by B. B. Hamel
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re Batman. You know that, right? That’s Batman’s origin story.”
I lean back on my hands and laugh. “Okay, yeah, that’s true. But I’m not Batman. I’m much, much worse.”
“You’re right.” She bites her lip and looks away, the smile disappearing from her face.
We lapse into silence then and whatever strange spell had been cast by the story I told suddenly breaks. The reality of our situation returns, and the tension between us returns. Slowly I stand up.
“I’ll be back later,” I say to her.
“Wait. Please.” She bites her lip. “Can you give me something to read?”
I nod. “I’ll bring you some books.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess not.”
“I’ll be back.”
I turn and quickly walk to the elevator. I can feel her eyes on me as I step through the doors and ride it back up to my main house.
I can already feel myself breaking one of my rules. I’m not supposed to get attached to people. Attachments lead to poor judgment. Attachments let people into my world, and I can’t have that.
Amelia seems different. She doesn’t seem to be angry with me for killing her dad.. Instead, she’s defiant about being locked up and wants to be free, but she doesn’t hate me. She’s interested in me, instead.
Her father’s killer. She’s interested in getting to know the man that plunged a knife into her father’s heart.
That’s fascinating. The more I get to know Amelia, the more I want to crack her open and drink her. I want to read her like a book. I want her body, of course, but there’s something else about her. Any person that’s interested in a serial killer like me is worth getting to know.
It would be easier if I just killed her, but that possibility is becoming more and more remote. She’s an innocent, although she has the power to destroy me, I can’t just take her life. I wish it were that simple.
I wish I could just finish it. Instead, I want her more with every visit to the basement.
8
Amelia
I should hate him for what he’s doing to me, but I don’t.
Maybe he can see that, I don’t know. As much as I want that rage inside of me to still be there, every time I go looking for it I realize that it’s depleted. I’ve spent so much time in my life being angry at my father, at my situation, at the world. I want to be angry at Noah as well, but I just can’t.
I hate him for what he’s doing to me. There’s no denying that. But I’m not angry.
I probably should be. He killed my father, after all, but my father deserved it. And according to him, he only kills bad people. He’s a rich guy with a dark past that kills bad guys. He’s like Batman.
Except Batman doesn’t kill people. And Noah does.
He’s a serial killer. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
I wrap myself in my blankets and try to think about anything but my father, but my mind inevitably ends up on him. For some reason, one particular memory comes back, the memory that has always haunted me.
He’s drunk as hell again, like he always is. He comes stumbling back inside late at night. I’m sixteen years old and I can tell from the sound he’s making downstairs that he’s going to hurt me.
I don’t bother locking the door. He slowly comes up the stairs and pushes open the door. He stands there, staring at me, anger and lust in his eyes.
“You little bitch,” he says to me.
“What?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“You fucking threw it out, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t touch your stuff.”
“You dumb bitch. I had two hundred dollars in there!” he screams.
“What are you talking about?”
“The pizza boxes! The ones you threw out! My fucking money!” He storms across the room.
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I didn’t throw away any pizza boxes. I know better than to touch his garbage without asking first. There may or may not be money hidden somewhere in this house, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is he needs an excuse to hit me, and he made one up.
He punches me in the jaw as soon as he gets near, knocking me from my computer chair. He kicks me in the ribs and grabs me by the hair, pulling me to my feet.
I know better than to scream too loud. I grunt but I don’t whimper. I try not to show too much anger or too much pain. I turn off my mind and let him hit me, over and over, beating my already bruised body. If I fight back, it’ll only get worse.
Eventually, he throws me onto the bed and stumbles out of my room, breathing heavily and sweating.
I lie there for a while, not moving. I test my body, trying to see how bad the damage is. I don’t have any broken ribs, or at least I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’m bruised and battered, but I’ll survive.
I hear him downstairs in the shower as I find a rag to dab at the blood running from my lip and my nose. By the time I get the bleeding to stop, he’s out of the shower and in his bedroom, probably already passed out.
I creep down the stairs, anger sudden and white-hot. I hate him, hate him so fucking much. I hate what he does to me. I hate what he’s made me.
I find him in his bedroom, lying on an empty mattress surrounded by his dirty clothes. I walk up to him, not sure what I’m going to do.
As I get close, he suddenly heaves. He’s lying face down, his face turned slightly to one side, and he vomits. Instead of moving, he just stays there, vomit leaking from his mouth. He tries to take a breath, and another, and suddenly I realize that he’s choking.
I stand there, eyes wide, as my bastard father begins to choke to death on his own vomit. He’s clearly too drunk to wake up. If I don’t help him, he’ll die.
I stand there watching, frozen in horror, torn between two worlds.
If I don’t move, I can be free. I can save myself. It won’t be my fault if he dies. Frankly, he deserves it. Nobody will know that I watched him and let him die like this.
