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Chapter 24

Why Can’t I Be Normal?

Malakar

I almost killed her. For a moment, I almost lost control and could have destroyed the one thing that is most precious to me in this world.

Why the fuck can’t I just be normal?

I imagined what life could have been like if I wasn’t so damaged, or if I didn’t start killing women. What would have happened if I went to therapy after I left the group home? What would have happened if I made a good life for myself?

Would fate still have thrown me back into her path? Would we be dating by now? On our way to marriage? She was perfect for me.

I smacked my head and shut my eyes, trying to block out the images in my head. My father’s sneer. My mother’s fear. My own terrified face.

It wasn’t fucking fair. Life shouldn’t have been this way.

I stood over her in the basement. The chain was back on. I had to shove her back into the cold basement. She left me with no choice. How could I trust her again? I had to make sure she would not leave. She did this. She did, not me.

A tiny voice whispered in my head. You could have just let her go.

I left her all those years ago in that place for orphaned kids. I wouldn’t leave her now. She did not realize it right now, but I could keep her safe here. I could make her feel good.

So why the fuck couldn’t I just do that? Why couldn’t it be simple? The dark was everywhere. It was inside of me, it was around me. The dark wouldn’t quit.

For a moment, for just the blink of a fucked-up heartbeat, I saw myself snapping her neck, saw her green eyes wide and empty, her head lolling just like my mother’s had after my father was done with her. I could feel the itch in my hands even now. I wanted to hold her so tight she couldn’t leave, couldn’t slip through my fingers, couldn’t become another ghost in the walls. I wanted to crush her and keep her safe at the same time.

What’s the difference, really, when you’re me?

I paced the length of the room, boots slamming the old boards, fists clenching and unclenching. I smacked my head, once, twice, hard enough to make sparks shoot through my vision. “Shut up, shut up—just fucking shut up!” I hissed to the air, to the voices, to my father’s sneer curling in the back of my skull.

Starla flinched. She tried to hide it, tucking her face into her arms, but I saw. God, did I see. That tiny, involuntary recoil, the way she made herself small, like she was in the blast zone and counting down. Like I was a monster.

I wanted to drop to my knees and beg her for forgiveness. Beg her to tell me I wasn’t my father, tell me I wasn’t broken, wasn’t doomed. I wanted her to crawl into my lap and say she loved me even when I was like this. But I also wanted to rip the world apart for making her scared of me, for making me into something she could never fucking trust.

It wasn’t fair. None of it.

“You did this,” I spat at her, even as my insides twisted with guilt. “You ran. You lied. I had to bring you back. I had to—” My voice broke. I slammed my fist into the wall, plaster dust raining down in a sick parody of dusty snow.

Her voice was a whisper. “I’m sorry, Malakar. Please, please don’t hurt me.”

That did it. The apology, the plea. My legs gave out. I slid down the wall, head in my hands, breath coming in ragged bursts.

Why can’t I just be normal?

If I hadn’t been born into madness and horror, would I be sitting here, a fucking monster, with the only person I ever loved chained to a wall? Would I have a house with photos on the fridge, a wife who smiled when she saw me, a kid or two? Would my hands know how to hold without hurting?

Would Starla let me touch her without flinching?

The dark invaded my mind, whispering all the things my father said to my mother. Women need to be kept in line. They need control, not kindness. Love is pain, son. Love is power.

I heard my mother’s singing, thin and broken, curling out of the corners. “Fly away, fly away, sweet Milo…” I pressed my fists to my ears, but it didn’t matter. The voices lived inside me now.

Starla’s chain rattled. I looked up and saw her watching me, eyes wide and haunted. She looked so much like my mother did, the last time she tried to run.

I dragged myself to her side. My hands shook as I reached out, desperate for contact, desperate for reassurance. She shrank away, and that cut deeper than any knife ever could.

“Please, bluebird,” I said, voice ragged. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not—” I choked. “I’m not him. I’m not my father. I just—I need you. You make it better. Please, please don’t be scared of me.”