Page 112 of Monsters Weep Too, Little Bluebird

There were too many voices. I needed it all to stop.

I slammed her under the water.

Her hair fanned out, black in the dark, splayed across my hands. The river sucked her down. She thrashed, shrieked, tried to claw loose but my hands were stronger. My hands have always been stronger. I held her face under the water and pushed and pushed. She kicked at my shins. I barely felt it. I had to stop the voices. I had to stop the poison. This was the only way.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. You’ll leave eventually, I’m just beating you to the punchline.

The water filled her mouth. She screamed into the current, bubbles gushing out. I watched the panic in her eyes flash over then flicker out. Her nails sliced my hands but it was just a tickle. The current swirled mud and blood around her head. The air rushed out of her. I shoved her deeper, grinding her skull against the rocks until there was nothing left but blackness where her eyes used to be.

Yes. Good. Gone. Quiet.

I held her until the body stopped moving. That was important. You had to be sure. Bluebirds sometimes trick you, pretend to be dead, then dart out the window the second you loosen your grip. Not this time. No more tricks. No more words. No more running.

My bluebird floated in my palms, limp as a doll, the water lapping at her lips. The mud was soft, sucking her down. She was gone.

I let her go. She drifted in the water, dark hair tangling with the weeds, eyes open but nobody home. I rocked back on my heels and stared at her. My hands shook. My lungs collapsed.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

I smashed my fists into the dirt. Ripped chunks of grass out by the fucking roots. Screamed into the wet dirt. It didn’t help. The pain was everywhere—all the places she touched, all the places I ever wanted her to touch.

I rushed to her, scooped her up in my lap, pressed her cold cheek to my jaw. I rocked her in the mud, sobbing so hard my bones rattled. My throat burned. I wanted to scream her name so loud she came back, but the only sound was the water eating both of us alive and the silence of what I did.

I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I always break what I love. Nobody can love monsters. Nobody. My father was right. My mother was right. Nobody gets out. Nobody stays. The only real thing is rot.

She’s perfect now, I thought. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t spill lies. She was little and soft and silent. All mine, right to the end.

Forever.

I cradled her body and walked, bare feet slapping the riverbank. The lake was black ahead, hungry. I waded in, holding her against my chest. The water was cold, colder than it had any right to be. It stung my skin, wrapped around our legs, haunted up to my hips. My bluebird. My bluebird. I killed her, and it was the only way I could keep her.

The dark pressed in and the lake opened its mouth.

I waded deeper, her limp body clutched to my chest, arms locked tight around her. The water was black glass, icy, biting through clothes and flesh, my bones firing pain every inch but I didn’t care. My jaw shook. My hands shook. I wanted to go back, I wanted her alive and mine and screaming. But I killed her. I did that.

Monsters weep too, but they always break what they love.

Somewhere in my head, voices roared. Then stopped altogether until it was all black.