“Or, you can stay here with me. B-because when I have you, it works. You are the object of my obsession. You are the world. My—my holy grail. And if I have you, I don't even think about anyone—anything else. And you can be here with me, and you will be doing a good thing. For everyone. For yourself.”
Sam speaking to me, alone, is enough to leave me stunned. I finally broke through. This battle we fought all this time—he's letting me have this victory.
“You're speaking,” I mutter.
He bobs his head in acknowledgement.
“Why now?” I muster through the tears.
“Because I'm free with you.”
I maintain my wobbly aim at him, and he puts a hand up to show he won't hurt me before slowly turning to face me. “I can't stop myself unless you do something. You either pull the trigger or you stay with me. Death or life. So—so it's okay.”
“I—I could go to the cops. I could tell them the truth.”
“Vesp, you know I won't go with them. But I won't stop you. I wouldn't—wouldn't hurt you.”
There are only two options. I kill him —directly or indirectly— or I let the past die.
“If you won't stay, then I don't want to live anyway.”
“Why? Why am I different?” I need to know. That's the only way I can believe he'll stop if I stay.
“I saw you with Johnny. I always wanted someone like you when I was l-little. I've dreamt of someone like you m-my whole life. And you would've been the same way with our boy.”
“Boy?” I utter. We were going to have a little boy.
“You needed me to save you.”
Sam turns away again, giving me room to make the choice. I can take him out of his misery and live in mine. Or, I can forget the man in the mask, and chose the one before me, the one who I know would die for me. And I can find some sort of peace in that.
I slide my finger along the trigger. Toying with the idea of pulling it. What would happen then? His victims would never know. They would never get any closure. Unless I leave the box here with his body. Each souvenir could tie back to the people he's hurt.
I pull a hand away from the gun for a second just to wipe my blurred eyes.
Right. Sometimes the choice is so clear. But for the past couple of years, my heart and my mind have not agreed. And here in this moment, there are two types of right. The one for everyone else, and the one for me.
You don't stare the devil in the eyes and come out without some of his sin. You can't beat the devil without becoming like him. You can't appeal to his kindness, so you have to learn to play his games. You lie, you fuck, you manipulate, you fight, you hurl insults, until you do whatever it takes to win the battle. Every time you do those things, you understand him a little more. Until finally, he becomes your ally. You think you've won, that you've made him more like you. But the truth is, it's the other way around. So that even when you win, you've lost.
Sam waits, patiently, as if he has already come to terms with both fates.
But I'm not a killer. Each step closer I get to doing it, the harder it becomes. So that leaves me with only one choice. He must know that. Just like all the other choices I had with him, there was only ever one option. It's the very reason he wants me above anyone else. I am that girl he saw with Johnny. I don't hurt people, I nurture. He wants someone all to himself. I want to be the complete center of someone's universe for once.
I offered myself as the sacrifice. That's what got me taken in the first place. And if it means saving others, I'll do it again.
I firm my grip around the gun, stiffening my arms in one last show of strength, and let them fall at my side. This time, Sam, the athlete that has outrun bystanders and cops on foot dozens of times, rolls over and is in front of me in a flash, but he doesn't lash out. No, he softly strips the gun from my hand. He opens the revolver and shakes the bullets into his palm before tossing them onto the bed.
The same hands that he has used to hurt me, he uses to hold me up as I weep with my entire body.
“Shhhh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “No one loves you like I do.”
Love. I never dared use that word with him. It felt too perverse. But if what we are doing for each other isn't love—if letting me live at the almost guaranteed cost of his own freedom isn't it—if lying to the police and my family to let Sam live out his life isn't—then what is?
He caresses my hair as I melt into his chest. I have tamed him. He is mine and mine alone. I will keep you all safe from him.
“I know,” I answer, softly nodding against his warm chest.
It feels good—the way floating in that lake would make me feel light and easy—to let go of that weight. To take that final breath and let myself sink down so far, that I realize I don't want it all to end. I want to live. I want him. I choose him.