Killer

by Heather C. Leigh

  “In here,” Kinsey cries.

  I follow her into the main office where only a few staff members remain. We dive under the long front counter just as popping sounds split the silence, cracking the air like fireworks.

  Then the screaming begins.

  Kinsey wraps her arms around me, using my shoulder to stifle her sobs. I hold her tight, clinging to the faint threads of reality as they loosen in front of me.

  Will school be canceled Monday? I nearly laugh out loud at the thought. A single long thread works its way free.

  More screams fill the small office. Another thread pulls loose, allowing more of my mind to slip away.

  I cover my ears with my hands, vaguely aware of Kinsey clinging to me. The fabric of my world unravels to one single thought.

  Survive.

  I stare into her damp, silver eyes, seeing my own fear reflected back at me. And when black boots scuff across the floor and stop next to us, I know without a doubt I’m about to die.

  Keller

  My eyes are blurry as I attempt to focus. Fuck, my head is killing me. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes and adjusting to the dark room, I realize I’m in Logan’s guest room with Rory sleeping next to me on one side, another naked girl I don’t recognize on the other.

  Despite the headache and general all-around shitty feeling, I smile. Yesterday was fucking epic. When word spread that Logan’s parents were gone, a bunch of our friends showed up to party. And man, did we party.

  I slide out of the bed without disturbing either of the girls and grab my shorts. After tugging them on, I use the bathroom and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The satisfied look on my face is enough to bring a smile to my lips. I used both of those girls until my dick ran dry and I collapsed in exhaustion.

  Wetting my hands, I run them through my dark, matted hair, letting it stick up randomly on top of my head. I make sure my keys are in my pocket and shove my shoes on my feet, headed for the front door. People are passed out all over the living room in different states of undress. I have to carefully step around them to get out of here.

  The glow of the clock in the kitchen says 5:45 a.m. Fuck, it’s earlier than I thought, but I don’t want to be here when everyone wakes up. Listening to people bitch about hangovers and dealing with clingy girls are not my things. Fucking and fun? Those are my things. The next morning? Hell no.

  I start my car and pull out of the driveway before lowering the top on the Shelby. Going slow so I don’t get pulled over, I travel the deserted early morning streets of our affluent suburb at a leisurely pace. When I get home, I drive around back, turn the car off, and pull a joint out of my wallet. Lighting up the blunt, I sit back in my seat, taking several long drags. Chemical bliss floods my system, relaxing me enough to go inside and deal with my parents.

  Fuck, I hate this house. The only thing that makes it worth coming home to every day is my sister Kinsey, and half the time, even knowing she’s inside isn’t enough to make me want to leave the safety of my car.

  I pray my mom isn’t already high, then giggle at the hypocrisy, pulling another long drag from the joint. Me having to get high in order to deal with my prescription drug abusing, alcoholic mother? I snort in sick, twisted delight.

  Later, when I look back on this moment, I realize it sucked that I never saw the police car parked out front or noticed the thirty-seven missed calls on my phone. Maybe I wouldn’t have smoked that joint. Maybe I would have been better prepared for the worst moment of my life. Maybe I wouldn’t have laughed like a hyena when I found out I was a killer.

  But that’s exactly what I am.

  2

  Killer

  Darkness. And pain. Definitely pain. A dull, throbbing, nauseating pain that radiates from my head all the way down my entire body to my toes. A long, violent tremor shakes me, stripping away the last vestiges of unconsciousness and thrusting me into the horrors of being awake to live another day.

  Fuck.

  With one hand, I rub my sore head as I throw my feet over the edge of my bed. I use the other hand to snatch the bottle of whiskey off my nightstand, chugging down a few big gulps. Hair of the dog. I huff, unamused as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, wondering why they don’t just call it what it is—the need to go back to fucked-up oblivion.

  One more swallow and I cap the bottle, shoving it in my back pocket after tugging on a pair of jeans that have somehow become two sizes too big. Tired and groggy, I shuffle down the hall to the enormous kitchen that no one cooks in, my stomach protesting the lack of food by growling loudly. Even though I feel sick and the last thing I want to do is eat, I put a slice of bread in the toaster and wait.

