by Mason, V. F.
I shudder just remembering how his voice and eyes along with his face held no remorse for his actions. The man was a psychopath, and he’d planned for years to commit his crime.
I needed a bath to wash away the filth, along with some dinner, since I skipped breakfast and lunch, too nervous about this trip to eat anything.
This will have to stop in the near future; my priorities will have to change, and I can’t wait for that!
My phone rings, and I pick it up as Sebastian asks, “Beautiful wife, where are you?” Warmth spreads through me as my worries go away; that’s how much power his voice has over me. “Dinner is ready.”
“On my way. We’ve managed to diagnose the woman, so yay! She will get better in a few months, and they won’t have to lock her up.” I made up the entire story, too afraid to tell my husband where I really went, not wanting him to worry for nothing.
Sebastian is fiercely protective of me. It would have driven him crazy to think I sat in a killer’s company for so long.
He chuckles. “Never doubted you, beautiful. Wine and chocolate then the story.” It’s been our tradition since my very first case; we celebrate together while he listens to details about my day.
Or holds me in his arms while I cry my eyes out when my patients don’t make it or there is nothing I can do for them.
Although, today, wine will have to wait, as I have very important news to share with him. “For sure. Love you, baby.” I rub my stomach lightly, my mouth curving at the prospect of seeing his face when he gets to know my little secret… which we’ve dreamed about for the last two years.
Desire and softness lace his voice as he replies, “Love you too. Drive safe. I’m waiting for you.” The minute I place the phone on the nearby seat, my car starts to act up.
My windows are sliding up and down, while my windshield wipers move in different directions. The radio is wonky, as if the station has changed and it can’t tune in.
The steering wheel sways from side to side, driving down the wrong side of the road, while I do my best to get control of the car, but I can’t, since it’s not responding to me.
It won’t turn off!
But then I raise my eyes to the road, and my heart stops as I see a woman using the pedestrian crossing as she laughs into her phone.
I press on the brake pedal, but no matter how much I push and push on it, the car doesn’t stop, and a scream tears from my throat. “Run! Please, run!” The woman doesn’t hear me and continues to walk, but then she shifts her attention to me. Her eyes full of fear are the last thing I remember before the car hits her and she flies over the roof while the car stops abruptly, making my head hit the steering wheel.
Then everything goes blank.
Life as I knew it ended on that night, and I woke to a completely new world.
One where everyone hated me with a vengeance and demanded my blood, so I could bleed to death while all of them watched.
Lydia squeezes my hand, and only then I notice how blood seeps between my fingers from the pressure my nails put on my skin. She gives me a tissue and murmurs softly, “It’s probably hard to remember. But it wasn’t your fault, Phoenix. You are not guilty, and I’m going to get you out of here.”
“How?” It’s the only word I can force through my dry throat.
“All the evidence shows you were his first victim. Plus, he has written a letter in which he confesses to his crimes. He’s even sent it to some federal agents, playing games. All those killings have made him cocky, and he probably feels invincible. With his admissions, he’s shifted everything on its axis. He is a serial killer, Phoenix,” she says with distain in her voice, and I hope I can muster all the knowledge I have about them in order to understand what’s going on around me. “He probably couldn’t keep it inside himself anymore. So we will appeal the case and make sure to get you all your privileges back. Your medical license, the fines you had to pay, and most importantly, your name will be cleared. Plus, the compensation from the state for the miscarriage of justice. I’ll be with you, Phoenix.”
In other circumstances, I would have wondered why this strange woman wanted to help me, but I won’t look a gift horse in its mouth.
All she mentions is good.
But only one thing sticks to me from all this.
I now know for a fact that I’m not a murderer.
And that’s the moment I burst into tears that shake me to my core.
Unsub
The game is interesting to play only when all the players are engaged and everyone knows about it; otherwise, what’s the point?
All this hiding in the shadows and killing people that someone else was blamed for started to feel… lonely. Just like those times in the boarding school when I had to play chess alone, and the mean kids always knocked them down, ruining my progress.
Putting Phoenix Hale behind bars seemed like such a fun idea four years ago, mainly to see if I could get away with it, and the fact that Zachary King was overwhelmed in the agony of my creation was the icing on the top.
I almost got off on his suffering, since the fucking asshole humiliated me in front of everyone without a care in the world for the consequences his decision brought to my life.
He deserved everything I’ve done to him; his wife was no angel either, always on his fucking side.
Come to think of it… the only innocent one in this story is Phoenix, but then who said innocence is a virtue? If you are not careful enough, someone might take advantage of your naivety.
Everything changed though.
It became too boring, and I hate how every magazine still remembers what she did. They dedicate headlines to her or focus on that fucking ex-husband of hers who recently got engaged to one of King’s sisters.
I guess mutual grief connected them both, although according to the newspapers, they fell in love in Paris on a business trip, since Sebastian Hale is the King empire’s head lawyer.
All the anger from the attention she kept on getting finally boiled up, and I snapped, killing several women in a row, but I didn’t even suspect how much of a high I would get.
