I closed my eyes. I didn't want to remember, but I did.
"I-I hit her with my curling iron, and then I stabbed her with my awl. A lot. I stabbed her a lot. There was so much blood, Gatsby, I don't know what took over me!" I cried out.
"Ssh, it's okay. I'm going to take care of this. Where is her body?"
"It's still there. I ran. I'm a coward, just like the first time." I raised the tattoo machine and went to the mirror, lifting my arm.
"Daisy!" Gatsby stormed over and spun me around, ripping the machine from my hand. I fought him, pummeling my fists into his chest. I pushed him and continued to reach for the machine.
"I need to be marked, just like your men. I'm no better than them!" I screamed, and he froze.
"What?" He set the machine on his table.
My chin wobbled. "She told me what you do. You tattoo their crimes on them before you eat them. I'm just like them."
"You're nothing like them."
I laughed. "So it is true then. All of it. This is sick. We'reboth fucking sick, Gatsby. I knew, in my heart, that it was true, but I couldn't bring myself to think it. And now look, another person is dead." I picked up the machine again. "Now, either I mark myself, or you do it for me. You choose."
Gatsby's green eyes were tortured as he stared at me. Our fantasy world was crumbling around us, and there was nothing left to do. I watched his eyes go from concerned to furious in an instant.
"You want to be treated like the men I put in my chair? Fine." He stormed forward and pushed my shoulder. I stumbled back and fell to the floor, catching myself on my elbows, causing a jolt of pain to shoot through my body. Gatsby crouched over me. My blood chilled as I stared into his eyes. They were wild with an excitement I'd only seen once before, but I recognized in an instant.
Emile was pushing forward, claiming my Gatsby.
Gatsby reached for my wrists, yanking them up over my head, pinning me to the ground.
"The men I bring here are violent rapists and murderers. They are cruel, violent pieces of shit whose only goal in life is to hurt others. That's not you, Daisy."
"But I killed two women..." Tears spilled down my cheeks.
Gatsby let go of my wrists and I left them up as he went to the neckline of my dress. With two hands, he yanked it, tearing it open. Pulling out a switchblade from his pocket, he cut my dress and bra, exposing my breasts.
"I like to make them as exposed as they did to their victims." He hacked at my clothing, leaving me naked, with shreds of fabric around me.
"Mark me. Label me as you'd label them," I demanded. "I'm a monster."
Gatsby leaned over me, his lips finding mine. Iprotested, but his persistence urged my lips to part, his touch commanding yet gentle. No! This wasn't right. I wasn't meant to be rewarded.
"Punish me!" I cried out as I moved my head away from his. He sat up.
"You want to be punished? I don't think you're a monster, Daisy. Because if you're a monster, then what does that make me?"
When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me with a grim expression.
"I-I don't know."
Gatsby leaned across to the table in which the tattoo machine and ink sat. He brought them down and dipped his needles in and turned to me.
"I do."
Chapter 55
Gatsby
She thought she was a monster?
I reached for her elbow and brought her arm out. "You know how I know you're not a psychopath?" I asked as I leaned down with my machine.
