Hopping from the bus onto the street, I wince at the slight pain in my arm, and a second later, my bag lands next to me as the kids laugh behind me.

“Loser,” one of the bigger ones shouts, but I ignore it, adjusting my glasses on my nose better before scooting all the books back in my bag while the teacher yells at them to behave.

Maybe she should have paid more attention inside the bus, and then I wouldn't have pain in my stomach from their hits. Adding that to all the other injuries that Dad likes to inflict, I can barely walk most days. But no one asks and no one cares; they even ignore my holey shoes.

Turns out that at some point, popularity becomes more important than friendship, because Gideon and Alp joined the forces who make fun of nerds, and I’m always on the receiving end of their cruelty. Destroyed schoolbooks that we can barely afford, finding soap in my bag, stumbling in the halls and painful landings. I try to fight back, but it only earns me more blows.

Everyone constantly laughs at me, pointing their fingers while I do my best to stand up after each encounter. During class, it isn't any better; teachers scold me for not doing my homework or not studying enough. I’m bad at everything but math. Numbers are my only salvation.

I hate school with all my might, but then it’s a safer place than home. Sometimes I look at all those kids in our neighborhood who ride bikes or eat food, enjoying their time, and I wonder what it is like to be so carefree.

To not be afraid. To not constantly apologize for breathing.

I sit in my room and often try to find what’s so wrong with me that no one loves me.

Even Mom. She always protects me, but there is this stare in her eyes as if she regrets I’m even there. Maybe because Dad always screams and hits her when I piss him off, which is almost always.

What do you have to do to be loved?

My stomach growls loudly, the pain inside so bad it halts my movement for a bit, but I blow out a heavy breath. Eating lunch in the school cafeteria once a day isn't enough, but I know nothing waits for me at home. Mom gave up cooking a long time ago when Dad constantly hit her because she messed up something.

Thankfully, he isn't home now; his broker job called him to go out of town, and I wanted to use this opportunity to read books in peace.

Entering the house, I call, “Mom?” She doesn't reply, and I remove my shoes, being careful not to leave any stains, as everything should shine perfectly.

The TV plays loudly in the living room and I frown, surprised she allowed herself to watch the news, since it’s not allowed according to Dad’s rules. And Mom acts as if he’s around even when he’s not.

I despise her for it on most days, but it’s always laced with guilt as she withstands everything for me.

But the question that always haunts me is why does she stay? Why can’t she run away from him?

Is that the love that everyone experiences?

“Mom?” I call again, but still no response. She is turned away from me sitting on the chair; I can see her blonde hair resting against the chair back. I put my bag on the couch and go around in front of her, only to gasp loudly.

A pool of blood surrounds her from where she’s cut both her wrists open. The blood drips down onto the white carpet that soaks it up. Her eyes are closed, and I quickly grab the phone, dialing nine-one-one while shaking her, hoping she’ll wake up.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“My mom’s hurt.” Those are the only words I manage to spill, and immediately she tells me to stay there, but I barely listen to her, the phone slipping through my fingers to the carpet as my eyes focus on Mom’s face.

She smiles, the corners of her mouth lifting for the first time instead of being thin, and she is peaceful. Not one wrinkle mars her face, and I walk closer, touching her cheek softly.

She is not breathing, and I know I should cry and scream for help, but I can’t.

For in death, she’s found peace, and it can’t bring remorse in me. My mom was never more beautiful than in this moment with life gone from her bruised body forever.

It’s like she finally found happiness, far away from this awful place.

I kneel next to her, hugging her knees with my arms, resting my cheek on her lap while I stare into nothing, forever picturing her in this moment. I don't even care that I get dirty with blood, because for me it has brought salvation for my mom.

Why didn't she do it to both of us? Then we’d be free forever. Away from the evil that feeds on our misery.

How can I live without her?

After an hour or just minutes, people barge inside the house, their eyes widening in shock as they mutter, “Dear God,” and pull me away from Mother, while I desperately try to cling to her.

Paramedics check my vitals while murmuring words to me I don't understand, because I don’t even pretend to listen. Instead, I think about the fact that my father will never be able to hurt her again.

But with this realization also comes anger so deep it slices through me as I fist my hands and inhale the putrid air.

Because she has left me alone to live with a monster.

Ella

Getting out of the shower, I step on the soft rug, curling my toes into it, and lean toward the mirror, wiping the fog away from it.

I’ve spent around fifteen minutes in there, scrubbing myself with a new container of shower gel, wanting to wash away all the dirt I collected back in the cage.