The world has to know it’s me who does it all; they have to talk about me, fucking appreciate me.
The world won’t be like them.
I gave them everything… all the love… all my dreams… all I had… and what did I get in return?
The world will soon know my name, but not before I play one last game with my Phoenix, the only person who was kind to me. The only person who saw the real me and accepted me without any reservations.
She was my first victim for a reason.
I intend to make her my last too, but this time around, no one will stay alive.
After all, the hunter and the prey are inseparable.
Chapter Six
“Being wrong is not a sin.
Admitting you were wrong is not a sin.
Staying blind to the truth and focusing only on your anger is a sin.
A sin for which I will pay for the rest of my life.
Unless I find the land where sinners atone.”
Zachary
Zachary
Resting my arm on the window, I gaze at the nightlife of Rome, and for the hundredth time, I’m in awe of this city.
Bright lights, statues, and rich history that has seen everything from revolutions to parades. People of high taste, fashion, and bravery. They built an empire once, and Rome still has all the cracks in its ancient buildings to tell of it.
I can get lost here for hours, strolling through the narrow paths and studying people who are always open for attention and conversations, even if you don’t feel like it. Not to mention the delicious food.
In short, Italy holds a special place in my heart, always giving me peace to sort out my mind—even in the pit of my despair.
My second home.
But not tonight.
I gulp greedily from the whiskey bottle as the burning liquid spreads through me. I sway a little, reminding me that
it’s my second bottle, and it’s a wonder I can still stand or function.
But no matter how much I want to get wasted, I can’t, and isn’t that ironic?
My mind keeps swirling with the information that Lydia sent me and has been hiding from me for months now.
My father and his family thought I wasn’t emotionally stable enough to handle the truth. Even Zeke listened to them, and he’ll pay for it. Part of his salary plus some privileges I’ve given him will be gone too.
Hollow laughter ricochets around the walls as I drink one more time and wipe my mouth when the liquor spills onto my chin.
For the first time, the fucking family decided to show their fake love for me and protected me from the only truth that mattered in my life.
Looking directly at my reflection in the window, I say, “This is not the end. I will find you, whoever the fuck you are.”
And for that, I’ll need Phoenix Hale. Isn’t she this guy’s favorite victim if everything started with her?
As if I haven’t ruined her life already.
But we are connected in a way she doesn’t understand. In a way I thought she’d never know. Just the knowledge gave me satisfaction, allowing me to rarely rest at night when the thoughts of her suffering lullabied me to sleep.
However, this all changes now.
I will find Angelica’s killer and make him pay for everything he has done to both women.
I will avenge the woman I loved and give freedom to the one woman I promised to hate till the day I die.
And at some point, I will have to give her back what I took away from her.
Even if it kills me.
Chapter Seven
“Freedom.
One word that means the world.
Only those who lost it can truly appreciate it.”
Phoenix
New York, New York
Phoenix, 7 years old
Picking up a piece of chalk, I go to the middle of the playground where the silver concrete shines brightly under the sun and giggle.
Only because Ms. Thomson—I can never call her mother, despite what she says—told me it will be raining today, and in this, I have to keep my ass home.
Her exact words.
Thankfully, she doesn’t know about the backdoor in the basement where there’s a little opening for the dogs. I can still fit through it.
Maybe that’s why everyone around me calls me small and bony, not that I care.
It’s a crime to sit at home on such a beautiful day!
Besides, I couldn’t listen anymore to Ms. Thomson screaming at all seven kids as she cooked dinner, muttering that we should be grateful for the crumbs we put in our mouths.
Even if she feeds us only once a day.
I shake my head from these thoughts, because when you are on the playground, Ms. Thomson doesn’t exist. I place the tip of the red chalk on the concrete, ready to draw a sun, when I see a boy run onto the playground right toward the swing and sit on it heavily, sending the sand under his feet flying and then kicking it for good measure too.
He breathes heavily, and his face is red, so either he ran for a long time or he is very angry. Ms. Thomson gets red whenever we piss her off, as she calls it, and she grabs the belt hanging in the hallway, chasing us around with it.
Or both.
I notice his blue jeans and white shirt along with shiny leather shoes, so he must be very rich—at least, that’s what Ms. Thomson says.
Leather shoes are only for those who can afford to do nothing in this life.
Whatever that means. A lot of what she says makes no sense anyway, but I don’t think she cares. She even laughs whenever I mention I will have some awesome job someday.
According to her, without money, you can’t do shit, but I don’t believe her. How can I if she always lies to social workers about how much she loves us and then shows us the belt and its power the minute they are out of the house?
He kicks the sand again, dragging my attention back to him, and I frown, wondering what he’s doing here.
The playground is secluded with barely anything working besides the two swings and the sandbox full of wet dirt that I wouldn’t touch if they begged me to.
I saw a boy pee in it once!
Our neighborhood doesn’t have a playground though, so I have to ride my bike a few blocks to a bit nicer neighborhood, even though the houses are still very old.
