Lyla’s name was setting on my tongue, but instead of calling out to her, I let my eyes roam around the room, sure that something was definitely off. I could sense him… the murderer. He’d come to kill Lyla. He’d come to get the job done so he could collect his reward, but why couldn’t I remember opening the door and letting him in?
Then again, why would I have opened the door in the first place? I was fugitive on the run. My face was plastered across the TV screens, warning the people of the neighborhood that I was armed and dangerous. It didn’t make sense for me to be seen.
Then I remembered.
I got out of the shower before Lyla, and I’d gone into her kitchen to make us something to eat. She stayed in afterwards to do her womanly stuff—shaving legs and washing hair. Standing at the kitchen counter with a knife in my hand, I tensed when the doorbell chimed out.
There wasn’t much after that.
Shaking my head, I couldn’t believe how foggy and disoriented I was. Reaching up, I ran a wet hand across my cheek, but when I pulled it back, it wasn’t water that was on my hands. It was blood.
So much blood.
Quickly, I checked my naked chest for any cuts, but there were none.
Where had all the blood come from?
Lyla.
Her name rushed through my brain. Slamming the front door, I turned to run toward her bathroom, but when I did, I came face to face with Officer Douglas.
He was lying on the carpet in the middle of Lyla’s living room, his eyes wide open in death, staring accusingly back at me. His mouth was wide as if he’d screamed his final breath. His neck and chest were sliced open, his blood still spilling from the fresh wound.
I backed away so quickly that I slammed into the door and the knob dug into my spine.
Again, Lyla’s name rushed through my head. Panic gripped my heart, squeezing and pushing my blood through my veins faster than a freight train. My head started to pound. It hurt as if someone was stabbing me in my temple. Reaching up, I smoothed my palm over the side of my head. It was then that the images came. They smacked into me with the force of a hurricane, making my stomach turn and my breath seize.
Sarah’s face moved through my mind. Her expression was contorted, full of shock and fear. It was the way she looked when I walked in Michael Welch’s apartment and discovered her fucking him.
They jumped out of bed, throwing their clothes on like there was a fire, and then I remembered her trying to calm me down, but there was nothing… only the loud buzzing in my ears and pain in my heart.
Michael came my way. “Hey, man, listen, let’s talk about this.”
But I stopped him when I lodged a knife I hadn’t realized I was holding into the side of his neck. Sarah followed. My hands burned as I cut them into pieces, and blood soaked me and everything around me. As I passed a mirror in Michael’s hallway, I looked at myself and smiled sadistically.
But there was unknown DNA under my fingernails. Someone else had been there. It wasn’t me.
Then the memory of waiting outside Michael’s apartment building came back to me. I remembered waiting until I felt close to exploding. I remembered knowing what she was in there doing and finally breaking. I moved across the parking lot, accidently running into a teenager on a skateboard. I caught him before he fell to the ground, and my nails sank into his arm
“Hey, watch it, dude,” he called out as he rode away.
I gripped at my head as the memories kept moving through.
And then there was Carlos. The memories of fighting him in the laundry room—of smashing his head under the laundry press until I heard his skull cracking—of shoving his lifeless body into the dryer, setting the temperature at its highest setting, and walking away, leaving him to tumble and burn.
Those memories were followed by the ones of Miguel begging me to live, and Jose and his boys and how they’d cried like bitches when death was near. The way I’d choked them to death with my bare hands, and then strung them up to let them hang the way Scoop had.
The images attacked me over and over; beating into my brain until my stomach soured and nausea filled me. I’d done those things. I was the monster everyone said I was. I’d murdered Sarah and Michael; there was no mafia conspiracy. I’d never been set up. Then I’d murdered members of the Mexican Mafia like it was nothing.
I’d killed over a broken heart—over the death of my friend—and over Lyla. And even though I’d somehow blocked out the memories of those murders, I knew if it came down to it, I’d do it again for Lyla. Over and over again. I’d wear the blood of anyone who tried to hurt her on my hands proudly, and that thought made me feel even sicker.
But why had I killed Douglas?
He was never a threat to Lyla or me, yet there he was, lying on the floor like a piece of dead trash.
My hands shook when I looked down at them.
What was wrong with me?
I was obviously a very sick man.
I was totally unaware of my crimes. The monster in me had taken over completely in those moments. I was Jekyll and Hyde, and my darker side liked to come out and commit crimes I was clueless about. Those memories were buried deep inside of myself, and I wasn’t sure why they were starting to spill out of me like water.
Why now?
Why in that moment of complete and total happiness?
I’d decided when I was inside of Lyla in the shower that we were going to run away together. I knew that I couldn’t leave her—that I’d rather live life on the run with her. But that wasn’t possible now. I was dangerous. It wasn’t safe for even Lyla to be around me since I no longer trusted myself—I no longer even knew who I was.
“You’re X,” a deep voice whispered at my side.
