When there is no shift, I speak. “It’s Eli. Soul looked into him.” Her eyes dart to mine, a flicker of confusion and concern in their depths. “I had a hunch he was strange from the get-go. I mean, who the fuck wouldn’t get hard for a woman as beautiful as you?”
She tilts her head to the side before I continue, “He is currently on the run for a crime, Noir. A very bad crime.”
“What?” she gasps, her eyes flashing back to the paperwork in front of her.
“He’s a fucking paedophile.”
As soon as I say the word, her face drains of all color, her eyes widening in horror. Her hand flies to her mouth, and she suddenly turns, bolting to the sink. She starts heaving violently into it, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
My brows knit together, concern washing over me, and I take slow steps forward. I gather her blonde hair as she throws up, sweat beading across her skin, her body quivering with each retch. I wait for her to finish, and when she does, she breathes heavily, wiping her mouth with the back of her shaking hand.
“That disgusting piece of…” she sobs quietly, her head lowered.
I reach for the back of her neck, my touch gentle but firm. “Come here.”
When she stands, she crashes her face into my chest, her cries uncontrollable and I cradle my arms around her, placing my lips on her head, allowing her to let it all out.
Her reaction confuses me. Yeah, it’s sick, but anger was my first emotion, not throwing up and crying, but then again, she was fucking him, so maybe that’s it. My mind is a mess as I try to figure her out. Noir is like a puzzle piece, and some of those pieces are hard to fit together. The end picture is never clear as you cut corners to try to slot them in.
“It’s okay,” I murmur.
She pulls back slightly, her eyes red and swollen, her face a mask of distress.
“How could I not see it?” she whispers, her voice breaking. “How could I be so blind?”
“This is not your fucking fault,” I say firmly, lowering myself to her height, eyes locking.
She nods, but the guilt and shame in her gaze remains. I can see the weight of it bearing down on her, crushing her spirit. “I just... I feel so dirty,” she admits.
“There is absolutely nothing dirty about you, Noir. You are fucking perfect,” I assert sternly. “Don’t ever turn this around on yourself. He is the fucking dirty one. How the fuck was you supposed to know?”
“I had a hunch when he was flirting with a young girl at the carnival, Hell. I should have listened to my fucking gut. I should of…” Tears streak down her cheeks as a sob builds in her throat again before she presses her face against my chest.
I sigh, drawing her closer to me, now knowing more than ever that I need to find and kill that dirty cunt while enjoying every second of it. It seems my own personal hit list is growing day by day.
It’s late at night, and I am sitting on the floor in Hell’s shower, the cold tiles pressing against my back as I cry. The water cascades over me, but it does nothing to wash away the filth I feel inside. I feel sick, so fucking sick. It’s gnawing away at my insides that I allowed a child abuser to be near me again in such a way. Hell has done his utmost to convince me otherwise, but he doesn’t know why I feel this way, why I feel so fucking dirty all over again and I can feel myself spiralling out of control.
The truth has resurfaced my trauma to its highest level, my dark thoughts becoming deafening. I press my hands to my ears, fighting and whispering to them, trying to convince myself it’s not my fault or Hell’s. None of this is, but the voices won’t stop; they are relentless. They claw at my sanity, dragging me deeper into the abyss.
I feel like screaming, the urge to release the pent-up agony almost overwhelming. The thought of slicing my body to pieces,letting the pain drain out of me, anything to relieve it, crosses my mind.
As the voices get louder, I quickly reach up, desperately trying to find the razor. My fingers fumble, shaking as I tear through the plastic. Without hesitation, I press the blade to my arm and swiftly slice across, again and again. My blood mingles with the water, a crimson river pouring onto my thighs and swirling down the drain. My sobs grow more erratic, the whispers in my mind telling me I am useless, weak, and that I will never be anything more than a victim because of how these men have treated me.
I continue frantically, slicing the other arm, but the pain doesn't help; it seems to grow worse, amplifying the torment inside me.
Feeling numb, I drop the blade, the clatter of metal against the tile echoing in the small space. I rest my head back, my eyes closed, and inhale deeply. My arms sting, warm blood trickling from them as they rest beside me, and when I finally start to feel myself calm down, a tingling sensation sweeps over me.
After a brief blackout, my eyes snap open, and I stand. My mind goes numb, so quiet that I cannot even hear my own thoughts. I move toward the door in a trance, my body acting on autopilot. The world around me blurs, the edges of my vision darkening as I walk forward as if I am in some kind of dream.
When I stroll into the bedroom, I stop at the end of the bed and blankly stare at him, asleep. I tilt my head to the side and then my eyes gradually drift to the right of him where I see his knife, lying on the bedside cabinet. I absentmindedly go towardit and once within reach, I gently lift it. Squeezing the handle tightly with both hands, I face Hell, gazing down at him through a blur.
“Kill him.” Finally a voice enters my head.
I raise the knife, tears wetting my cheeks before I thrust downward. Almost entering his throat, he swiftly grabs my wrist just in time, his eyes flying open. His looks at me angrily as I continue to use all my strength to push down, but he suddenly disarms me, grabbing my throat, lifting me effortlessly, and slamming me down onto the bed.
“What the fuck, Noir!” he shouts aggressively, “what the fuck are you doing?”
“Killing you,” I say without emotion.
