Assassins: Slow Agony Part 43

Two times a day to remember the way Marcel had sobbed and screamed. Two times a day to remember the way I'd shot Wolfman over and over again. Two times a day to remember the way I'd laughed at Marcel's pain. Two times a day to remember that I'd killed my own father.

Two times a day wasn't good enough either.

I added an afternoon session as well.

Then, I just started doing it whenever I thought of it. I drowned in the memories. I let my shame swallow me. I forced myself to face the darkness in my soul. I was a killer. I was sick and depraved.

It got in the way of things sometimes, but I made it work. It was hardest when I was moving to Morgantown, especially because I was surrounded by the anonymous movers I'd hired to help me. They probably thought I was very strange, lighting candles in the middle of a move.

And when I got to Morgantown, thinking about it didn't seem like it was enough. After all, I had killed people. I had mutilated, slashed, excised, and I'd done it all with a song in my heart. Sometimes, I remembered my own jeering laughter as I watched Marcel suffer, and I hated myself for it. I needed to do penance.

So I began to think of other little things I could do to punish myself for the things I'd done wrong.

I wore shoes that were too tight, got blisters on the back of my ankles.

I wrapped rubber bands around my wrists, kept them tight so that they cut off the circulation.

I forced myself not to sleep, to stay up all night and to suffer through my exhaustion.

Each little thing seemed to work at first, but it was never enough to really a.s.suage the guilt. I had to keep escalating.

By the time I was cutting myself, it only seemed rational. After all, I had cut others. Surely I deserved to be cut as well. The pain, the blood, the sharpness of it-it made it better for a few minutes. When I was in pain, I was at peace. And it never left any marks. The serum made sure of that.

I didn't even think about Griffin, or about the fact I'd told him I'd call. It was mid September, and I was thick into my first semester of cla.s.ses. I didn't do much except go to cla.s.s, do my work, light candles, and find ways to punish myself. I had no room in my brain to think about anything except my guilt and my obligations. Griffin simply didn't register.

Sometimes, I looked down at the ring, and I thought about taking it off.

But I didn't.

Chapter Nineteen.

I liked to do it in the bathtub. I had an array of various knives that were good for it. Some I used to puncture, others to slice. I didn't have a schedule when I did it, but I usually cut at least three times a day. Right then it was evening.

And someone was knocking on the door of my apartment.

No one knew where I lived.

I stayed still. Maybe they'd go away.

"Leigh," yelled a voice.

A male voice. Griffin? I looked down at the ring on my finger.

"I know you're in there. I saw you come in. Open the door."

There was blood streaming down over my arm in ruby-colored rivulets. I set down the knife I was using on the edge of the bathtub. "One second," I called. I hauled myself out of the bathtub and washed the blood off in the sink.

More banging on the door.

"Hold on," I yelled.

I went to the front door and pulled it open.

Griffin stood there, looking haggard and unshaven. "I thought it was you."

I backed away from the door. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you, and I followed you," he said. "Why haven't you called me?"

I couldn't look at him.

He staggered into my apartment, shutting the door after himself.

"Are you drunk?" I asked him. "You don't get drunk."

He laughed a little. "I'm not drunk."

But he was slurring his words.

"Maybe you should go," I said.

His eyes narrowed. "What's on your arm?"

I tried to hide it. "Nothing."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed my hand, pulling my arm forward. "Is that blood? Did you cut yourself? It looks like a pattern..." His fingers dug into my wrist. "Did you do this to yourself on purpose?" I could smell liquor on his breath.

I wrenched my arm away. "Go away, Griffin. Get out."

"No," he said. "I'm not leaving you alone if that's what you're doing." He pushed past me and stumbled into the bathroom.

"Griffin, you're drunk, and I don't think-"

"What the h.e.l.l is this?" He was holding up my knives.

I clutched my own elbows. "I have to do penance, okay? I have to do something, because I can't handle living with myself. Not after what we did, Griffin."

He winced as if I'd cut him. He set down the knives. "Is that why you left me? You're afraid of me, aren't you? Doll, I never meant to hurt you. I know that night after we left the bas.e.m.e.nt, I just took you. But I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have..." He turned in a circle, fumbling for something to hold onto. He ended up collapsing on my futon.

"It's not about you," I said in a quiet voice. "It's about me."

He looked up at me with vacant eyes. "Why didn't you call?"