Turning, I was ready to attack, but there was no one there. I rubbed at my face with bloody hands, sure that I was losing my mind. The voice continued to whisper—my alter ego—telling me what my next move should be. He told me to get rid of Lyla. He told me to cut her perfect flesh into tiny pieces and then to run, but I couldn’t listen to him anymore.
I had to protect Lyla.
As if I’d somehow summoned her, she was there. She gasped at the scene before her as she stood in the doorway of her living room. Her eyes moved over Douglas’ dead body, and then down at my hands. Her face was pale and twisted in shock and fear.
Her fear cut through me like a hot knife. I loved Lyla with all that I was. I would never hurt her. She had to know I’d never hurt her.
Without my permission, the darker side of me crept in, and the desire to sink my knife into her milky skin moved over me, taking away my breath and my will.
CHAPTER 28
LYLA
I WAS SEEING things. This couldn’t be right. Christopher Jacobs was innocent. He was the love of my life, and he was innocent. He didn’t do the things everyone said he did. He didn’t kill Sarah and Michael. He didn’t kill Carlos and the rest of the boys in the Mexican Mafia the way the inmates thought. And he definitely hadn’t sliced Douglas open and bled him out in the middle of my living room.
He couldn’t have. Especially since not thirty minutes before he was touching me sweetly and telling me how much he loved me. Not when he’d made love to me all night, holding me like I was his life and bringing me to the edge of everything over and over again.
He was my protector—my savior—he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. He wasn’t the bad guy or the criminal. He wasn’t the monster.
Then again, if he were so innocent, then why was he standing over Douglas’ dead body in the middle of my living room? Why was he covered in blood and looking down at Douglas with a smile?
“You’re X,” he whispered to no one, his shoulders tense.
My eyes moved over his body, taking in the blood on the khakis he’d put on after his shower and the red smeared all over his hands and face.
“She’s next.”
His voice was a sinister whisper. I’d never heard him speak that way before
, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
“No. Not Lyla,” he begged.
It was confusing. It was like watching two different men speak.
At that moment, it hit me. Christopher Jacobs and X were two different men. My brain spun, and everything I learned in Psychology class rushed through my memory. Dissociative Identity Disorder was the medical term. Christopher had multiple personalities. I wasn’t a doctor so I couldn’t officially diagnose him with that, but it was obvious from where I stood that he was a very sick man.
“We don’t hurt Lyla; we protect her. We love her.”
My heart squeezed in my chest, being squished tightly between the love I had for Christopher and the pain of finding out that he was sick and a murderer.
His madness unraveled in front of me as he had a conversation with himself… as he debated on whether or not to kill me. He wanted me dead, and he wanted to protect me all at the same time.
His eyes moved my way and latched onto me. Pain moved over his expression, and his shoulders dropped.
“Lyla.” My name rushed from his lips in a whisper. “I’m sick. I don’t know what’s wrong with me”
He dropped to his knees and the urge to go to him—to hold him—was overwhelming.
As he shook his head in disbelief, his eyes glazed over and filled with heated tears. He looked so lost—so afraid. The big, fearless man he’d always been was gone. In his place was the scared nineteen-year-old boy I’d seen in the pictures. I didn’t understand it.
The path of my tears cooled on my skin and I sniffled, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. It was all too much to take in. The man I was in love with was a murderer—a monster—a sick person in need of mental health professionals immediately.
The knowledge of what was going on trickled through my brain and down my spine until it reached the pit of my stomach, making me nauseated.
“I think I killed him.”
He looked up at me in desperation, his eyes full of trust, and I had to close my eyes and look away when a single tear dripped down his cheek.
“Please, Lyla. Please help me,” he begged.
My legs moved on their own, stepping around Douglas until I was standing before Christopher. Tucked away in the back of my mind was fear. I was putting myself in the path of a brutal murderer, but I loved him so much. I couldn’t stand by and watch as he begged for my help. Not after all he’d done for me. Not after all we’d been through together. And if by some chance he turned on me and took my life, then so be it.
He fell forward, his bloodied face buried in my stomach, and I couldn’t help myself, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. His body shook as he cried, his deep, manly voice breaking over his tears as he tried to talk with his face smashed into my stomach.
“Shhh,” I soothed him with closed eyes. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get you some help.”
My heart flipped in my chest, breaking into hundreds of irreparable pieces. My breath was stolen, and I couldn’t breathe. No air would move into my lungs. I was slowly suffocating as I held the man I loved against me.
He stopped crying and looked up at me with a tearstained face. There were lines in the blood on his cheeks where his tears had fallen, a trail of sadness mixed with a trail of murder.
My fingers moved over the mixture, feeling his skin and wishing that things could have been different—wishing that I’d met him under different circumstances—wishing he wasn’t sick.
In the distance, the sound of police sirens echoed. They were coming for him, and as badly as I wanted to keep him forever, I knew I couldn’t. I knew he belonged behind bars, but not at Fulton. I’d still get him out of that place. I’d still save him from prison, but in return, he’d spend the rest of his days in a mental institution. It was where he belonged.
He tensed when the sirens grew louder. Their flashing lights skimmed my curtains and even in the middle of the day, they lit up the white lace with red and blue.