  The eerie silence of the massive mansion I call home sends chills down my spine. I fucking despise this house. It’s a house of death, sinister and black, as if a dark shroud covers it from top to bottom. Every inch is filled with morbid ghosts of the past, threatening to tear free from the walls and smother me until I join them in the next life.

  The pop of the toaster sends me two feet in the air. Jesus, my head hurts. I snag the piece of bread and eat it dry, each tasteless bite scraping its way down my throat to land in a lump at the bottom. Food is merely a necessity. I could care less what or even if I eat.

  Bored, I wander to the back windows, staring at the glistening water of the pool and greenery of the lush lawn. Doesn’t matter where I look, I’m not really seeing anything through my hazy vision.

  Goddamn, the sun is bright. What time is it?

  I remove my phone from my pocket and grunt. Two in the afternoon. Another wasted day, just like every other day in the six weeks since I killed Kinsey and my life disappeared along with her. My entire existence is a waste of fucking air and space.

  The agony of overwhelming guilt punches my gut like a wrecking ball. It’s so powerful I hunch over from the pain, clutching my stomach. My other hand reaches out blindly, gripping the window frame to keep from falling over. I claw at the edges, my nails digging into the wood to stay on my feet.

  Fuck!

  The pain is devastating. I squeeze my eyes shut, holding back the tears that burn behind my eyelids. It’s my fucking fault she’s dead. My beautiful little sister, gone because I’m a selfish asshole. I inhale a ragged breath, choking down the sob trying to wrack my body.

  Once I get my sorry ass under control, I slowly stand up, glancing one last time at the backyard and stop breathing.

  Oh fuck no. She wouldn’t. No, no, no…

  In a panic, I dash into the great room, yanking at the patio doors. My hands are shaking so hard it takes several frustrating tries to unlock the latch and fling the doors open. Ignoring the loud crash of one of the windowpanes shattering from the impact, I dart outside only to trip on the paved stones and land hard on the uneven ground.

  Shit! I scrabble to my feet, heedless of the blood dripping from my scraped palms, and dial 911.

  Fully clothed, I jump into the pool and swim over to the lifeless form. When my arms go around her waist, I know I’m too late. But I still spend an agonizing twenty minutes administering CPR until one of the paramedics pulls me away.

  Soaked through, I collapse on the ground and shiver. Violent convulsions wracking my body. It’s fitting, how cold and numb my skin is, because that’s exactly how I feel inside.

  Britton

  “Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Wonderful, Britt! That’s the most you’ve done without using the parallel bars.”

  I grin. The achievement seems small in the wide scope of things, but at one time was an impossibly huge hurdle for me to overcome.

  “Thanks, Nina.” My left foot wobbles. “Ummmm, I may need help getting back to the chair.”

  Nina laughs. “Sure.” She hooks her arm around my waist. “I should make you go back on your own just to prove you can do it,” she teases.

  I fake a look of horror as she eases me down into my wheelchair. “You wouldn’t!”

  Nina smiles, her pretty face crinkling
up with humor. “I would.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Nina Petrov is my rehab specialist and she is my favorite person in the world. Only a few years out of school, Nina is spunky and fun, from the top of her sleek, dark bob to the soles of her neon athletic shoes.

  “Friday, you’re going to go the length of the room and back on your own, Britt. I hope you’re ready.” Nina points at me and grins.

  “I’m ready, I swear.”

  No I’m not.

  “All right, your ride is here. See you in a couple days?” Nina waves to my mom as she enters the huge room. Even with her haughty appearance, Mom manages to hide her disgust, gracefully dodging gym equipment and various patients doing exercises with their therapists to reach my tiny corner in the midst of chaos.

  I don’t get to answer Nina, because my mom barges in, inserting herself between the therapist and my chair.

  “Britton. Ready to go? We have a meeting scheduled with the woman over at Students Speak—”

  “Mom, I told you I’m not going,” I snap, feeling petulant.