"When did you start drinking?" I said.

"What are you talking about?" He hiccupped. "I've drunk alcohol since you've known me."

"But you never got drunk," I said. "Not like this." Only once had I seen Griffin drunk. The night he'd found me in a strip club in Boston. Never since then. I sat down next to him. "Is it because of me?" I'd been wallowing so deeply in my own guilt, I hadn't thought about how he was feeling. I hadn't worried about him. I remembered that before I left, I'd thought I needed to help myself before I helped him. But, if I was honest with myself, using a knife on my own body wasn't actually helping anything.

He shook his head. "I started having a few shots before bed. Sometimes it helps with the nightmares. But lately I've been starting earlier." He pointed at me. "I'm not drunk."

He was. He smelled like bourbon. "Nightmares?"

"They can be bad," he said. "I dream about him. About Marcel." He lurched off the futon. "He does things to me."

I got up after him, steadying him. "He's dead, Griffin. We killed him. He can't hurt you."

Griffin laughed bitterly. "He's not dead. Not in here." He tapped his temple. "That's where he wanted to be, doll. And that's where he f.u.c.king is. I could kill him over and over and over again, and he'd still own me." He pushed away from me.

I put a hand to my mouth. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone." I sank down on the futon.

"Why didn't you call?"

"I..."

He looked at me. He started to take a step towards me, but he stumbled and fell in front of me. He laughed again. "f.u.c.k. Maybe I'm a little drunk."

"Yeah, maybe."

"I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore, doll."

I studied my hands, feeling ashamed.

He touched my finger. "You're still wearing the ring."

I met his gaze with my own. "I never took it off."

"Doll..."

I touched his face. "Oh, G.o.d, Griffin, we're really f.u.c.ked up, aren't we?"

He pushed himself up onto his knees. He leaned in close. His lips met mine.

I opened my mouth to him. He tasted like a bar, but his tongue was vital and skilled and familiar, and I felt myself melting. He was my Griffin, and I loved him.

He tugged me off the futon, and my limbs got tangled with his on the floor.

I put my hands inside his shirt, felt him hot and firm and a little sweaty under the thin cotton.

He pulled the shirt over his head, giving me free access. My hands found the places his muscles fit together. I placed my palm over his ripples and dips and swells. I ran my fingers over his shoulders, his chest, his biceps.

His eyes were closed. "You make me feel strong."

"You are strong."

"I'm not." He kissed me, but then he pulled back, concerned. "Do I make you feel weak, doll?"

"No," I said. "Safe, sometimes. Protected. But never weak."

"Oh," he mumbled. "That's good." And he put his mouth on my neck. My earlobe. My jaw.

He made me gasp and sigh.

"You did protect me, you know," I said. "From Marcel. You turned yourself over to him so that he wouldn't hurt me."

"I couldn't let him hurt you," he said. "I wouldn't let him have you."

"Thank you." I kissed his chest. I kissed his chin. "Thank you."

He made a small, soft noise. "Can we take off your shirt too?"

I giggled. "I guess I could handle that."

"Only if you're sure." He was looking into my eyes. He was very serious. "I never want you to feel-"

"I never have." I looked back into his eyes. I wanted him to understand that. No part of me blamed him. And without breaking our gaze, I slowly tugged my shirt over my head.

He let out an appreciative breath. He broke the stare first. His gaze flicked down over my bare skin and then back to my face. "You're so beautiful."

I unsnapped my bra.

He pulled it away from my body. "So, so beautiful." His hands found my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, fingers teasing my nipples.

I shut my eyes. I let the sensation take me. It felt good. I hadn't felt good in a long time.

"Why are you hurting yourself?"

I was confused. He was still touching me, his hands expertly making my nipples tighten and harden. Hurt myself? What?

"The knives, doll. Why are you doing that?"

"We..." I gasped. "We tortured a man for pleasure. I killed my own father. I can't stop thinking about it."

His hands went still, but he was still cupping my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "You're cutting yourself over him? Marcel? That b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"No. Over me. I can't live with myself."

He was quiet. Thoughtful. And then he lowered his face to my chest, and he put one of my nipples in his mouth and sucked.

And the world blanked out, because it felt so blissful that I couldn't think.

He stayed there for a while, his lips and tongue darting from one nipple to the other, and I wriggled under him, moaning out half-words of delight.