“Who sent you?” My spit peppers his face as I drag him out onto the grassy hill. He’s twisting left and right, trying to break free, but he stands no chance. I’m way bigger and stronger.

Behind me, the driver unlatches his safety belt, scrambling out of his seat. Before he has a chance to bolt for the rifle, I nail the sharp point of one of the sticks straight into the first guy’s palm, pinning him to the ground. The stick is firmly planted into the soil, as is the guy who’d just tried to shoot me. There’s a massive hole in the center of his palm now, and he’s screaming his lungs out. I proceed to nail his other hand to the ground, crucifying him to the hill like a sick, sad, corrupted Jesus.

Then I jump on the fleeing driver like a panther on its prey.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I slur on a scream as I yank him by his shirt. He swings his fist at me, but I dodge it. I tackle him to the ground and he resists, pulling us together into a ball of kicks and punches. We roll down the bank, tangled and throwing fists at each other. We land in a valley a few feet from our vehicles, and I’m quick to climb on top of him, straddle him with my thighs, the way I did when Pea tried to escape, and unleash twenty-seven years’ worth of wrath on his face.

I’m angry, possessed and out of my f*cking mind.

My knuckles land on his nose, shattering it with a chilling sound, and I follow it with another fist as I smash his mouth with a brutal blow. A tooth pops out and rolls on the grass. I hit him until all I see is blood. I hit him even though I know that he might be dead. I hit him for reasons that have nothing to do with him. I hit him because I’m an orphan, an ex-felon, a captor and a guy who’s in lust with a girl he cannot have. Because I’m a sad boy, a broken man and a lonely soul. A barbaric savage, a poet with a heart of gold and a nobody who is desperate to become somebody.

And I hit him because I need him dead. Because I can’t chance him finding me again.

But I don’t just kill him. No. I’m butchering him with my stone-cold heart.

Because he’s not a person. He’s a symbol.

Representing everything I hate.

Everything I want to turn my back on.

Everything that’s taking the only thing I was born with, other than this stupid beautiful face, and that still belongs to me. My peace.

After I’m done, I drag his body up the hill, aware of the fact that someone might spot us. What choice do I have? I can’t leave him here to be found. Luckily, by the time I climb back up to Stella, it’s already pitch black and the chances of being spotted behind those hills are slim to none.

I pile the dead driver into his van and stride over to his friend, who’s still nailed to the ground, cursing and spitting, kicking his legs like a toddler in a tantrum. It’s a good thing Mrs. H sent me to buy a new broom not too long ago, and I forgot it in my trunk.

“Who sent you?” I growl into his face, fisting one of the sticks and moving it in circles, splitting the hole in his palm wider. I need a name I can look up. A name I can hunt down. Someone who I can turn my rage against. If the Aryan Brotherhood is after me, I want to know who the shot-caller is, who went against Godfrey’s direct order and decided to kill me.

“Brown bastard,” he moans at me, trying to kick me with what’s left of his strength.

I drop my head to my chest, letting out a bitter laugh. “One last chance? I might let you live if you decide to cooperate.” I don’t want to be responsible for an unnecessary death, but I’m not dumb enough to let him walk away without a payback, either.

He shakes his head and spits his words. “Do whatever you need to do, Nathaniel Vela. You’re already a dead man. We just haven’t killed you yet.”

I kneel on one knee, cradling his face in my palms. He has a blonde moustache, a shiny bald head and an Aryan Warrior tattoo on his cheek. He grins as I snap his neck in one sharp movement, breaking his spine.

His head is weirdly positioned on the grass, the stupid smile and wide eyes now staring back at me instead of the sky.

Dumping him in the van along with the rifle doesn’t take long. My engine is already revved up before I throw the match I lit into the open gas tank door through Stella’s window. My crime scene bursts into flames behind me, creating a rancid cloud of burnt flesh and gasoline as I speed away. My eyes prickle and my throat stings, but it’s not due to the whiff of fire making its way into my lungs. No. What strikes me the most on my ride home is the fact that I am officially contaminated by sin. I’m not a killer, I’m a murderer. Self-defense or not, I’ve taken three lives, and I’m barely twenty-seven.

I’ve killed three people, two of them deliberately, not just to stop them, but to end them. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t bat an eyelash. Goddamn, I didn’t even flinch. I ventured straight into f*cking serial killer territory, with neighbors like Ted Bundy and Jeffery Dahmer to accompany my new title.

Some people collect stamps. Some coins. Taxidermy. Fucking cards. I collect regrets. They don’t take up much space, not physically, anyway. But inside. . .they occupy. They eat away. They ruin.

Because that’s the thing about regrets. They’re mistakes that left scars. Vicious, sensitive, searing wounds.

I don’t feel remorse for killing those three bastards, but I feel bad about her.

Maybe that’s why I kick the basement’s door open the minute I get home.