Page 54 of Toxic B!tch
Malik is mine. He has to move past this. He has to understand. I wasn’t lying when I told him I’d never hurt him. But I’ll hurt anyone who tries to take him from me. Anyone who thinks they can have what belongs to me.
My hands tighten around the edge of the tub, my nails digging into the porcelain. I will make him see. He is mine, and I am his. And I will burn down the world to make sure he never forgets it.
The heat starts to make my skin prickle, but I don’t move. I just stare at the ceiling, my mind spinning in circles, the alcohol dulling the sharpest edges of my panic but not enough to settle me completely. Malik said he’d keep my secret. That has to mean something. Right? He didn’t walk away completely. He didn’t call the cops. That’s a start.
But doubt creeps in like a slow-moving fog, thick and suffocating. What if he changes his mind? What if he decides he can’t handle it? What if he leaves me?
No. I won’t let that happen. I’ve fought too hard, worked too hard, loved too hard to let him slip away. I sit up, water sloshing onto the floor as I reach for my phone. My fingers are still damp as I type out a message.
Me: I love you. I meant it. You don’t have to answer, but I just need you to know that.
I hit send before I second-guess myself. The screen stays dark for a long time, long enough that my stomach knots up. Long enough that I drain my drink and sink deeper into the warm water, trying to distract myself from the tight feeling in my chest. Then, finally, my phone buzzes. My heart stutters as I snatch it up.
Malik: I know. I just… I need time.
Time. I hate that word. It’s useless. Time changes things. It makes people forget. It gives them space to pull away, to rewrite history, to convince themselves of things that aren’t true.
I toss my phone onto the counter and stand, water streaming down my skin. Time isn’t what he needs. He needs a reminder. He needs proof. He needs me.
And he’s going to get me. One way or another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MALIK
I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, unraveling thread by thread, but the worst part is—I don’t know if I want to stop it.
The first day is a lie. I go through the motions like a puppet with its strings pulled. Work, coffee, the endless cycle of pretending I’m fine. I smile when people talk to me, nod at the right times. My hands shake every time I grip my phone, but I don’t send the messages I keep typing—keep deleting. I tell myself that when I wake up, I’ll feel different. I’ll feel normal again. I don’t.
By day two, the pretending stops. I can’t keep up the mask anymore. The emptiness grows, sharp and raw, carving out space inside me. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I just stare at my phone, waiting for the texts Indigo hasn’t sent, for the missed calls she hasn't made. The gaping hole where she used to be. Her absence presses on my chest like a weight I can’t shake off. I can’t even bring myself to press that call button. It’s like I’m scared to hear her voice, scared to know what she'll say, scared of what I’ll do when I hear her.
Day three is when the questions start. The ones I don't want to answer but can't stop asking myself. What the hell does this mean for me? What does it mean that I don’t feel sick about it? That I’m not disgusted—that I don’t care about Elle’s body hanging in the goddamn woods? That I can’t bring myself to feel anything other than this hollow emptiness? I should feel guilt. I should feel rage. I should want to run to the cops and tell them everything, but all I can think about is her.
“Love me anyway,” she screamed. Like it was something simple, something as natural as breathing.
And maybe it is. Maybe that’s the sickest part of it all. Maybe loving Indigo is as easy as the blood in my veins, and nothing—not even the corpses she’s buried beneath her pretty little feet—can change that.
Day four is when I stop lying to myself.
I pace my house, restless. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and my hands ball into fists, only to release again. I feel angry, empty, lost. I haven’t slept in what feels like weeks, my body aching and my mind racing. The silence presses in, heavier now, suffocating. My chest is tight, and I can’t breathe like I used to.
I’m lonely. I’m sad. I’m fucked up without her. But this? This thing she’s done? It doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t know how many people she’s hurt, how many she’s killed before Elle. There’s something about how she talked about it, the way she didn’t hesitate. The coldness in her voice when she explained how she’s careful, how she makes sure she doesn’t get caught.
And that thought, that knowing, makes my stomach churn with something I can’t name. The way she spoke, the way she didn’t hesitate, the way she knew what to do.
Elle was my first dead body. I’ve killed animals when I hunt. I’ve seen animals hit by cars, even held a dying dog in my arms as it bled out. But a person? Never. I should feel bad for her. Ishould feel something, anything. But I don’t. I feel nothing. Not even fear.
Shouldn’t I feel something? Guilt? Anger? Confusion? Maybe. But all I can think about is the way Indigo’s voice cracked. She begged me to understand, to accept her for what she is. She looked so fucking scared, like she thought I would run. Like she thought I would leave her behind.
I should run. I should get out of here. I should never look back. But I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want to. That’s the part that terrifies me—the part where I realize that I can’t make myself care about the things I should. I can’t bring myself to hate her.
I need answers. I need to know everything. I can’t love her in pieces. I can’t love her without knowing what I’m signing up for. I need to understand how this works. How many times has she done this before? Why? How? I need to know if she can stop. If she wants to stop. Or if this is just who she is, and if that’s the case, then I need to know so I can make a choice.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my fingers running through my hair as I close my eyes. My head throbs, the pressure in my temple pushing harder and harder until I feel like I’m going to crack. I can’t think straight. I can’t focus.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is her. Her face, her eyes, dark and intense. Her lips, trembling as she pleaded with me. The way she looked at me when she realized I wasn’t going to walk away.
I can’t stop thinking about that look. The fear in her eyes—the fear that I might hate her. But I don't. I can't. I want to protect her. To love her, even in this mess.
