“Sam?” I ask, sitting up instinctively. He ignores me, slamming the door behind him as he steps out, and rummages through the back of the truck. That's when I get a better look around. We seem to be on a dirt road somewhere in the middle of a desolate forest.
“What's going on?” I ask, an unsettling feeling balling the pit of my stomach.
He walks over to the car and opens the door behind me. A pillowcase drapes over my head before I even have a chance to face him.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I attempt to squirm away from him.
He drags me out of the car onto the mud, throwing me on my stomach. He sits on top of me, pinning me down as I struggle underneath him. But I can't stop him from tying my hands behind me. He is a monster. This I always knew. But he wouldn't stoop so low. He wouldn't lie to me, make me think we could finally be free and then take it all away like this.
“Please, Sam…” I beg, the caustic tears of betrayal burning my cheeks.
I was so sure Sam wouldn't kill me. He needs me. I am the only person who knows him. I am his humanity.
But all I can see is black, and I wonder if I am already dead.
Once I have Vesper bound, I use my hunting knife to slice through her dress. A twinge of sentimentality flashes as I recall the way I ripped her nightgown the night I took her. But it's different now. My gut twists and turns in agony. I'm sick with regret as I strip her naked.
I gave her so much of the truth. I figured I owed her that much. She wanted my story for so long, and I could finally let her have it. I knew she wouldn't tell, because she wouldn't be alive for much longer. But in the tapestry of all that truth, I weaved little lies. Lies that tasted bitter against my tongue.
That my brother said we could both leave.
That the only reason I needed her to lie down in the truck was that I didn't want her to be seen, and not that I also didn't want her to see where we were headed.
That I told her I would kill myself so that she wouldn't be tempted to make a last minute run for it.
Finally, that I told her, not with words, but with my eyes, that she would be fine. That I would take care of her.
I tell lies all the time. I am a fucking lie. But she told me she had been thinking about running away with me. That she chose me. And I had to tell her that I could make that happen. That I could find her a new freedom, knowing the only freedom she would know is death at my hands—it's never pained me so much to deceive.
I am no different from my mother, promising to take Vesp away from the danger, when I am the danger.
“Sam, I thought you cared. I thought you wanted me. I thought we were going to be together,” she sobs. For once, I'm glad I can't speak to her. I slice into a trash bag and slide it over her head. I don't want anyone to find her naked, but I don't want her wearing the clothes I made. Maybe they could find a way to trace them back to me, even if my brother tries to divert the task force.
She tries to run, but loses her balance and falls onto her face. It makes me sick to see the pathetic state she's in. To have fooled her so viciously. The one person who made me feel a little less like a monster.
I walk towards her calmly as she kicks her legs against the ground, desperately trying to slither sway from me, blinded and bound.
I pull her up to her knees, but she's limp, holding the posture of someone who has surrendered. Who has fought and fought and doesn't have another battle left in her.
She whimpers, but it's more like a hum under the mask—quiet, melodic.
I pull the gun out of my waistband and I press it to the back of her head.
“Please,” she wails.
My finger massages the trigger, but my hand trembles ferociously. I grimace and take a deep breath, trying to focus my eyes through the blur. With just a little pressure from my finger, she'll stop existing. She'll have come into my life, upturned it, leaving me haunted by her memory the way I have done to countless others. Now I'm on the other side. I'm the person whose life will never be the same.
I've taken care of her for so long. She's been my ward. She has become my responsibility.
No.
That's bullshit. She's more than that. She is my obsession. She is my heartbeat. She is my prize. She is the only fucking one. She's not one of them. She's the other part of me. Killing her would be committing suicide.
So I drop the hand holding the gun to my side and bow my head. If I am going to kill myself, then let it be the way it's supposed to be. Not the way Scoot fucking demands.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, afraid to say anything more. Afraid I'll start to stammer. Because I don't get that rush of lording over her here. She controls me.
I walk in front of her, and pull off the pillowcase. Her eyes are wild and red. She's panting between the uncontrollable sobs. I drop to my knees to meet her eyes and I kiss her. The last kiss. The kiss that I'll feel on my lips for the rest of my miserable existence. Hiding. Searching for just a glimpse of that feeling again before I die.