He chokes, gags, trying to get breath. His face turns red and slowly transitions to purple. His body begins to thrash in slow motion, like he’s under water.
I just have to stand there. Let him die. Let him die for everything he did to me.
But I’m a coward. After another couple seconds, I run to him, turn him onto his side, and scoop the vomit from his mouth and throat. He takes deep, gasping breaths, the color in his face slowly returning to normal. He doesn’t even wake up.
I sit there, hands covered in his spit and vomit, and curse myself.
I’m a coward. I’m a pathetic coward. I saved his life and he’ll never know it. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him, and if he did, he wouldn’t care. He’ll just get drunk and hit me again soon enough.
I sob there next to my drunk abusive father, already regretting saving his life.
I remember that night all the time. It was the night that I could have saved myself. I always wonder what would have happened to me, what kind of life I could have had, if only I had let him die in his sleep that night.
But I’m weak. I’m weak and pathetic. I couldn’t bear the thought of being responsible for the death of my father even though he deserved it. Out of everyone in this world, I’m the only one that should have killed him.
Instead, Noah did. He did what I couldn’t do. He came into our house at night and shoved a knife deep into my father’s black and withered heart, letting him bleed out into the tub. He did what I wish I had the courage to do all those years ago.
I look up as the elevator door dings. I push myself into a sitting position as he walks into the room, holding a cardboard box in his arms.
“Special delivery,” he says, putting it down on the floor next to me.
I look into it and smile. It’s full of paperbacks, some of them old, but some are pretty new-looking.
“That was fast,” I say.
“I have a lot o
f books upstairs.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure what you’re into, though, so I brought a bunch of stuff.”
“I’m not sure what I’m into, either,” I admit. “I haven’t really read much.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Because I have a lot of good stuff in here.”
“Like what?”
“Well, have you read Harry Potter?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “Are you serious? You’re a serial killer.”
“True. But it’s really a great series. It’s famous for a reason.”
“I watched the movies.”
“Not the same.
“Is this—”
“Here—”
We reach into the box at the same time and our hands touch. I stare at him, surprised as our fingers graze each other. We linger there for a second and I feel a thrill run down my spine. I’m shocked at the excitement, the desire that courses through my veins, and I quickly pull my hand back. I’m not sure what that feeling means, and frankly I’m afraid of it.
I should be more afraid. This man is a killer, a murderer. He’s a bad, bad man. But I still feel that pulsing desire deep down inside of me as I study his handsome face, and for a second, I think he feels it too.
“This is it,” he continues softly. He hands me a book.
“Thanks.”
“There’s other stuff in there, too.” He stands up, looking away. “Harry Potter starts out for kids, but it gets better.”
“Thanks,” I say stupidly, still thrown off by the feeling of his fingers against mine.
“There’s adult stuff in there, too.” With that, he turns and stalks off toward the doors.
I want to call out and stop him. I want to tell him that I’m happy he killed my dad. I want to explain to him that he just did what I couldn’t do, what I wish I had the strength to do. So many people like me fall through the cracks because I’m poor and the cops don’t give a fuck about me. Poor uneducated people get fucked and abused all the time in our world. People like Noah understand that. He’s doing a good thing by killing the people that the cops can’t take care of.
But I don’t say it. Because I know I’m sick and pathetic. I look at the manacle on my ankle and have to remind myself that I’m his captive. He wants to break me, maybe even kill me. I have to keep my distance.
The doors open and close on him, and I’m left alone again.
I briefly want him to come back, but I banish that thought. I have to escape. I can’t keep letting myself be this sick and pathetic and weak.
I turn toward the books and begin to sift through them, trying to forget that sensation, that thrill.
9
Noah
I can still feel her touch lingering on my skin. It’s strange that I can’t shake the simple feeling of her fingers grazing mine, even after watching her change, but it’s there, locked in my mind.
Making her change in front of me didn’t bring me pleasure, although I was hard watching her body. I had to show her that I was in charge, that I’m the one with all of the power. She needs to be broken down before I can build her back up.
At least that’s what I tell myself. Truth is, I’m winging all of this. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her or how I’m going to make up my mind, but I am sure that I’m completely and utterly fascinated by her.
I have to take a deep breath and bring myself back to the moment. It’s around four in the afternoon and I’m wearing a dark baseball cap, a boring white t-shirt under a simple plain gray jacket and a simple pair of jeans. I’m about as non-descript and plain as possible as I sit on the bench with a newspaper in my hands, watching the house across the street.
Mark Sheer, the pedophile fuck, hasn’t been out all afternoon. I’ve been watching him, carefully and quietly, since early in the morning just to see if I can’t catch him going somewhere he shouldn’t. It is a bad sign that he lives across the street from a park filled with children, but I can’t imagine he’d be stupid enough to prey on children so close to his own home.
