can have Ellie. She’s theirs, but Elsie is mine.
“One.”
“You’re sick!” I holler. “You are going to go to hell.”
He chuckles. “You don’t have time to waste. Decide. Your friends or this nobody.”
The girl sobs and begs me to spare her—begs and pleads—while I cry along with her. I reach out a hand for hers, but Agnelo yanks me back by my hair.
“You did this to her. From this day on, you’ll always be a killer. First, him.” He jerks my head toward the dead man. “Now, it’ll either be your friends or this woman. And it doesn’t matter if your hand is on the trigger. You’ll be the reason your friends are dead.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss as he tugs harder, my scalp burning.
“Two.”
I can’t kill my friends. Maybe I can kill myself. I start to raise the gun toward my head, and he laughs.
“If you can even manage to kill yourself, it won’t change a fucking thing,” he grits. “I’ll kill all three. You won’t escape this.”
No! No! No!
My hand wobbles as I lift the gun, aiming it at the innocent woman before me.
“Please…” she cries. “Don’t kill me.”
Her hazel eyes hold on to me, begging for life, begging for a chance at something we will never get. We are not of this world anymore. We’re dead already. No one can save us from this. Maybe we should all die.
“Do it now!” he screams as she wails, her palms out in front of her face.
But that won’t stop a bullet.
“Three.”
Pop.
The sound of the gun punctures the air, and the bullet pierces her right in the middle of her chest.
I killed someone. Someone that mattered. Me. I did that. I can never forgive myself.
The water sluices down over my head as I drop onto the shower floor, my palms filling with tears, washed away with the water. The echoes of my anguish grow louder, my sobs riddling through me with wave after wave of regret.
I’m a murderer. No better than Michael. The reasons for why I did it don’t matter. All that matters is that I did it. I took her life selfishly. In saving my friends, all I did was prolong their suffering.
I can’t make myself stop crying. It’s as though remembering that has brought everything to the surface. All the things Kayla and I have been through. All the things we were forced to see and do.
My chest tightens, and I claw at it, gasping and gasping for breaths that don’t enter my lungs. It’s a good thing Sophia is still at school. I wouldn’t want her to hear me this way.
After I killed that poor girl, I became numb for a while. I tried telling myself that I, Elsie, never killed anyone. Ellie did. But that only worked for a week. Until I started dreaming of her. The guilt…I still live with it. I always will.
My fingers sink into my drenched hair as I scream out on a sob. Remembering that day, feeling like it’s happening all over again.
I don’t even know her name. I killed her and I don’t even know her name.
Suddenly, the glass door slides open, and I jerk my head up on a gasp to find Michael there, concern stretching over his face.
“What are you doing here?” I swipe under my eyes, huddling into myself, making sure my arms are covering my breasts.
“Are you all right?” His brows furrow, and that scar of his jerks.
“I’m fine. And I’m…uh…naked. Can you go?” Nerves bubble through my voice.
He ignores it, reaching for a towel and walking inside the stand-up shower, the water dripping down his back, soaking up the cotton of his gray shirt and black trousers. But he doesn’t seem to care, because those intense eyes are on me, demanding I obey.
“Get up,” he says, opening the towel for me.
I want to fight him. It’s what I do. What I’m good at. But as soon as I risk a gaze up at him, it all crumbles. It all washes away. And all that’s left is a woman who dares to dream of a man who actually cares enough to hold her as she cries. Wanting nothing else but that.
“Come here, little dove. Let me make it better.”
My heart swells, tears blurring my vision. And with a gasping cry, I do. I go to him. I stand up and rush into his arms as though nothing else matters but the utter feel of them—their strength, that power, and God, that safety.
He tucks my head into his chest as he tightens those arms around me, while I let the pain fall, as though I’m excising it from existence. It’s hard to believe that this man I’m supposed to hate, the one who took away my freedom, is the one comforting me now.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks, soothing syllables lulling me into a calming state.
“No.” I sigh heavily. “I’d rather forget.”
He slants his face away from me, his gaze smoldering and softly dark. “What can I do to help you do that, baby?”
Baby. He called me “baby” like I’m his. The word sinks into my gut and blooms. But when I start to feel the power of that one word, a simple word, I extinguish it like a burning flame. I’m not his baby. I’m nothing.
Don’t let him fool you.
His knuckles rake down my cheek, my face tingling, every inch of me shivering from his touch alone, from that mere look of affection in his eyes.
“Nothing you can do for me.”
He hugs me tighter, strong, masculine hands running up and down my back.
With a weighty sigh, he says, “Let me put you to bed. You should rest.”
I’m tired. So damn tired. My head. My heart. Everything is tired.
I nod, and together we step out of the shower. Without his eyes leaving mine, he grips the towel with both hands and rubs it over my arms, drying me there.
Slowly, he lets it fall, exposing my breasts as he dries them too, going to my stomach, my core. He makes sure every inch of me is dry, lowering onto the floor, gliding the towel up one leg, then the other.
And the whole entire time, he looks right at me, even as he wipes between my thighs. It’s as though with one look, he’s telling me, you’re more than your body and your skin.
You’re more. You’re mine.
His little dove.
He gets back up, towering over me, hands cupping my cheeks, the towel now lying on the ground. And I find myself wanting him to kiss me, like I have wanted all those other times. That surge of need is so strong, I can’t stop gazing into his eyes, can’t stop my heart from beating.
He inhales long and deep, eyes hooded, and when he lowers to kiss my forehead, my lower lip trembles. This is too much. I don’t want to feel this much.
I want to tell him to go while also wanting him to stay. There’s a battle waging between my head and my heart, and I’m not quite sure which one is winning.
Every inch of him appears as though he’s struggling too. Struggling not to touch me. To kiss me. He wants me, but he won’t let himself have me. It’s the first time in a long time a man has respected me enough not to force me.
“I’ll take you to bed,” he tells me, swooping his arms under my thighs and lifting me up against his chest.
He cradles me like I matter. Like I’m important. To him.