Page 75 of Kill Me

Chapter Forty-Three

Lulu - Present Day

Darkside – Neoni

What I’m about to tell Quinn could determine whether this is the beginning of her and H, or the end. And I don’t know if I'm ready to be responsible for his unhappiness.

But, here goes nothing, I suppose.

“I’m a murderer.”

I drop my confession like I’ve just told her I don’t keep my chocolate in the fridge. I do, because that would be sacrilege.

“I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?” Her face doesn’t even look shocked.

“I’m a murderer,” I repeat.

Silence.

“I think I need some context.” That confession should set off screaming alarm bells in her brain. It doesn’t. “I’d be a hypocrite if I judged you off the bat, considering the amount of times I’ve massacred my mother and brother in my mind.

“Context? It’s murder. What kind of context?”

“Well, if you murdered a child for no reason, then we’d have a problem. If you murdered an abuser, then that would be justifiable in my eyes. In fact, I’d ask when I can join you.”

My eyes water with acceptance. “You would be correct. I am a murderer of predators. I pick a target, stalk them, and then repeat their crimes on them.”

“How do you pick them?”

“Well, you know we have the underground network?” She nods. “I have an anonymous site on the dark web where victims can submit their abusers for consideration. Call it pot luck. Each one brings something different for me to enjoy, but I base my decision on a case-by-case basis. Violence against women is an epidemic, but I don’t limit my options. If a man has been abused by a woman, she can die too. I’m not picky. I do my due diligence, and evidence must be authenticated before I harm a hair on someone’s head.”

“What do you do with their bodies?”

“Uh, uh, uh.” I shake my head. “Nice try. A truth for a truth.”

She laughs. “You can’t blame a girl for trying.” She says, swallowing. “I was raped by my brother and one of his best friends while my best friend—who it turns out is my brother’s girlfriend—held me down for them. Your turn.”

I huff. “Jesus Christ, you win.”

She laughs. “Why, thank you for declaring me the winner of the Trauma Olympics. For our next session, please bring an appropriate amount of bags of candy, and we can make our own trauma candy salad.”

“I’ve seen those online. They look hilarious.”

“Next truth,” she demands.

I sit there, looking around the room, ping-ponging between my options.

“Fucking hell, how many are there?” she asks.

I laugh. A couple. “Okay. When they’re dead, I cut off their bits and stuff them. Then I sell them in my shop to unsuspecting people who think they’re just decorating their shelves with a skin-like silicone. Then I burn their bodies in my best friend’s crematory, and she uses their ashes for pottery and artwork. Some of our applicants request their ashes to be delivered in certain trophy forms like jewellery or house decorations, so we honour those requests where we can—which is selectively.”

“That’s fucking brilliant.”

“Now, come on. Stop deflecting. We’re here for you. You can learn more

about me at the end. It will be your reward.”

“Deal. One of the first nights after I was rescued, I had a memory trigger. One of my brother’s other friends, Keelan, came round to see me while I was home alone. He had found footage on Eric’s phone of the attacks.”