I should hate him for what he’s doing to me, but I don’t.

Maybe he can see that, I don’t know. As much as I want that rage inside of me to still be there, every time I go looking for it I realize that it’s depleted. I’ve spent so much time in my life being angry at my father, at my situation, at the world. I want to be angry at Noah as well, but I just can’t.

I hate him for what he’s doing to me. There’s no denying that. But I’m not angry.

I probably should be. He killed my father, after all, but my father deserved it. And according to him, he only kills bad people. He’s a rich guy with a dark past that kills bad guys. He’s like Batman.

Except Batman doesn’t kill people. And Noah does.

He’s a serial killer. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

I wrap myself in my blankets and try to think about anything but my father, but my mind inevitably ends up on him. For some reason, one particular memory comes back, the memory that has always haunted me.

He’s drunk as hell again, like he always is. He comes stumbling back inside late at night. I’m sixteen years old and I can tell from the sound he’s making downstairs that he’s going to hurt me.

I don’t bother locking the door. He slowly comes up the stairs and pushes open the door. He stands there, staring at me, anger and lust in his eyes.

“You little bitch,” he says to me.

“What?” I ask. “What do you want?”

“You fucking threw it out, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t touch your stuff.”

“You dumb bitch. I had two hundred dollars in there!” he screams.

“What are you talking about?”

“The pizza boxes! The ones you threw out! My fucking money!” He storms across the room.

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I didn’t throw away any pizza boxes. I know better than to touch his garbage without asking first. There may or may not be money hidden somewhere in this house, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is he needs an excuse to hit me, and he made one up.

He punches me in the jaw as soon as he gets near, knocking me from my computer chair. He kicks me in the ribs and grabs me by the hair, pulling me to my feet.

I know better than to scream too loud. I grunt but I don’t whimper. I try not to show too much anger or too much pain. I turn off my mind and let him hit me, over and over, beating my already bruised body. If I fight back, it’ll only get worse.

Eventually, he throws me onto the bed and stumbles out of my room, breathing heavily and sweating.

I lie there for a while, not moving. I test my body, trying to see how bad the damage is. I don’t have any broken ribs, or at least I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’m bruised and battered, but I’ll survive.

I hear him downstairs in the shower as I find a rag to dab at the blood running from my lip and my nose. By the time I get the bleeding to stop, he’s out of the shower and in his bedroom, probably already passed out.

I creep down the stairs, anger sudden and white-hot. I hate him, hate him so fucking much. I hate what he does to me. I hate what he’s made me.

I find him in his bedroom, lying on an empty mattress surrounded by his dirty clothes. I walk up to him, not sure what I’m going to do.

As I get close, he suddenly heaves. He’s lying face down, his face turned slightly to one side, and he vomits. Instead of moving, he just stays there, vomit leaking from his mouth. He tries to take a breath, and another, and suddenly I realize that he’s choking.

I stand there, eyes wide, as my bastard father begins to choke to death on his own vomit. He’s clearly too drunk to wake up. If I don’t help him, he’ll die.

I stand there watching, frozen in horror, torn between two worlds.

If I don’t move, I can be free. I can save myself. It won’t be my fault if he dies. Frankly, he deserves it. Nobody will know that I watched him and let him die like this.

He chokes, gags, trying to get breath. His face turns red and slowly transitions to purple. His body begins to thrash in slow motion, like he’s under water.

I just have to stand there. Let him die. Let him die for everything he did to me.

But I’m a coward. After another couple seconds, I run to him, turn him onto his side, and scoop the vomit from his mouth and throat. He takes deep, gasping breaths, the color in his face slowly returning to normal. He doesn’t even wake up.

I sit there, hands covered in his spit and vomit, and curse myself.

I’m a coward. I’m a pathetic coward. I saved his life and he’ll never know it. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him, and if he did, he wouldn’t care. He’ll just get drunk and hit me again soon enough.

I sob there next to my drunk abusive father, already regretting saving his life.

I remember that night all the time. It was the night that I could have saved myself. I always wonder what would have happened to me, what kind of life I could have had, if only I had let him die in his sleep that night.

But I’m weak. I’m weak and pathetic. I couldn’t bear the thought of being responsible for the death of my father even though he deserved it. Out of everyone in this world, I’m the only one that should have killed him.

Instead, Noah did. He did what I couldn’t do. He came into our house at night and shoved a knife deep into my father’s black and withered heart, letting him bleed out into the tub. He did what I wish I had the courage to do all those years ago.

I look up as the elevator door dings. I push myself into a sitting position as he walks into the room, holding a cardboard box in his arms.

“Special delivery,” he says, putting it down on the floor next to me.

I look into it and smile. It’s full of paperbacks, some of them old, but some are pretty new-looking.

“That was fast,” I say.

“I have a lot of books upstairs.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure what you’re into, though, so I brought a bunch of stuff.”

“I’m not sure what I’m into, either,” I admit. “I haven’t really read much.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Because I have a lot of good stuff in here.”

“Like what?”

“Well, have you read Harry Potter?”

“No,” I say, laughing. “Are you serious? You’re a serial killer.”

“True. But it’s really a great series. It’s famous for a reason.”

“I watched the movies.”

“Not the same.

“Is this—”

“Here—”

We reach into the box at the same time and our hands touch. I stare at him, surprised as our fingers graze each other. We linger there for a second and I feel a thrill run down my spine. I’m shocked at the excitement, the desire that courses through my veins, and I quickly pull my hand back. I’m not sure what that feeling means, and frankly I’m afraid of it.

I should be more afraid. This man is a killer, a murderer. He’s a bad, bad man. But I still feel that pulsing desire deep down inside of me as I study his handsome face, and for a second, I think he feels it too.

“This is it,” he continues softly. He hands me a book.

“Thanks.”

“There’s other stuff in there, too.” He stands up, looking away. “Harry Potter starts out for kids, but it gets better.”

“Thanks,” I say stupidly, still thrown off by the feeling of his fingers against mine.

“There’s adult stuff in there, too.” With that, he turns and stalks off toward the doors.

I want to call out and stop him. I want to tell him that I’m happy he killed my dad. I want to explain to him that he just did what I couldn’t do, what I wish I had the strength to do. So many people like me fall through the cracks because I’m poor and the cops don’t give a fuck about me. Poor uneducated people get fucked and abused all the time in our world. People like Noah understand that. He’s doing a good thing by killing the people that the cops can’t take care of.

But I don’t say it. Because I know I’m sick and pathetic. I look at the manacle on my ankle and have to remind myself that I’m his captive. He wants to break me, maybe even kill me. I have to keep my distance.

The doors open and close on him, and I’m left alone again.

I briefly want him to come back, but I banish that thought. I have to escape. I can’t keep letting myself be this sick and pathetic and weak.

I turn toward the books and begin to sift through them, trying to forget that sensation, that thrill.