The soft overgrowth of Christopher’s hair tickled my palm as I ran my fingers over his face and head. Perhaps I was sick for still showing him emotion knowing he’d killed a man not minutes before. Maybe that made me a terrible person, but I couldn’t help it. I loved him.
“I’m a monster, Lyla.”
“Shhh,” I continued to soothe him. “You’re not a monster; you’re just sick. I promise we’ll get you help. I promise I’ll get you out of Fulton.”
His eyes grew wide and he stood, backing away from me like I was the dangerous one.
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m dangerous. I can’t be trusted. I belong at Fulton. I belong away from you.”
Again, tears filled his eyes and escaped down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and turned his head. He was in pain. I was in pain. And there was nothing we could do to make it go away.
“No. You belong in a facility, but not one like Fulton. I’ll take care of you, Christopher. I love you so much.”
Again, his eyes widened. “Don’t love me, Lyla!” he shouted, making me jump.
Seeing my distress, his voice softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just that it’s not save to love me.”
I moved. When I went to him and wrapped my arms around his center, he didn’t stop me. He didn’t touch me either. Instead, he held his palms up as if he’d kill me with a single touch.
“I’m protecting you, Lyla. Let me protect you from me, please,” he begged.
I hugged him tighter, sure that I, too, was losing my mind. “I’ll be fine. We’ll make this work.” I couldn’t believe the words that were coming from my mouth. What kind of person was I?
Grasping my shoulders, he set me away from him. The sadness in his eyes cleared and instead, I only saw resolve.
“No. I’m not doing this to you. I won’t ruin your life this way.”
He wasn’t making any sense, but before I could ask him what he meant, a policeman called out to us over the loudspeaker.
“Christopher Jacobs, we know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up.”
Looking down at me, he ran his thumb over my cheek and the sadness returned to his eyes. “Thank you, Lyla, for giving me greatness.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “No, thank you.”
Standing on my tiptoes, I pressed my lips to his. He kissed me back briefly before pulling away and clenching his eyes closed.
“I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I love you more than anything in this world.” His words struck me in the chest and again, a wave of fresh tears rushed down my cheeks.
“I love you, too, Christopher.”
His somber eyes devoured my face as if it were the last time he’d ever seen me. It wasn’t. I was going to fix this, even if fixing this meant having him committed for life. I’d rather him live the rest of his days in a mental facility than Fulton.
“You’re not going to give me up, are you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. You’re mine, and I’m yours. That’s all that matters. We’ll deal with the rest as it comes.”
Leaning in once more, he kissed me hard, weakening my knees and sending my mind twirling, but when he pulled away, he pushed me to the wall and pinned me there. Fear flooded my veins, but I didn’t flinch. He loved me. Regardless of how sick he was, I had faith that he would never hurt me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m saving you from me.” He pressed his forehead to mine and breathed me in. “I want you to live your life, Lyla. Get married. Have beautiful babies with your red hair and beautiful green eyes. I want you to forget about me.”
“Never,” I said desperately.
“Then you leave me no choice.”
Turning me, he handcuffed me with Douglas’ handcuffs. I pulled against the restraints, trying to figure out when he took them from Douglas’ body.
Afterwards, he turned me to face him once again.
In the distance
, I heard the police officers outside issue another warning. If he didn’t go out, they were coming in. Either way, my gut told me this wasn’t going to end well.
“Are you going to kill me now?” I asked. The cuffs behind my back clacked against the wall as I struggled to get free.
His rough finger moved across my cheek and his eyes moved over my face, taking me in and devouring me whole.
“I love you more than life, Lyla… more than my next breath. I love you in an impossible way that burns my skin and scrambles my soul. It’s you. It will always be you.”
Stepping away from me, he moved to Douglas’ body once more. Bending, he reached for the revolver clipped to his side and plucked it from its holder.
I closed my eyes, my fear, hurt, and love combining to make me feel sick to my stomach. Mentally, I prepared myself for the end. He was going to shoot me. Sure, he was saying words of love, but he was sick… he was disturbed and unhinged.
He moved toward me once more, the gun heavy at his side, and I held my head high, looking death in the face. “I love you, Christopher. No matter what you do to me, I love you. I know you’re sick. I understand you can’t help it.” I meant my words.
Pain flashed across his eyes once more. “No. You still don’t get it. I’d never hurt you. Not ever. It’s you, Lyla. You’re everything to me.”
Moving in, he kissed me again, his warm lips marking my memory. He moaned against my mouth, and I could taste the tears on his tongue.
When he pulled away, I sucked in my breath.
He backed away from me and toward the front door with his eyes locked on mine.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he smiled and mouthed the words I love you once more.
It wasn’t until he was pulling open the front door that I realized what he was doing, but by then, it was too late. I moved away from the wall, tripping over my own feet to get to him, but he slammed the door behind him in a loud crash.
Silence swallowed me whole for a few seconds, and then the loudspeaker sounded once more.
“Put the gun down or we’ll shoot.”
Slammer Page 21