  “Ummmm, another client is waiting on me, Britt.” Nina turns to my mom. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Shelton-Reeves.” I might love Nina, but right now I hate her. Nina knows my mom well enough to vacate the area when she goes on one of her rants, leaving me to deal with her alone.

  “You too, Nina. Thank you.” My mom’s voice is tight and clipped. Once Nina is gone, Mom scowls. “I will not argue with you about this, Britton. Especially not in front of other people.” Her voice is quiet, but laced with irritation.

  I press my lips together, knowing if I say anything else right now, she’ll push even harder. Mom wheels me out to the car, trying to coddle me into the front seat.

  “I can do it!” I shake off her hand and ignore the hurt look on her face.

  After “the incident,” as it’s called in my house, my mom went into full-blown overprotective mode. Helicopter parents have nothing on Rose Shelton-Reeves. Since I woke up from a coma six months ago, she has one goal and one goal only—to fix me up so she can turn me into a walking, talking billboard for school-related shootings.

  Mom starts going on her usual diatribe as she pulls out of the lot at the Blake Atkins Center, the premiere brain injury and spinal cord rehab center in the Southeast. I spent four months here as an inpatient after having two surgeries, and now come three times a week for outpatient rehab.

  I only catch bits and pieces of her monologue listing all of the good things I can do for students everywhere if I just act reasonably and do what she says.

  “So, Britt, then we would go to schools and…”

  I let her go on, pretending to listen. Whatever. She’s on my left side, so I can’t hear ninety percent of what she says. According to her it’s so important for me to speak out about the shooting, even though I can’t recall a single thing from that day or the weeks leading up to it. How ironic that my mom can’t be bothered to remember a tiny little thing like the fact I lost all hearing in my left ear when a bullet tore through my skull.

  “…and then we would travel… many states…”

  I gaze out the window, rolling my eyes. All I want to do is move on, something my parents—my mother in particular—can’t seem to do. I mean, yeah I feel bad for what my parents went through—a daughter shot at school, brain surgeries, rehab, homeschool—but I didn’t ask Mom to quit her job to do all those things. She’s the one who said I couldn’t go back to regular school with all those “dangerous killers” out there.

  More important, I don’t want to remember the shooting. I’m glad I can’t. I don’t think I could live with the memories of that day. Mom either refuses to acknowledge my wishes or isn’t listening, because the last thing I want to do is discuss the worst day of my life in front of students across the country over and over and over. I just want to be Britt again, not Britton Reeves, school shooting victim and activist.

  Mom’s hand touches my knee and I flinch. “Sorry honey, I was calling your name and you didn’t hear me. We’re here.”

  In front of us is the tall, gleaming glass high-rise where the offices of Students Against School Shootings are located. What a dumb name. Are any students for school shootings? A laugh escapes before I can squelch it.

  I feel the heat of my mom’s glare as she exits the car.

  “Great,” I murmur while Mom gets my chair out of the back of the SUV. Just how I wanted to spend my day.

  Killer

  “Maybe you’ve had enough, Kell.”

  I glare at Logan and hold up my hand to signal for another round of drinks.

  “Maybe it’s none of your fucking business,” I snarl.

  “Fuck, Kell. I never should have got you that fake ID. last year.” Logan slouches back in the booth, crossing his arms over his chest. “In the eight months since the shooting, you’ve turned into a fucking drunk. Dropped out of school to do what? Feel sorry for yourself all day?”

  The waitress places another whiskey in front of me. “Shut up, Sanders. You’re not my goddamn mother.” I cringe, realizing what I just said. Then a weird sort of hysteria takes over and I begin to laugh maniacally. “Fuck,” I snort, “I don’t even have a mother anymore!” Slamming back half the whiskey, I laugh louder. “Hell, I hardly have a father. My mom got fucked up on pills and booze and fell into the pool, or maybe she just fucking threw herself in!” I wheeze, tears of laughter streaming down my cheeks.

