But you’re not a sociopath. You’re just a regular garden-variety asshole, and you’re too busy laughing to spot my bloody footsteps before they evaporate into the ether. This is almost definitely what Blood Honey is thinking, by the way—when he’s not knuckle-deep in someone’s womb, that is, and then God knows what he’s thinking aside from, ooh, pretty.
People say we do a good job of cloaking our true natures, that it’s frightening how easily we hide. But who made the sheep’s clothing in the first place? I ask you. Sure as hell wasn’t the wolves.
The elevator is empty, which is a relief. I only managed about three lines of cordial Let’s Pretend with the concierge before my nerves turned to irritable sludge, and the next Slow Jimmy to hop in and start a conversation about the weather will test my patience to its frayed limits.
Truth is, I don’t really remember why I cut Rachel Fordham the same way that Blood Honey cuts his victims. I remember how it felt: exhilarating, as if my fingers were weightless and the knife was warm water; relieved, like the act was cathartic, and that to cut her open was to let a little of myself truly in. I still feel that way when I cut Leo, but it’s more than your average God complex—there’s a connection, a sense that this is how things ought to be. Connecting any other way is fucking exhausting.
For that reason, I haven’t killed her. It would make no sense. Maybe I’m a selfish bastard, or maybe * still makes me just a little more stupid than I’d like, but what I like best is to be satisfied. And with Leo, I am.
Or was, until our friend Blood Honey decided to make an appearance. I must fix this. Soon.
I put my key into the front door of the apartment, twist, and am greeted by the soaring chorus of “Let It Go.” Despite all my attempts to save Ash from a lifetime of disappointment and celibacy, he seems intent on deliberately countering it all by watching Frozen three times a week and pretending to be an ice princess by wrapping himself in his blue comforter and glaring at inanimate objects. I’m all for subverting the norm for personal gain, and Ethan gave me a fantastically patronizing speech the other day about how gender isn’t binary and boys can wear pink and blah blah political correctness, but none of this takes away from the fact that these songs are annoying beyond belief. They actually do make me want to kill someone. (See, sociopathy’s funny as long as we’re not murdering your loved ones. What’s that saying? It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt…and then it’s a fucking party).
“Ash!” I yell over the music. “It’s past seven. Quiet time.” Then I dump my coat over a kitchen chair, yank my shoes off, and pad down the hall to push his door open. Inside, Ash—along with Ethan, his nanny—are both prancing about like Z-list celebrities on Dancing with the Stars.
Ethan spots me mid-spin, blinks, and then lunges over a Lego construction to turn down the music on the laptop. “Oh. Hey.”
“Aeron!” Ash, dressed in blue cotton pyjamas, comes bounding over toys and scattered pillows, landing against my calves with a heavy thud. “Do you want to be Olaf again?”
“You know what, buddy? I’m good. I’m—”
“You’re all wet!” he screeches, jumping back. “Oh em gee, Olaf, you’re melting.”
“Rain’s pretty bad,” Ethan observes, turning to peer through the window. “Kinda like monsoon season, huh?”
“You could say that.” I must not shout at the nanny. I must not shout at the nanny.
I want to fucking shout at the fucking nanny.
“Dinner’s in the microwave,” Ethan offers as he scoops Ash up.
“Ethan made meatballs,” Ash chirps. “They were gooooood.”