Now he's crying like the little bitch he is.
“One day when you're older, you are going to realize who I am and you are going to know these were not idle threats. Now go home, you little shit,” I say, pulling him up to his feet. I push him away and shove his butt with my foot, so he falls on the ground. “How does it feel to be pushed around by someone bigger?”
He runs off, and now I'm fucking hotter than plasma hot. Levels of anger and pent up sexual frustration are mixing together into a violent stew. I take a deep breath and toss the mask into the bushes. By the time I am back on the sidewalk, flanked by perfectly manicured lawns and well-maintained houses, I am one of them again. I decide the best cover is to go back Scooter's house, show him a cool and collected Sam. He's in the kitchen, holding ice to James' head.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Some kid pushed him off his bike. He hit his head. He won't tell me who.”
“Something tells me it won't happen again,” I mutter.
“What's that?” Scoot asks, particularly interested in the clarity of my voice. The smoothness in speech that only comes in rare moments, when I'm scornful and singularly focused, or when I'm ready to fuck. Everything suddenly is clear. When the darkness eclipses me, the words flow without interruption.
“Where've you been?” he asks teasingly.
I nod towards James, implying what I've been up to is not for kid's ears. That's not technically a lie.
“Oooh,” he grins. “Oh, to be a bachelor,” he rues.
“Oh,” I respond dryly.
“He'll be fine, he's gonna be strong just like Uncle Sam, one day. Uncle Sam builds houses, he lifts logs and stuff. You're his spitting image, so you have a lot to look forward to, kiddo,” he assures the boy, roughing up his hair and sending him on his way.
“I'm going home. Tell Katie thanks.”
“Shit, what did Milly do to you?” he remarks, regarding the flow of my words. He leans in, “Did she fucking cure you?”
I chuckle, not because his joke is particularly funny, but because this night has been ridiculous and it's just beginning. “You have no idea,” I quip.
I peel into the driveway of the ranch house. You would think the drive would have cooled me down, but no, I am burning hotter and more ferociously than when I had that little piece of shit pinned to the ground, than when that woman treated me like some sort of fucking exhibit.
I run into the house, pull off my shirt, tear apart drawers for another balaclava, and come upon a white one. It's hot tonight and the fact that I have to wear this fucking thing pisses me off even more. I imagine her recoiling in horror if she were to see my face, my scars the physical manifestation of a person who never belonged. At least until the accident I could be silent, and blend into the background, but after, these wounds planted a flag in me. Marking me for ridicule and curious stares.
They'll laugh at your face. They did this to you.
I pull a knife out of my drawer. I don't know what my plans are for it, but I want it in my hand, something physical and sharp to grab and ground me in reality because I am spinning.
I don't like this feeling. She was supposed to be the perfect target, and the second I got off the script and brought her here, I have been battling. Thinking about her. Wanting to pull off the mask. Wanting to tell her my story so she understands why she's here. Why I'm here.
But she's a manipulator. Because like my mother said, like Milly reminded me today, I am different. I will never be one of them. At best, they'll pity me.
My victims have always been disposable. That keeps me safe. Knowing if I had to, I could get rid of them—carve their throats with a knife, or pull the trigger at their chest. It makes me a god, and the power I emit at those moments is so strong my targets will do what I say. But with Vesper, I can't do it. I can't entertain the thought of being alone here again. Of not having a taste of a life I could only peer at through windows. And that means an unassuming nursing student, of all the people I have dominated and tarnished—she's the one who could ruin me.
I need that back. I am the arbiter of life and death. I am going to remind her who is in control. I am going to remind myself. She won't play me or manipulate me like women so often do.
I march through the woods, the branches yanking at my tank top, the fibers ripping so that by the time I reach the door it's shredded. Heaving, I remove the wooden plank and unlatch the door, thrusting it open so that when it hits the wall it makes the tiny shack reverberate. Her eyes are huge as she sits there, huddled in the corner, paralyzed with fear. I look down at myself, my white tank covered in dirt and speckles of blood from the scratches I earned during my trek.