Page 4 of Stalk

On the day of, I’m barely alive. I detach myself until I’m a phantom—the only piece of me left is my flesh and blood. My mind turns off completely, like a simple switch of a light. All I think about are what steps I have to take to complete my task.

Grab a gun. Put gun in holster. Grab a knife. Put in holster. Leave the wallet. Take the phone. Walk outside. Lock the door. Travel to destination. Stalk. Wait for the right moment. Shoot or stab. Stage the area. Don’t be seen. Go home.

And then that light switch is turned back on, involuntarily. I would leave it off permanently if I could. My life would be much simpler without all the emotions that consume me the second I walk back through my front door. Because as soon as I’m finallydone with the task—as soon as I’m back home, away from the reality of it—my soul tries to claw itself from my body. I collapse to the floor in a cold sweat before I can do anything. Sometimes, I at least make it to the couch in the living room before losing it completely, but not often.

Flashes of distorted memories assault my brain as soon as I collapse in the fetal position. It happens every time, without fail. Everything I pushed away during the assassination comes back, despite my pleading. It’s like whenever I’m about to take a life, I black out, but as soon as I’m done with it all, I have to relive it. Over and over again until my stomach churns and I vomit out my sins. Only then, once my racing heart has stilled, can I find the strength to stand back on my feet. Wash up. Continue on.

Tonight is no different. After I clean out the vomit from my kitchen sink, I quickly spot the blood under my fingernails, staring up at me like crimson half-moons. I’ve been scrubbing away at my increasingly tender flesh ever since. Though the bristles of my handheld dish scrubber feel like tiny needles at this point, I keep going, even after all traces of blood are long gone. I scrub until my own blood pools underneath my nails and salty tears fall down the slopes of my cheeks, down to the sink below, mixing in with the suds.

It feels like there’s the weight of a boulder strapped to my chest, but I know there isn’t. Feels like someone is crushing in the crown of my head, but it’s just me in this house, alone as usual. I’m sick of it. Sick of repeating this cycle. Exhausted from the physical and emotional toll this line of work takes on my body.

I wish… I wish she was still alive. I wish she hadn’t left me with this life. I wish… I wish I had died instead.

I shake my head violently, trying to snap out of my usual intrusive thoughts, which only makes the killer headache radiating from my temples grow in severity.

Screw you, Mom. You could have donesomethingto change this.

With an elongated sigh, I use the last of my strength to turn the water off and grab a handful of paper towels from the roll that hangs above the sink. I wrap the paper towels around my fingertips and slide down to the tiled floor. My head leans back against the uncomfortably hard marble countertop, and I stare up at the ceiling.

You weren’t meant for this. You were supposed to be done with college. You were supposed to be a normal member of society. Not this. Not a monster. You weren’t meant to be trapped here, in your dead mother’s house…

I know better than to shake my head again. Instead, I blink. I glance down at my feet and count all the tiles I can see. I repeat the action until my breaths even out. Then, I remove the paper towels from my hands. The underside of my nails quickly seep with more blood, so I wrap them up once more. When I’m standing, I rely on my muscle memory to guide me back to my bedroom. I’m not coherent enough to depend on my body’s help.

A lot of people would have moved into the master bedroom if their mother left them a beautiful Victorian home in the heart of D.C. Not me, though. My mother’s bedroom has remained practically untouched since her death.

The funny thing is, even after she died when I was eighteen—before I knew what shereallydid for a living—she left no traces of her trade at home. All I found was a single gun, hidden in a box on the top shelf of her closet. I assumed it had been for self-defense because that was before I knew the truth. Hell, maybe that one gunwasfor self-defense. Sometimes, I still wonder where she left all her guns and blades if not here. I’m not curious enough to dig through her room any further, though. At least not now.

I still sleep in the bedroom of my youth. It may not be as large as the master, but it’s plenty of space for me. The entire house has always felt liketoo muchspace, even when it was the two of us under the same roof. Now that it’s just me, I can’t help but feel like I live in a museum of sorts. An homage to the life my mother once lived, with all of her decor and trinkets still spread across each room, keeping her forever alive in some way.

Sometimes, the quiet is unsettling. Especially when I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. Sometimes, I can’t help but wish that there was someone—anyone—around to help ease some of my burdens. But that’s not the hand I was dealt. So I live in this unwavering, unwanted solitude; a hermit.

When my achy bones finally manage to take me up the stairs and to my bedroom, my forehead crashes against the door before I can open it.

Take a breath. Turn the knob. The bathroom is only a few yards away.

But I’m so tired… so tired… so…

The knot in the back of my throat that has been making it hard to breathe, hard to swallow, constricts my airway. I force a violent inhale through my nostrils and push on. My bones scream at me in protest. My muscles strain with the simple movement of twisting the doorknob and taking the few steps necessary to make it past my bed and into the en suite bathroom.

You have to. You have to get clean. Youcando this. It’sjusta shower.

By the time I collapse forward into the bathroom, knees buckling and a thick layer of sweat coming to life on my skin, I almost lose myself completely. I know that once I get in the shower and have the hot water running on me, I will feel better. I can’t erase the sins of tonight—or any other night, for that matter—but washing away the residue of tonight is the best bet I have at some solace.

But I don’t want to pass out, either. The room spins violently around me. I stumble to the toilet and sit down atop the closed lid, then put my head down, in between my legs.

Breathe. In… out. In… out.

The dizziness and lightheadedness fade away in minutes, but I stay where I’m at a little longer before slowly lifting my head back up. Every time I think I have a handle on myself, my body comes back to bite me in the ass. As if it’s taunting me, not allowing me to feel even remotely okay or normal. I know I make things worse by getting in my head about everything. I know I make myself sick. The problem is, I don’t know how tostop.My body and my mind are constantly at war with each other, and neither one ever wins.

Finally, I force my heavy, aching body to come back to a stand. With a harsh exhale of breath, I turn around and turn the shower on. Then, I get undressed at a snail’s speed, taking my time to ensure I won’t collapse.Again.

I throw my shirt down to the tile at my feet, then unstrap the tight knife sheath from my right forearm. My pants and boxers follow soon after, and I all but rip the two ankle holsters with my backup blade and my SIG Sauer from both legs. The bathroom fills up with thick steam from the shower as I open the top drawer of the bathroom vanity and toss all of my weapons inside.

The two knives and the gun are only a small portion of what I own. I keep the rest of my inventory that Catherine has given me in my mother’s old study. The one change I made to the house when I was forced into this line of work was emptying out the large, walk-in closet of my mother’s office to house all of my weapons. After everything was situated, I installed a lock with a keypad onto the door to secure it all. Once I’m finished with my shower, I’ll move the three weapons from the drawer back intothe closet, but I’ll still have my Glock that I keep hidden behind my nightstand beside my bed in case of unwelcome visitors.

For longer than I care to admit, I stare into the drawer. It’s not the first time I consider taking the sig and blasting a bullet into my head. Or taking one of the knives and slicing both my arms, deep enough to make myself bleed out. Maybe if I had the balls to follow through with it, I could finally end this slow, never-ending torture that is my everyday life.

It’s not like many would care if I died. Hell, I think my best friend, Cleo, is the only person who wouldactuallycare, and she doesn’t deserve that. Not when she’s been like family to me. That thought is the only reason I snap out of it, and so I immediately push the drawer in, hiding my weapons from sight. Still, I don’t fail to realize that if Cleo wasn’t in my life, I would have ended it all a long, long time ago. I also realize how unhealthy it is to have one person as my motivation for staying alive—especially when that one person isn’t evenmyself.But it is what it is.

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