The humid air envelops me in warmth as I gaze at my reflection and study my body as if seeing it for the first time.

My black hair falls down my spine in wet strands as water drips on the floor. Bruises appear on different parts of my body. They are not large, but enough to be seen.

Dark circles under my eyes, a haunted look, and cracked lips create a picture of a woman who suffered a deep loss, yet at the same time I do not resemble a victim held captive.

More like a woman scorned who has gone through heartbreak. In a way, I have though, right? The man I love has turned out to be a monster.

A monster who for some reason doesn’t kill me or torture me as he should.

Resting my hands on the sink, I breathe in and out, trying to recognize all the emotions swirling through my system, demanding to be felt.

There is rage for him deceiving me and putting me in this situation, luring me into his trap.

There is pain for him turning out to be someone else and placing me in a position where loving someone cost me something precious.

There is love, because how can I turn it off just like that? Even if it feels wrong.

But the most prominent of them all?

Desire to understand what has driven him to this and why he still keeps me alive.

It’s like he wants to kill me but can’t even explain to himself why he can’t do that. And discovering why and playing it to my advantage might be exactly what I need to escape from this hell.

So I can’t be stupid and irrational anymore. I have to use all my knowledge to save myself from the man I’ve considered the love of my life.

Exhaling heavily, I put on the black hoodie lying nearby and find it reaches my knees. I roll the sleeves up, enjoying the softness of the fabric. It’s thick compared to that joke of a dress, so it gives me more protection, at least in my mind.

I wince as I put pressure on my foot, still sensitive after the water, and go out, not really knowing what awaits me.

Kierian sits on the couch, breathing heavily as he concentrates on the needle and thread, as he methodically stitches his wound.

A bottle of whiskey sits nearby, half full, so he probably used some of it as antiseptic and drank some to dull the pain.

The woman in me longs to soothe him and make it all right, and I step in his direction but stop myself quickly.

Rational. You should act rational.

Instead, I focus on my surroundings, assessing the place while being slightly taken aback by the design.

The place consists of a wide, spacious living room that has a couch, two chairs, and a fluffy fur rug right in front of a fireplace, albeit a fake one.

The kitchen counter has an arc-like shape so it’s the extension of the room with an assortment of pots and pans on the stove. Why the hell does he have cooking devices here?

Also, from the corner of my eye, I see a hallway that leads to one more room, probably the master. Everything is colored in shades of gray, even the curtains, and all this gives the vibe of a black and white movie.

Especially the silence that echoes around the walls louder than any sound could.

Nothing in this room indicates that its owner tortures and kills his victims in the basement.

“Before you consider running…” Kierian’s deep voice snaps my attention back to him. “The security system is activated. No one can get in or out without my permission. I haven’t turned it on before, but you aren’t very obedient.” He clucked with his tongue. “Bad girls get punished.”

Not answering his jab, I ask instead, “Does it hurt?”

His brow lifts as he laughs. “Why? Want to come and kiss it better?” I shake my head, and he adds, “Maybe you can distract me enough and then stab me again. That’s an option too.”

“I won’t feel guilty about this. And when an opportunity arises again, I will take it.” No need to hide my intentions.

“You need to eat.” He points at the plate on the nearby coffee table, right next to him. “And before you open that mouth of yours, this is an order.”

Funny, I wasn’t about to argue anyway. I have to be strong to escape, so I won’t refuse food or hydrating my body ever again. Plus, my mouth is watering at the possibility, so I stroll to him, and my hands are on the plate when his frustrated groan fills the space.

He is trying to attach the bandage to his side, but the thing keeps slipping and he can’t angle his body as it probably brings more pain.

Snatching it out of his fingers, I press it to his wound, and he grunts because I’m not gentle. Plastering it firmly on his chest, I make sure it doesn’t slip and secure it across his side as well.

A hot breath fans my cheek, and my eyes rise to clash with his as he leans forward. “Thank you.” I scoot back, but he fists his hand in my hair, slightly tugging on it and bringing us closer. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

A humorless chuckle slips through my lips. “Or what?” He doesn’t answer but lets me go, and I begin to eat, shoveling bites without tasting much, because it doesn’t matter. Eating has only one purpose after all, nutrition. “Why am I here?”

He stays silent for a bit and then slides lower on the couch, resting his head on the back of it, his eyes closed. “I have different plans for the basement.”

“Like?”