I have to keep my mind busy or else I’ll get distracted with thoughts of Amelia. I can’t have that, not while I’m staking out this bastard. I still have important work to do and the screaming need inside of me won’t ever quiet down.
After another half hour of sitting and waiting, I watch as the front door to his house suddenly opens. I perk up and stare as Mark himself steps outside and shuts the door behind him. He walks down the stoop and hesitates there, staring out into the park.
There’s a look on his face that I can’t help but recognize. I’ve had that look hundreds of times in my life, and I’ll never miss it in someone else.
It’s hunger. Not for food or water, but a hunger for something ineffable, something that can’t be described. I’ve seen that look on many, many faces in my time as a killer, and I know what it means.
Mark Sheer is surveying the children playing in the park and is clearly starving for them.
That alone doesn’t mean anything. He could be a pedophile that never acts on his base instincts. It has happened before, and every time I come across that kind of man, I leave him alone. There’s something tragic about those pathetic, disgusting souls that are attracted to children but never act on their disgusting impulses. They deserve to be locked up in cells for the rest of their lives, but they aren’t bad enough for my knife.
I kill the worst of the worst, I kill the real demons among us. Mark Sheer is probably one of those demons, but I’m not sure, not yet.
He tears himself away and quickly begins walking down the street. I stand and go to follow him, but slow down as I glance at my watch.
My shift is almost over. I spot Ryan down the street and a look passes between us. I nod at him and he nods back, slowly unfolding himself from the ground. Ryan lops on after Mark and I force myself to stop and take a deep breath. Ryan can follow Mark from here on out; I need to take a break. I’ve been sitting there watching for hours. I can let Ryan take it from here.
Annoyed, I find my car and head back toward my house. It’s likely that Mark is just going out for groceries or something mundane, but it’s always frustrating to have to leave a stakeout just as things are happening. Still, I need a fucking break, and Amelia needs lunch.
The drive passes fast as I think about Amelia, trying to figure out what I want from her. I make a decision, though not a long-term decision, as I pull up into the driveway. Heart beating fast, I go into the kitchen and quickly prepare her a simple meal before riding the elevator down to B2.
The doors slide open and Amelia is sitting on her bed. She looks up from the book she’s reading and cocks her head at me as I walk slowly over to her carrying the tray.
“You’re early,” she says.
I laugh. “How do you know? There’s no clock.”
She smiles. “I guessed.”
“You guessed wrong. I’m actually late.”
She takes the tray from me and begins to eat. I crouch down near her and smile to myself, pleased that she’s eating without hesitation. The bruising around her eye is nearly gone and I almost think she looks a little bit healthier. I’m not sure what she was eating or how much when she was living with her piece of shit father. She might be getting more nutrition than her body is used to.
“How would you like to go outside?” I ask her.
She stops eating and looks at me. “Seriously?”
I nod. “I’m serious. Just on my property.”
“Are you going to take this off?” She nudges the chain with her foot.
“No,” I admit. “I can’t risk you running.”
“Could I get away, even if I did run?”
I laugh, genuinely pleased at that question. “No,” I say. “The nearest neighbor is at least two miles. And the road is at least a mile. I’d catch you long before you got anywhere safe.”
“So why not take this thing off?”
I grin at her. “Do you want to go outside?”
She pauses and frowns. “Ye
s,” she says softly.
“Okay then. We do it my way.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Finish your food.”
She nods and goes back to eating as I walk over to the steel rod in the floor. I unlock the padlock and pull the chain through completely until it’s all the way out. I wrap it around my arm until she has about ten feet of slack total. The chain is thick and heavy, but not impossible to carry around.
When I’m done, she stands. “Let’s go,” she says.
I can tell she’s eager and I laugh. “Okay then. Come on.”
I walk over to the elevator and she follows me, a little hesitant. I thumb the scanner and the doors slide open. I let her step in first before following her in. The doors shut and we begin to ascend.
I glance at her but can’t read her expression. She’s standing in the corner staring at the floor indicator with an odd look on her face, like she’s terrified but also excited. I can’t really blame her for being afraid. She probably thinks this is some sort of trap. She’s smart to think that.
The doors open and we walk through the hall. She’s staring all over, taking everything in, and finally I open the front door. We walk out down the front steps and I lead her to the left, into the field between the house and the garages.
“Outside,” she whispers. I smile and watch her, following a few feet behind her, as she walks through the grass. She laughs and looks back at me. “I thought this was a trick.”
“No trick,” I say. “You’ve been down there for a while. I figured you’d like some fresh air.”
“Thank you,” she says softly. Suddenly she sits down on the ground and runs her fingers through the grass, laughing again. “You now, I used to go to the park when I was really little. I loved playing with the grass.”
I sit across from her, chain in my hands. “Did you eat it?”
She giggles at me. “A little bit.”
“Me too. Hurt my stomach.” I can’t help but smile at the memory.
