Because it is.
It's a hit.
A high.
And I crave it.
I wait until dusk, the neighborhood quiet, everyone from the garage gone except for the man I'm here to deal with. He's working on an old muscle car, lying beneath it.
Carefully, I get out, discarding the business card in the center console, and tug on my black gloves as I cross the street. I quietly step inside the garage, my footsteps hardly making a sound. The man doesn't hear me, or see me, doesn't know I'm here until it's too late.
I hit the old jack, the car abruptly lowering, so fast the gimp doesn't have a spare second to get out of the way. He can't move, can only scream, as two tons of metal come crashing down on his chest.
He kicks his legs as he silences, his body violently shaking.
I linger for a moment, watching.
There's something mesmerizing about death. It's the offering of peace, I think. No matter the pain of life, the torture, the struggle, it'll all end eventually.
We're born to die. That's just the way it is.
I'll die someday, somehow, and I'm not afraid. Death will be a release for me. Until then, I live vicariously through others, watching them reach the point of acceptance, watching as they fight for one more breath.
Life never grants them it, not when I'm around.
Just like it never gave her another chance.
Sometimes I think I'm cursed that way.
It's a self-imposed punishment that barely keeps my demons at bay. It's cathartic, but only temporarily.
The release leaves me unstable.
I walk away while he's still twitching, keeping my head down as I cross the street again to where my car is parked. I drive away without giving the garage another look, pulling out my phone and calling Ray, merely saying "it's dealt with" when he answers before hanging up. I don't go home right away, instead navigating the streets for a while to clear my mind, to let the rush of adrenaline purge from my system.
Facing Karissa like this would be dangerous.
The silver and black machine takes up a quarter of the stretch of countertop, the pristine fixtures shining under the early morning sunshine streaming through the window. I lean against the counter on the opposite end of the kitchen, hearing Karissa move around above me, her footsteps making their way through the hall and down the stairs.
My eyes meet her as soon as she steps in the room. I squint when she flicks on the bright overhead light, watching as she hesitates, seeing me lurking in the darkness. The fear that greets me makes my insides coil, my skin taut. My chest feels heavy, like she punched me in the gut with that look.
No matter how many times I swear I'm not going to hurt her, she still forgets. And even if it's only for a moment, it's too much.
"Good morning," I say.
She stares at me, the panic dissolving to her usual shade of confliction. She doesn't respond, her gaze shifting away from me, her brow furrowing when she spots the machine on the counter.
"It's a countertop coffee system," I explain. Her eyes dart to me, surprised, and I shrug, snatching the user's manual off the counter beside me and holding it out to her. "You said you would kill for coffee."
"So you bought a machine?" she asks, taking the manual from me before looking back at it. "You couldn't just buy a normal little coffee pot? One that doesn't take reading a novel to learn how to operate?" I start to respond when she cuts me off, grumbling, "of course you couldn't."
She looks at the front of the manual for a moment before tossing it down and turning away from it. She snatches a bowl from the cabinet, slamming doors and drawers as she fixes herself her usual morning cereal. I watch in silence as she brushes right past me, grabbing the milk out of the fridge. She pours it into her bowl, some sloshing out that she doesn't bother to clean up.
Standing there, her back to me, she takes a bite and stares out the window.
Still so angry…
Slowly, I stroll over to her, pausing right behind her, so close my tie rests against her back. I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes. I don't know if she even notices, or cares, that I didn't sleep beside her, that I didn't come home until some godforsaken hour and then spent until sunrise putting together a goddamn machine to give her coffee. I don't know if she missed my presence then, but I know she feels it now.
I know, because she shivers when I lean forward, and in the reflection of the window I see her eyes briefly flutter closed. I bring my lips to her ear, my voice low as I say, "I think the words you're looking for are thank you."
Faith.
Trust.
Pixie Dust.
The words shine bold, written in gold, on the colorful old poster. I saw it a few times in the past, hanging in Karissa's dorm room, but I haven't seen it since she moved out of there.
Until now, anyway.
The big eyes of the little blonde fairy glare at me across the bedroom, from where she's now affixed to my wall, haphazardly tacked there. The poster is crinkled, and crooked, the bottom right corner torn.
It looks like it belongs in a trashcan, not hanging beside my bed.
The sight of it makes my skin crawl from anxiety. I want to tear it down... or, hell, at least hang it up straight, smooth out the wrinkles and make it presentable. But I don't. I do nothing but stand in the doorway, irritated, and stare at the goddamn thing in the dim lighting.
Shaking my head, I turn around and head downstairs. I'm too exhausted to deal with its sudden appearance right now. I spent all afternoon dealing with things for Ray, handling business, and I just want to be able to unwind for a bit, put that all behind me and relax.
The only light on in the house is the den, the sound of the television filtering out when I head that way. More cooking shows, I assume. Always the goddamn Food Network. Stepping in the doorway, I pause again from surprise when the same little blonde bitch from upstairs greets me on the screen.
Tinker Bell.
Huh.
Karissa's sitting on the couch, wearing pajamas, her feet tucked beneath her. I stroll over and plop down beside her, so close my thigh brushes against her leg.
She tenses, her body rigid, but she doesn't look at me. Instead, her eyes are fixed on the screen. I watch her for a moment as I loosen my tie before kicking my shoes off and turning to the television.
Peter Pan.
It puzzles me.
I know a lot about her, but one thing that confuses me is why she loves this movie so much. I've thought about it, considered it, and I know she's young, but it feels so juvenile for someone so mature.
"You know," I say, "some people think Peter Pan is actually a horror story."
From the corner of my eye, I see her forehead wrinkle with confusion. She casts a disbelieving look my way.