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When he finally goes unconscious, he falls slightly forward, the chains still restraining him. I shove him backwards, his body hitting the ground already soiled with his blood.
I could end it. I could just kill him now.
But I don’t. Because this fucking cult thinks they know who the devil is but they haven’t met me yet. And Morrissey’s body is the perfect canvas for a proper introduction.
As time passes, my muscles grow sore from crouching for so long.
“Help me carry him,” I grunt to Byzantine, nodding towards the table near the shed.
Without a word, he grabs his feet while I take his arms and we haul him over there. After a while, the repetitive motions grow tedious and my mind starts to wander. It eventually finds its way back to Lenix—lingering on memories of the first night she slept next to me a week ago, and how amazing she looked sitting on top of me the next morning. My thoughts finally stumble onto the question she asked while I was cleaning her up.
“So, how does reincarnation even work?”
When Byzantine doesn’t answer my question, I look over to where he’s sitting. He’s found a random lawn chair, now lounging a few feet away from the shed, phone in hand. I know he’s heard me. The curious look on his face is a dead giveaway.
Annoyed, I coax him further. “Well?”
“Hell would I know?” he mutters.
Irritation races hot through me, but I bite my tongue. I turn back to the unconscious body on the table—pulling and cutting, pulling and cutting.
“You’re the one who claims to remember his past lives, for fuck sakes,” I eventually say while gritting my teeth, the sun beating hard on my shoulders, sweat pouring down my back.
“What’s this about?”
I consider not answering just to antagonize him but I breathe hard through my nostrils and decide to open Pandora's box.
“A few weeks ago, this palm reader told Lenix and I that we were connected.”
I cut a large piece of skin off Morrissey’s stomach letting it flop to the ground, before looking back to Byzantine. “Like you and little miss sunshine.”
“You got your palms read?” he says in disbelief.
“Jesus Christ. Can you stop answering everything I say with a question?”
He raises his hands in surrender.
I start on the governor’s lower half while I mull over my thoughts.
“She asked if I had a birthmark over my heart.”
Confusion etches across his features. “Well, you do.”
“I know that. But how didsheknow?”
“You didn’t bother to ask?”
“I pulled a gun on her instead and left,” I mutter with a crooked smile.
He laughs but then falls solemn, leaving the silence hanging between us for a stretch of time while I continue with the task at hand.
“I wouldn’t leave it unanswered if I were you,” he finally says.
“So youdobelieve in all that shit?” I spit out, feeling half insane just having this conversation in the first place.
He shrugs. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
A few hours later, I’m back in the city, showered and smelling a hell of a lot better than when Byzantine dropped me off an hour ago. I’m currently standing in front of the palm reader’s tent, wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, hoping it will help me blend into the crowd. I’ve been rooted to the boardwalk for the past five minutes. The thought of pulling out my gun from the back of my jeans and shooting myself in the head sounds preferable right now than going in there. Anything to evade the feeling racketing behind my chest.