Maybe he’s lost and that’s why he’s so angry?
Dropping the chalk back on the ground, I dust off my hands and walk to him, giving him a tentative smile when his green eyes land on me, but he flattens his lips, his face flashing anger at me.
I’m familiar with anger and disinterest in my life, so it’s not hard to recognize.
“What do you want?” he asks, kicking the sand again, and I cough a little and step back when it flies in the air.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” I reply, and he laughs, although it lacks any humor, and his eyes narrow on me.
“So what? Does this playground belong to you?” He drags his gaze over me, and I shift uncomfortably thinking about my stained T-shirt and old leggings that are too small for me and barely reach my calves. “Doubt it.” He turns his head to the side, swinging a little, and I don’t know what to do.
He doesn’t seem lost anymore, but he must be around my age or a little bit older, so where are his parents?
All the kids I see in such places usually have grown-ups with them making sure nothing happens to their children, and I sometimes wonder what it’s like to know someone loves you this much.
That’s something I’ll never know, because Ms. Thomson said I’m too ugly and stupid for any real family to adopt me.
So, against my better judgment—I still have a few bruises from the last time I asked a kid if anything was wrong, and he hit me with a rock—I sit on the swing next to him and announce, “You’re mean.”
He places his foot on the sand, stopping the swing abruptly, and looks at me, disbelief replacing the anger.
“Why are you so mean to me? You don’t know me.”
Instead of answering, he asks, “Why are you talking to me? I don’t know you.”
I huff in exasperation, resting my cheek against the swing’s chain. “You seemed sad. When I’m sad, I like to talk to people.”
He blinks in surprise. “And do they listen to you?”
I shake my head, sighing heavily. “Never. So, I talk to my teddy bear.”
“Teddy bear,” he repeats and then shifts a little so now he’s propping his back against the chain. “How old are you?”
“Seven and one quarter!” I shout proudly. “And you?”
“I’m ten. And I’m not deaf, so don’t shout.”
Oh, so he is older after all.
“I’m sorry. I have to yell at home or no one listens to me.” My voice is too soft, so it’s almost impossible to get anyone’s eyes on me if I talk normally.
“Just go do whatever you were doing.” He gets up, trying to walk away, but I jump up too, clasping my hands together.
“Would you like to draw with me?”
“No.”
“Eh, too bad.” I freeze when I hear the music of the ice cream truck in the distance, remembering the taste of the strawberry flavor on my tongue when Ms. Thomson bought it for us before social services showed up so we would keep our mouths shut about what’s going on inside.
No one dared to speak up anyway; it’s not like anyone would’ve had a better home for us. In my years, I’ve changed three houses, and all of them were awful, so what’s the difference?
“Ice cream,” I whisper, sending a longing look toward the road where the truck is standing several feet from us with a few kids already running toward it. Then I swing my head, ready to say bye to the boy, but he’s already moved away.
“Bye!” I shout, and he raises his hand, waving without turning his face to me, and I dart back to my chalk, picking it up again, and start to draw, a bit di
sappointed the boy left even though I tried to be friendly.
Maybe Ms. Thomson is right. It’s my stupidity that keeps people from liking me.
The chalk scratches loudly as I finish the circle of the sun and start to draw light falling, along with adding eyes and a smile to it. Because this way, at least someone smiles back at me. “Hi, sun!” I greet it, and I’m about to shift lower and draw some grass when a shadow falls on me, and I glance up.
The boy is holding two ice creams in his hands, and he extends one to me. “Take it.”
I do and open it up, jumping up in excitement when I see it’s strawberry. “Thank you,” I say, and before he can do anything else, I hug him and squeeze him so tight he stills in my arms. “Thank you so much!”
He forcefully removes himself from me and mutters, “It’s just an ice cream.”
“I only tasted it once about a year ago,” I share with him but then quickly bite into it, knowing full well he doesn’t want to talk, but his jaw drops at this.
“Your parents don’t buy you ice cream?”
“I don’t have them.” I go to the bench a few feet away and sit. I stop eating, because my teeth hurt from the cold, and my brain freezes for a second. “I live in foster care.”
An emotion I don’t understand flickers on his face before he occupies the seat next to me, munching on his own ice cream that’s chocolate by the looks of it, since it’s brown, and he notices my eyes on it.
Exhaling in resignation, he extends it to me, and I bite, enjoying how it melts inside my mouth, but I still like mine better.
“My mom is sick. Cancer,” he suddenly says, and I blink, not knowing what to say. I heard cancer was an illness that might result in death—at least that’s what the TV lady said. “There is no hope, since she has a brain tumor in the fourth stage.” Even though I don’t understand what he means, I get it’s something very bad. “That’s why I’m sad. My mom is dying.”
Goose bumps break on my skin, and I gasp, my stomach flipping inside me while my heart aches for the boy who has so much sadness and pain in his words. “I’m so sorry.” But I think those words mean nothing on the large scale of things.