****
After coming home from the therapist, Lyla drowsed off a couple of hours later. Looking down at her as she drifts into sleep in the antique chair in our bedroom, I cradle her head and her eyes flutter before she lets out a satisfied sigh. She will forgive me, no matter what I do. She told that therapist she loves me and there is no reason to suspect she would lie to a stranger
In her hands she’s leisurely holding her knitting tools and I glance at the dreadful garment in her lap. She told me she’s knitting a sweater for me and I curse under my breath. Looks like I’ll be going to have to wear that thing then.
I ponder whether to undress her and put her in our bed to sleep but I don’t want to disturb her. Her sleep seems deep and I wouldn’t want to wake her up. Not now, when it only will suit me that she is not lucid. Making sure that the windows are closed and that the room is warm enough, I wrap a blanket over her before leaving.
My house is bathing in darkness as I make my way down to the basement.
There is no use in procrastinating this and having Sorkin out of here will be a relief. I won’t have to worry anymore about Lyla accidentally finding him and getting traumatized by the sight of him.
He’s a pathetic, little male and once again I wonder what she sees in him. What the fuck is it that she possibly sees in him? I rub the bridge of my nose because sometimes I can drive myself mad with these questions.
They make me feel like I’m being cut up from the inside. The thought of her and Sorkin together. Maybe embracing. Even as friends. Has he ever made her laugh? Made her laugh in the way that I make her laugh?
Has she ever looked up at him the way she looks up at me?
Grinding my jaw, I close the door to the basement behind me and Sorkin looks up. He has weakened but I still don’t like the famished look in his eyes. He famines for something other than food and I don’t like it. And I don’t like him.
Taking off my t-shirt to avoid any blood splatter, I grab the chains, causing him to gasp. A muscle ticks in my cheeks because chains are such an understatement weapon. While the rest of the brotherhood favors something more sophisticated, I have always preferred simplicity.
Not that I don’t appreciate the handiwork that it takes to make a fancy dagger or the heaviness of a good sniper rifle in my hand but there is just something special with chains. I wrap them around Sorkin’s throat, causing him to choke and I say,
“There is one question that has been simmering in my mind for a long time and you are going to answer it honestly.”
He gurgles on his own spit and I reluctantly loosen the chain.
“Lyla Andrews. “ Again I don’t like the look he gets in his eyes when I say in her name. It is dirty. Making my skin crawl. “Do you feel anything for that girl?”
“Feel?” he gags.
“Emotions? Do you have feelings for her?”
Sorkin hesitates and I’m tempted to wrap the chains around his ribcage and watch him die a slow and painful death.
“No,” he finally says but I don’t believe him.
“You can tell me the truth. I will not get angry.”
“I don’t have any feelings for her,” he yells so loud he goes hoarse and starts coughing, “Now let me out of here, let me out...”
“Mr. Sorkin, calm yourself,” I say in an even tone looking at him with disgust. “There is no need to panic.”
For a minute he relaxes, almost looking at me with hope. Inwardly I laugh. How stupid he is, to think he has a possible ally in me when I have come here to kill him.
“When are you going to let me go,” he whines before his eyes start glimmering like beetles. “And why do you keep asking me about Lyla?”
He says her name without an accent. But that is not why I hate the way he says it. I hate it because there is an underlying perversion to his voice.
This man presents a danger to my wife.
The thought crosses my mind out of nowhere. I don’t know where it came from. Why would Sorkin be dangerous to Lyla? I am not sure but the notion fills me with rage and without any holding back, I see red, whipping the chains across Sorkin’s torso and he screams in pain.
“Have you ever wanted to hurt her?” I roar. “Have you ever wanted to hurt Lyla?”
Choking down his screams, Sorkin jolts as if shocked. “Why would I do that? Why would I hurt such a clean girl as her?”
“Clean,” I growl between my teeth and an unstable smile crosses his sallow face.