Page 33 of Saint

11

Theories

Violet

Saint pushes off thebed—off me—and stands at the foot of it, gripping the bedposts.

I wish the room was brighter so I could see him well enough to figure out who he is. But between his all-black outfit, his ski mask, and the darkness of the room, he’s a figure towering over me.

Sitting up, I glance down at the floor, where Nixon is dead in a puddle of blood. His neck is split open. Muscle and vocal cords are cut cleanly through. If I had a weak stomach, it might do more than turn as I focus on his pale lips, but death isn’t new to me.

My mom was a single parent. A struggling nurse. She worked most weekends, and I spent more time at the hospital some weeks than I did at home on the couch.

I’ve seen sickness. I’ve seen death.

Once a body is empty, there’s nothing left to fear. It’s the moment they’re about to go that will burn itself inside you. The look in their eyes as they’re starting to fade.

Facing the unknown.

It doesn’t matter how much faith you have. In that moment, it’s tested.

And over time, I couldn’t help but become fascinated with it. Slasher movies, serial killers, jump scares. Things that get your blood pumping when the monotony of the day-to-day slowly dries you up inside. A rush that can’t be defined and can’t be matched.

Freedom from obligations.

It’s what Saint offers me, whether he realizes it or not. The hot rush that floods my veins when my heart starts to race. Not knowing if he’ll kill me, save me, or consume me. Wondering in any given moment which side of him is going to win out.

I hate him drifting through my barriers and calling out to my dark side. Especially when he unleashes it like this.

My savior.

I’m realizing more and more that’s who he honestly thinks he is. He murders in my name, and if I’m not careful, I have no doubt he could snap and turn his aggression on me at any moment.

Nothing about what he’s done is holy. And none of this is right.

“It wasn’t his fault,” I whisper, staring into Nixon’s empty, open eyes.

Saint hums. “He could have declined my offer.”

“And you’d have let him walk out of here if he had?”

“Probably not.” He shrugs his shoulder.

He’s psychotic. Unhinged.

Saint’s dark eyes roam over me, and even if I can’t see more than the glimmer they catch when he turns his face toward the nightlight, his interest is palpable. A current hums through me, and there’s likely little he doesn’t see as he inspects every inch.

He’s a predator I should fear as he stops to focus on my blood-splattered legs. Pausing on each red spot that paints my pale skin. His fingers flex into fists, and my body betrays me as my core clenches.

“Why did you come here tonight, Violet?” Saint’s attention moves back to my face.

“Can we talk about this anywhere but here?” I glance at Nixon’s empty eyes looking up at us from the ground.

“No.”

Of course not.

Saint’s a killer. If I had to guess, he probably finds death comforting. Nixon’s lifeless corpse is a trophy of his rage, and if I’m not careful, I might become one as well.

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