Page 128 of Peak Cruelty

On paper, she’s harmless.Compassionate, even.

But when I watch her, I see the flickers.

The way her tone changes around kids who don’t smile.

The way she stiffens when a child interrupts her.

The way she touches them—too soft, too often.Like she wants credit for the gentleness.

Her name goes in the spreadsheet.

Not because I’m certain.

Because I’ve learned what certainty costs.

Each mark gets a date.

Each date gets a countdown.

Sometimes I don’t act.Just to see if I can.

I call it restraint.

Vance would call it dangerous, stupid even.

He wouldn’t be wrong.But he wouldn’t be right, either.

If he were still alive, he’d worry.I’d hear it in the way he closed the cabinets too softly, like sound might break me.

He’d leave coffee out for me, like I was going to sit and drink it instead of pacing and watching the window.

He’d want me to stop this.To heal.

But healing is a story people tell when they want you to stop making them uncomfortable.

This isn’t about healing.

It’s about not wasting the time he bought with his blood.

I don’t keep trophies.

But I keep patterns.

When they lie.How they cover.Who they hurt first.

My notes have stopped using full sentences.

They don’t need to.

“Yellow blouse.2:14 p.m.Kid flinched.She smiled.”

“Apartment 3B.He said, ‘You’ll ruin my life’ before anything else.”

They always tell on themselves.They just hope no one’s listening.

I do recon the way he did.

Wait.Watch.Wait longer.

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