  As if a switch flips, the laughter stops and an icy calm slithers down my spine, oozing like a living thing slipping into every crack and crevice of my body. “No mother, no father, no sister…” My voice hitches. “Fuck.” I down the rest of the drink, praying for the blessed numbness to take over.

  “Kell—”

  My best friend gapes as I stare at him. Hell, not just my best friend, Logan is the only friend left since my sister died and my soul was buried six feet under along with her. Once more, my mood changes in the blink of an eye, uncontrolled rage replacing the frigid emptiness. Fury suddenly burns hot over the ache of loss.

  Anger is so much goddamn easier to deal with than guilt.

  Lurching to my feet, I stagger over to Logan’s side of the table. “You wanna say that bullshit to my face? Huh, Lo? That I should just get over it?” My fist twists in his shirt, wrapping the fabric around my hand. I lean down, almost tumbling face-first into his lap. “Fuck you. You don’t know what it’s like to be a killer. I fucking killed them, Lo. Me!”

  Letting go of his shirt, I wobble as I stand up straight, hammering my chest with my fist on each sharp word. “I. Did. It!” I roar, heedless of the crowd in the bar. I turn to face the stunned patrons. “I fucking killed my family!”

  Logan puts his hands on my shoulders behind me and I freak the fuck out. Spinning around, I shove him into the booth, landing hard on top of him, fists flying. Someone grabs me around my waist, trying to yank me off of my best friend.

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” I can’t squirm out of the man’s strong grasp. Panic overwhelms me in my drunken state. My hands scramble for anything to hold on to, not finding any purchase on the slick table or fake leather bench seat. When my fingers finally grasp something I can hold, I pick up the heavy glass and smash it into the person’s head.

  The next thing I know, my face is pressed into the filthy linoleum floor, the strong stench of stale beer in my nostrils.

  “You have the right to remain silent…”

  My hands are jerked behind my back while a knee digs in between my shoulder blades.

  “…right to an attorney…”

  Laughter and tears pour out of me, loud, inhuman sobs ripping through my chest. When the metal cuffs clink around my wrists, the sound marks the exact second my mind snaps.

  3

  Ten years later

  Britt

  “Britt, can you double time it downstairs to cage four? Jack just pulled something in his back.”

  I glance up at one of the coaches at Souza MMA, the elite athletic complex
where I work as a sports therapist. “Sure thing, Max.”

  “Thanks, Britt. He’s waiting for you.”

  Once I finish restocking my backup freezer with disposable ice packs, I trot down the flight of stairs to the main level. Roxie, who works the front desk and is an all around awesome chick, grabs my arm when I pass by.

  My first instinct is to flinch, or scream, or I don’t know, just run away. I can’t because I’m at work, at the gym. Despite knowing I’m safe here, I sometimes react poorly to being snuck up on or grabbed. Keeping myself composed, I reach up and finger the amethyst pendant I wear beneath my clothing for reassurance. Deep down I know it’s all nonsense, but amethyst is supposed to keep away negative energy, so I’ve worn it since Nina gave it to me when I finished therapy so many years ago.

  Roxie’s face twists into a concerned frown.

  “He’s in a bad mood, girl. Watch yourself.”

  I laugh, tilting my head back to look up at the tall woman. “Jack is always in some kind of a mood, Roxie. I can handle him.”

  She scowls, her red lips a shocking contrast to her outrageous blue hair. “Don’t let him bully you into something you aren’t up for, Britt. You’re too nice.”

  I pat her hand before moving out of reach. “And you’re too sweet, looking out for me.” Giving her my best smile, I weave through the equipment to the section of the gym with the cages—six cages to be exact. Fighter’s League of America, full regulation-size octagons.

  Roxie doesn’t understand. This place, around the huge, powerful men she’s always warning me away from, is the only place I actually feel safe. And it’s precisely because the men are huge and powerful that I feel that way.

  Even with being deaf in my left ear, I hear the cursing from across the room. Jackson Wolfe, aka Wolverine, resident pain in the ass and all around diva, is lying on the black rubber flooring, loudly letting everyone know how his sparring partner screwed up.