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He is not just a boy.
He is not even just a liar.
He is not my bodyguard. He is my assassin.
/Marco/
[audio transcript]
I wish I had killed her instead of having to tell her that.
Would have hurt less.
seven
“It’s you,” I repeat. “You are hired to kill me.”
“Yes,” Marco says quietly, and it’s the most anticlimactic thing in the world. I know that I should be shaking, running, screaming, but I do none of these things. “Aren’t you going to run away now?” his voice is trembling.
I had forgotten he’s here. I had forgotten I was here. How much time has passed? I’m frozen again, frozen in place, numb. The exact thing I said I would never do again.
“Run where?” My voice is scratchy, raw. Quiet. A voice that has given up the fight. “Besides, I already did that, remember? And it did not turn out well.”
My options are either the forest, the night, the dead bodies, or the killers. Or staying inside with my assassin. All great options, of course. Now, which one to choose?
Marco has scooted away from me, as far away as he can.
He’s no longer touching me; in fact, there is an entire floor between us. I am still strapped in my bulletproof vest, but now there is a gun next to me, resting on the floor. He must have put it there while I was spaced out, trying to comprehend the new reality. Which was always the reality, of course, except I was blind. He is not holding any guns himself—the ones he’d strapped on his boots lay out of reach, as if he flung them on the ground, away from him, with so much force that they skidded on the floor.
Oh right, yes, he did that. I remember. I was trying to catch my breath, and he was flinging the guns away from him like a crazed person.
I don’t know why this gun is next to me. What am I supposed to do with it?
Shoot him? Defend myself? Feel safe? Feel somehow less powerless?
None of these things are happening.
“God, you look so pale,” he says, biting his lip. His voice is tortured, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His head has fallen back against the wall, chin jutting out in a sharp angle. “Why don’t you run away, Livy? Why don’t you run away from me?” He repeats it without looking at me. I wouldn’t think it possible, but he looks like he’s given up even more than I have.
As if this is a competition of who will give up more.
And that’s when I snap out of my numbness.
“I got no choice, do I?” I suddenly yell. Anger explodes within me, its warmth spreading, scorching me, pumping in my blood. I jump to my feet, suddenly filled with energy, with the need to act. To stop sitting there like a freaking loser who’s just waiting to die. To fight, to fight him, to fight my own fears, to fight the whole damn universe if that’s what it takes to stay alive. I stand up gingerly, my aching bones screaming in protest, and pick up the gun carefully, examining it. I was taught how to use a simple revolver when I was twelve, but I’m not going to tell him that. “I did run away before, and I nearly died,” I tell him. “Multiple times. Besides, you haven’t killed me so far, but you have almost died yourself a couple of times, so I’ll stay with you. Maybe you’ll be better company than two dozen dead guards.”
Then I realize what I just said, and everything hits me once again at full force, seeing as now I’m fully awake and everything. I sit down abruptly, and put my head between my knees, taking slow breaths to keep myself from fainting.
Another panic attack. How great.
He doesn’t move, he doesn’t touch me.
“Tell me how it happened,” I say, because, honestly? At this point I’m more curious than anything. Well, apart from terrified, of course.
He laughs bitterly. “Don’t you hate me?” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply, but my voice betrays me. Because what terrifies me most? Is that I don’t hate him. Not even a little bit. God help me.
“Aren’t you afraid of me?”
