Page 80 of Kill Me

“This. She clearly wants me dead.”

“Honey, you were dying before she even mentioned you. I’d decided on that.”

“And who the fuck are you to decide that?”

“I already told you, my name is Lulu, but you can call me The Hunter.”

“The Hunter of what?” she asks, her eyes bulging.

“Usually predators. But today it’s abusive mothers.”

“What have you done to my son?!” she screams, a little bit of spittle hitting me in the face.

I reach my hand up to wipe it off. The disgust evident on my face. “If you would please refrain from dousing me in your bodily fluids, I’d appreciate it. It’s fucking minging and not the kind of fluids I like to bathe in.”

“Please. Tell me what you’ve done to Eric…”

“Eric is fine—for now—as long as you do what I tell you to do.”

“I will,” she nods eagerly. “I promise. I’ll do anything to keep him safe.”

“And what about Quinn?”

“I don’t care about her. She could drop dead tomorrow, and I wouldn’t care less. She was a mistake. Like my body gave birth to an alien that didn’t belong. If I didn’t know she had come out of me, I would swear she wasn’t mine. It sounds harsh, but I just never loved her like I did Eric.” I find it comical that in this moment she should be trying to convince me that she’s telling the truth, yet her disdain for her own daughter trumps everything.

Her words burn a desire to slash her open in my gut. I want to chop her tits off and hang the saggy sacks on my shop wall, with an ‘in memorial’ picture next to it. What an evil cunt.

I grab at the pocket hanging from my belt—made out of one of my previous acquisitions—and pull out my knuckle dusters. Each knuckle has a different design on it. I have a skull, a reaper, some teeth and a penis. They don’t call me The Taxipenist for nothing, you know. It’s one of my prized possessions because for every hit, you leave a different imprint. My favourites are when you hit hard enough the first time that all four are embedded in the skin of the predator I’m hunting.

I pull back my arm and punch her in the face. You should always punch through your own face to land the perfect hit. Knuckle dusters are technically illegal here, but when you have friends in high places, you can get away with a lot more things than you would expect. Blood comes flying out of the side of her mouth, and her skin flings around in slow motion as I watch in awe.

That never gets old.

She screams, and I step forward to survey the damage. Damn it. Only two of them are picture perfect.

“Oops. Second time’s a charm, I hope.” I aim for the other cheek and feel giddy at the prospect of shattering her cheekbone.

The sound that comes out of her is bloodcurdling. I jump up and down on the spot singing, “When the working day is done, oh girls, just wanna have fu-un. Ohhhh, girls just wanna have fun!”

“You’re utterly fucked, you know that?” X asks.

“Would you have me any other way?” I shrug my shoulders in question.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Quinn’s incubator is slumped on the trolley moaning like her life depends on it—which it doesn’t. It’s almost time. I pull out my pocket-sized bleach spray and spray my dusters—because ewww, blood—and then spray it with the ethanol I keep in the pocket next to it. I don’t want her blood contaminating my belongings any longer than it has to.

On the other side of my belt there’s a separate pocket with a box cutter in it. I don’t use it very often, but when I do, it’s efficient. I untie her hands from the trolley and pick them up one by one. She’s clearly concussed, which is just how I like it. Don’t get me wrong, I like a sassy little bitch, but this one I want to have some fun with.

I pull up one hand. “Wakey, wakey. Rise and shine. Did you ever sing nursery rhymes to Quinn as a baby?”

“When I had to,” she murmurs.

“Oooo. Let me guess? This Little Piggy? Shall we say it together?”

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Jokes on her, I never had it to begin with. “This little piggy went to market.” I slice her thumb. “This little piggy stayed home.” I slice a finger. “This little piggy had roast beef.” I slice the second one. “And this little piggy had none.” I slice the third. “And this little piggy.” I slice the pinky. “Went wee, wee, wee, all the way home.” I dig the box cutter into her wrist and drag it all the way up to her elbow.

She squeals like a little pig, hyperventilating through the pain. “Yay!” I clap my hands. “Now it’s a party!”