Page 22 of Eternal
Kat felt like it would make me less stressed to be closer to them, and she might have been right because spending time with them, with the dogs, in this mansion, it made it look like I had a new family.
People who could kill for the people they love, loyal and safe in their own way.
I think about that sometimes, and then I sit at dinner with them, the laughter, the noise, and somehow, it’s just enough to keep that drop of hope alive.
Hope that maybe one day, the rage I carry won’t feel so… painful.
Sometimes I can’t even trace where this rage comes from. Maybe it’s my mother’s, or maybe hers passed down like some cursed gene, the same thing, over and over.
The same fucking cycle of frustration, pain, and fury.
I just happen to be the one holding it now, and people here understand that in a way.
Life’s never easy on anyone, I know that, but sometimes she picks favorites, hits some people a little harder, digs in a littledeeper, to make sure they feel it. And, of course, she’s been a real bitch to some of us.
So I had to learn how to accept it, by using violence and death.
My first kills were my foster parents. “Dad” went first.
I waited until he was deep in sleep after coming to see Vik that night. He slept peacefully; the kind of peace he didn’t deserve, not after everything he’d done. Not after so many years of hell, and when I saw him like that, his eyes closed, with the blade in my hand, I almost hesitated.
Almost.
The knife felt lighter than I expected when I raised it. The same knife that had marked my skin to never forget the shame and frustration.
His same old cross necklace glinted under the faint light of the streets outside, resting on the chest of the man who claimed to be holy, a servant of God.
God wasn’t here.
God hadn’t been here for a long time.
I leaned close to his ear, close enough to feel the warmth of his disgusting breath on my cheek.
Close enough to speak the words he loved so much. “This is the will of God, Christian.”
And then I cut so deep, so angrily.
The blade slid through his throat with a strange but satisfying ease, a sharp gasp escaped him when his eyes flew open. I stayed close, watching realization appearing in those disgusting dark eyes.
I was the one killing him.Me. And I felt something that day, deep in my soul, a satisfaction that wasn’t even for me.
His hands shot up to his neck, trying to stem the blood that gushed out, soaking the sheets, seeping into the mattress.
But it was too late… He choked, gurgled and struggled.
I didn’t move, I watched him die, watched the life drain out of his body, watched his sick soul claw its way free, I waited to see if God or Satan himself would take his hand and drag him off to be judged for all the misery he left behind.
I bet it was the evil guy, and I think I was right.
But nothing happened, no divine beams of light, no fiery pits cracking open to claim him.
Nothing.
“Look at that,” I whispered, a low and dry laugh slipping out as I turned away. “Not even Hell wants you.”
I yanked the cross necklace from around his neck. It felt heavier than I thought it would, smeared with his blood. I shoved it back into his throat, forcing it deep until his mouth hung open, a grotesque final act of devotion.
A man of God, through and through.
