Page 2 of Psychotic Faith
Marco goes still. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing that concerns the family." Yet. "I'll handle it."
"Like you're handling this?" He gestures to the dying man.
"He's handled." The wet sound that follows proves my point.
Marco watches me work for another moment. "She doesn't even know you exist."
That stops me. The tool slips slightly, ruining my clean line. Because he's right, and it's been eating at me for twenty-two nights. Each sleepless hour stretching longer than the last. She doesn't know I exist. Doesn't know I've memorized her coffee order, her library schedule, the way she counts her steps when she's anxious. Doesn't know I've killed for her.
She prays every Sunday for her father's safety. For the strength to be good. For something she never names but that makes her grip the pew until her knuckles go white.
She has no idea that her prayers should be for the men who look at her wrong. Because her guardian devil doesn't sleep, doesn't forgive, and doesn't stop.
"She will," I say finally. "Soon."
Marco heads for the stairs. "Clean this up. We have dinner tomorrow."
"I'll be there."
We both know I'm lying.
After he leaves, I finish my work quickly. The man expires with a whimper instead of a scream. Disappointing. But my mind's already elsewhere, already on her.
I pull out my phone and check the surveillance feed. Faith's apartment is dark, but I know she's awake. She wakes at 2:50 a.m. most nights, drinks tea at her window, writes in a journal she thinks is well-hidden. Sometimes she looks out at the darkness like she knows something's out there. Like she's waiting for something.
Twenty-two nights of watching. A lifetime of violence.
Time she knew her guardian exists.
I examine the Polaroid in the dim red light of my workspace. Taken this morning while she arranged roses at her mother's grave. Inside my pocket, a Sharpie waits. I flip the photo over and write a single word on the white backing: 'Protected.'
Tomorrow night, I'll leave it on her pillow.
Tomorrow night, everything changes.
Because I may not sleep anymore, but for the first time in ten years, I have a reason to greet the dawn.
2 - Luca
The key slides into the lock silently, though I’ve already memorized which way to turn it to avoid the slight catch at three o’clock. Night twenty-three. The door opens on oiled hinges. I fixed the squeak during night seven while she attended evening service.
Her apartment greets me with familiar shadows, streetlight filtering through thin curtains to paint everything in amber and gray. The scent hits first: jasmine from her shower three hours ago, vanilla from the candle she burns while reading, cinnamon and sugar from the snickerdoodles she baked for tomorrow's church sale, something uniquely hers underneath that makes my chest tighten with the need to possess.
My phone vibrates. Nico checking if I need the basement cleaned after my earlier work. I silence it without looking. Already handled. The body from tonight's crude commentary about Faith has been processed, disposed of. My chemistry background makes disposal efficient—knowing exactly which compounds break down organic matter, which temperatures denature proteins completely. Nothing pulls me from her apartment now, from this ritual that's become more necessary than breathing.
I move through her space like smoke, surgical gloves ensuring no trace of my presence. The bathroom first, always the bathroom. A single golden hair clings to the shower drain, and I extract it with tweezers, sealing it in a labeled evidence bag. Sample 22-A will join the others in my temperature-controlledstorage at home. Twenty-one other hairs, each labeled, dated, preserved. Enough to build a shrine. Enough to keep part of her forever, even if something happens to the rest.
My photos of her are organized in albums now. Fifty-three Polaroids in the first album—before she knew. Forty-two in the second—after she knew but before she accepted. The third album is empty, waiting for what comes next. Photos of us together, maybe. Or maybe just more photos of her, because I'll never stop needing to capture her in moments she doesn't control.
Her medicine cabinet opens without sound. I photograph each shelf, noting changes since last visit. The anxiety medication is down to three pills. She's been taking them more frequently. The headaches, probably, from staring at computer screens planning library programs. Or from whatever weight she carries that makes her reach for pharmaceutical comfort. There's a prescription burn cream too—she must have caught herself on the oven again. Third time this month. I make a note to research the prescribing doctor. If he's giving her something addictive, I'll remove his hands before I kill him.
A business card tucked behind the medicine bottle catches my eye. Dr.Harrison Zu, Psychiatrist. Male. The urge to find this man, to peel his skin off in strips for existing in her sphere, nearly pulls me from the apartment. But no. Patience. I photograph the card, add his name to my list. Soon.
I close the cabinet carefully, ensuring the mirror reflects exactly as before. She's particular about these things, my Faith. Notices when objects shift even slightly. It's one of the things I love about her, that hypervigilance that speaks to some deeper awareness. She'd make an excellent addition to the family business if she weren't meant for something purer. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she's meant to be corrupted completely.
The kitchen next. Flour still dusts the counter despite her careful cleaning. Two cooling racks of snickerdoodles sit perfect and golden, each one uniform in size. She's precise in her baking, measuring everything exactly. I appreciate precision.
