“It’s not murder if they killed you first.” I don’t feel bad saying that. “I’ll never be able to process this shit until they’re gone.”
He stands up from the table. “I’m calling social services tomorrow. I’m going to tell them that he walked away and that we need mental help. Especially you, no offense.”
“None taken.”
“Good. I’m going to try to sleep more than five hours tonight and see if it works.”
We both know that it won’t—it never will, but I give him an encouraging nod anyway.
“Wait, Trevor,” I say, before he can leave the room.
“Yeah?” He looks over his shoulder.
“If you still can’t sleep and this still haunts you after so many years, will you help me get some of them back?”
He stares at me for a long while, and then he lets out a breath. “No, I won’t help you get some of them. It’ll be all of them…”
* * *
It takes ages for us to “cope” with the so-called tragedy—we’re cycled in and out of therapists’ offices every other month. It’s not until we both enroll in graduate school that we become somewhat sane. (And by “somewhat” I mean fucking barely.)
His advanced degree is in business accounting. Mine is dual. English and Forensic Science.
He goes into the corporate world—finding numerous ways to makes millions. I slip into the darkness—finding ways to do the same.
After several years, we return to the promise we made about getting every one of those men back. Armed with enough experience in the real would, with enough knowledge to begin to build, we start with the richest client and work on a six-month plan, to get him to his grave.
I didn’t care how many more years it took. How long each job would take, who I would have to pretend to be. Since I’d never be able to rest in peace, since I was always too weak to save myself, I could spend all of my waking hours preventing them from hurting someone else.
All or nothing…
—