Page 148 of The Wicked
“Who are you talking—”
“The artist’s wife, Sofia.”
“What artist?”
“The one who painted the chihuahua. Damn it, Zahra, keep up with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about; I’m trying to understand you!” she yelled in frustration.
My attention drew back to her when she let out a sigh. I watched her eyes grow unfocused before she outstretched her hand towards the bed.“Let’s sit and talk,”she said in Spanish.“Your pacing is not helping your case.”
“It helps me get my thoughts in order,”I responded in the language.
“Well, sitting helps me sometimes, so we’re going to do what I want because I don’t think you’re in the right state of mind to think,”shecontinued, her tone curling softly around her accent, and I succumbed, settling on the edge of the bed while she took the space beside me.
“So, you didn’t hurt her; what would you have gained if you had hurt her?”
“Peace.”
I could feel her stare on the side of my face as she asked, “Are you certain?”
I dug my thumb even deeper into my palm, but my fingers still shook; the veins on my hand were so visible, and my fingers grew so cold.
“Are you certain that’s what you would have felt afterward?”
I dropped my brows in a frown. “I don’t know.”
Zahra’s hand covered mine, eradicating the vacant cold and replacing it with a warmth that stopped the shaking instantly. “Elio, did you want to hurt them? The artist and his wife?”
My head turned towards her, and our gazes locked as I answered, “Yes.”
“Because you thought you had to?”
“Because I wanted to. I killed her husband right in front of her. And I told him—Iwarnedhim not to dismiss my question or supply me with a half-truth or a lie, and he did just that. I didn’t want it to come to that. I gave him a chance to survive, but he didn’t take it; they never take it.”
“Still, you didn’t kill her—”
“Iwantedto. I wanted her dead; I wanted her buried, I still do, because if it doesn’t happen, I will lose my mind.”
She removed my thumb from my palm and held my hand. “Why do you think you’ll lose your mind?”
“Because I didn’t finish the job, Zahra. I always finish the job, no matter how bloody or gruesome; I leave no stone unturned, my word is law, and if I go against it, I lose myself,” I said, but it came out monotone, like a pledge.
She frowned. “Are you reciting that from a memory, or do you really mean it?”
I paused.
Her question sank in with a cold shiver tickling my neck and my feet, and for a second,I was out of this room, this space, this time. And I was watching myself, strapped to a chair, my neck against cold metal; my eyes opened wide to be burned by the sharp blue ray of light that kept zooming in and out of focus, dropping me in a hypnotic state. A state that had me feeling numb in my feet, buried inside a large container of ice.
“Repeat the word, soldier!” My commander’s voice boomed in the echoing room.
“I always finish the job…”
My eyes, wide and unseeing, stared above as my mouth, thirsty and dry, forced itself to move, repeating after him. I didn’t want to, but my mind wasn’t my own anymore; somehow, he managed to control my vocal cords. It was violating, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Louder, soldier!”
“I always finish the job…”