“Why, you miss it already? Be my guest and sleep there, then.”

Gritting my teeth, I bite my tongue, because antagonizing him doesn’t play well for me. “So you sent me the book?”

He laughs. “I thought you might like it. Granted, I didn’t expect you to become obsessed with it, but it was fun to watch. It’s a great masterpiece.”

“Noah, Preston, and you all have the tattoos.”

“Yeah, and we all read it. Noah likes Hector, which fits him, always the protector. And Preston is into Paris, God knows why.”

“So I came to the team, and you chose me?” I don’t really know how his victimology works with women, considering I’ve never encountered a serial killer except Benjamin.

If someone told me I’d breezily be discussing a psychopath’s motives, I would have laughed in their face.

He drinks from his whiskey bottle. “You bumped into me on your morning run.” He chuckles. “I didn’t understand at first why you caught my attention. Women are never in short supply. But I couldn’t let go and needed to know everything about you.”

I vaguely remember that day in January when some guy in a hoodie bumped into me and said nothing.

So that’s when my destiny took a new turn?

“But when I got to know your file, I knew what attracted me to you.” He sits closer and catches my chin, even though I try to evade his touch. “The grief flashing in your eyes hidden by indifference. But if one experiences it for years, it’s easy to recognize.”

Slapping his hand away, I hiss. “What am I? Your toy?”

“Hardly. If you were, I’d already be playing with you.” He gets up, wincing, and I concentrate on my food while trying to digest this information.

Everything is a plan and a game. But his explanation doesn’t give me anything. Why does he want me?

“Why me? Tell me.”

“The more I got to know you, the more I wanted you. To hurt. To possess. To inflict bruises.” He clears his throat. “I’ve never felt this before, so only your past explained it.” What he described reminded me more of a guy who fell for a girl at first glance, but due to his fucked upbringing, transformed it into something else in his mind entirely to justify his attraction.

“How many people did you kill?”

“Lots.” Right. If he started in his teens, I could imagine what the number is now.

“You worked alone?”

“No. I’ve had sort of a friend who has taught me all there is to know about torture.”

“So you like torture?”

“I used to, in the beginning. It fed my desires. Not so much after that. I grew bored. There was no drive in it anymore, no interest. Until you,” he finishes.

“Will you kill me?” He stays silent for a while, and the food I ate lies like a heavy rock inside my stomach. Although I want to smash the plate on the wall, my mind keeps chanting.

Survivor. Survivor. Survivor.

“Will you ever accept life with a serial killer?”

“Never.”

“Then you have your answer.” With that, he disappears behind the bedroom door while I sit there numbly, not allowing tears to spill from the unfairness of this situation or the desperation or the unbearable pain, not in my body, but my heart.

Sounding and acting dramatic won’t help my situation.

But how can I escape him? Or make him give me up?

Without harming him in the process?

Psychopath

She falls asleep, shifting her neck to an uncomfortable position, and for sure, it will be sore tomorrow if I don’t take her to bed.

Gulping two more painkillers, I shake my head and ignore the sting in my side.

I smile at the idea that my beautiful Ella is a tigress when it comes to fighting. She won’t ever allow anything to hurt her without a fight.

A quality not everyone possesses, and although it makes me proud, I should be annoyed.

Nothing is going according to my initial plan, but maybe I shouldn’t have started a relationship with her first.

I wouldn’t have known her laughter. How her eyes sparkle when she is excited about something, how much she suffers without her family.

What a loyal friend she can be, how dedicated she is to her work.

There is so much about her to admire, and anyone would be lucky to have her. But all those qualities make her a curse for me, because I won’t ever let her go, and she won’t stay with me under such circumstances.

She might love me, but she won’t stay.

So I have two choices: either kill her or break her.

But what do I do when my entire being protests this, not allowing anyone, even me, to harm her?

Sliding my hands under her back and knees, I pick her up and go to the bedroom, where the warm bed is ready for her. I place her on it and tuck her in as she murmurs something, and then she squeezes my hand and brings it to her chest. “Kierian,” she murmurs this time, and my heart stills, because up until I met her, I thought the thing only fucking existed to pump blood throughout my body.

She moves restlessly, frowning in her sleep, so I get on the bed, and immediately she rests on my shoulder, sighing deeply.

“Ella,” I whisper against her hair. “Why do you have to be so perfect?”

Closing my eyes, I will myself to stop being Kierian to her and be only a serial killer who hunts his prey.

But for the first time in my life, I can’t separate the two.