Walking down the hall to the library, I ignore the stares thrown my way and place my headphones back over my ears as the hard rock blasts, eliminating the outside world.

Idiots.

Stepping inside the library, Miss Jane smiles at me widely, and I return it. She is the only person who has always allowed me to take more books, so yeah.

I stroll to the table at the far end, then go hunt for a book.

I shuffle through the shelves, searching; we are supposed to submit a history report about the Civil War. I have to have it done a few weeks ahead, because my chemistry teacher, Mr. David, has promised to show me a special chemical reaction plants have on a toxic mix of certain atoms. Although it’s forbidden to show me this kind of information, he seems to live in his own world and drinks up any attention from students who show an interest in his profession. He had dreamed about a big future in science, but he wasn't “smart enough.”

His words, not mine.

My eyes land on the strange additions to the pile of used books, and I pause while cracking my neck to the side. They are brought here by people who no longer want them, so they donate them to schools.

“Criminal Psychology,” I murmur, the title sparking my interest, and I pick it up. “How to understand the mind of a serial killer.”

Serial killer?

My history project long forgotten, I open the book while resting my back on the chair and read.

Because the book gives me the perfect description, play by play, on how to pull off a spotless crime.

It took me a few more months to create a plan to turn my life for the better, but back then, I didn't see it was a sign.

A sign I was just like the people I’d read about, and even though I thought I was doing it to protect myself, truth was I liked it.

That later on I would use it on other people.

Evil is not born after all; it’s made.

But if I had to do it all over again?

I would.

Psychopath

Her words freeze my movements, but then I raise my troubled eyes to her, only to see her avoiding my gaze, as if she is afraid to look at me.

Stupid, beautiful girl.

She cut herself deep; it will throb like a bitch, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.

And I hate it, just like I hate the fact that I can’t hurt her.

I don’t want to hurt her.

Seeing her pale skin covered in bruises doesn’t bring joy or pride or whatever the fuck else I’d hoped for. My lips long to trace them with my tongue and make them all feel better; she deserves better than this.

My Ella.

“Or it’s only okay for you to hurt me, but not the other way around?” She still fishes for answers I don’t know how to give her.

Despite claiming everything under the moon, she loves me and searches for good. But there is no good in me.

My father killed it.

“No one is allowed to hurt you. No one. Even you,” I growl against her as her jaw drops open, and she shakes her head.

But then her brown pools widen as she notices me preparing the injection. “What are you doing with the needle?”

My brows furrow at the fear detected in each word. “It’s a pain killer. I will inject it into your palm so you won’t feel me stitching it.”

“Do you know how to do that?”

My mouth lifts in a smile. “Yeah. Learned at an early age.” And then God knows why, I add, “Mom taught me. Someone had to tend to her wounds. Mostly it was me if the places were hard to get to.”

She blinks and then casts her eyes down, sighing heavily. “It was hell, huh?”

I administer the injection and she winces, biting on her fist while she kicks the cupboard under her with her heel.

“Shh.” I keep her still then apply antiseptic and begin to stitch it. “Won’t be great work, so you’ll most likely have a scar.” Her healthy hand travels up my stomach to my chin and grabs it, to my fucking surprise.

“You didn’t answer me.”

A humorless chuckle echoes between us, while she grinds her teeth. “If it wasn’t hell, would you be here now? But it doesn’t matter what I lived through, does it? Nothing justifies what I do in your mind, so this is a moot point.” This fucking wound will sting. Why did she hurt herself? “We all have our own demons. No need to know mine.”

“But I already do,” she mumbles, but it’s so barely audible I think I’ve imagined it. She clears her throat. “I’m sorry about your mom. No one deserves that.”

My jaw tics, as do my hands, because the thought of an amazing yet not understandable woman always brings hectic emotions inside me.

No woman deserves the hell Mom lived through.

Looking back now, I see I could never have saved her, because I was just a kid. But I wonder how a man could have brainwashed her so much that she thought dying was better than escaping him?

Is it the same as what I’m trying to do with Ella? I don’t kill her, because my entire being doesn’t allow it, but I keep her here and wait for her to break.

Breaking a woman’s spirit… what will be the consequences?

And will that love have meaning?

We stay silent for the next fifteen minutes as I stitch the wound, apply cream, and patch it up with a bandage, securing it tightly around her palm.

Then I clean her thigh scratches, but she doesn’t even react to those.

Finally done, I pick her up and place her on the couch, while she mutters, “I can walk.”

“And do something stupid again? No thanks.”

“I’ll die anyway. What difference does it make when?”

Pulling her hair hard, I bring her mouth closer to mine as she breathes heavily. “I’ll advise you not to harm what’s mine, Ella. Or show me sass.”

Now she becomes angry, slapping my hand away. “I have either sass or hysterics. You think any of this is normal? You know how a woman acts in this situation?”

I shake my head. “Not from firsthand experience. I don’t kidnap women.” Or kids. Or anyone besides abusive fuckers who think they are the kings of the world.

“Well, she’d scream and beg. I can’t afford such behavior, as it won’t do me any good or help me escape you. So I don’t care that you don’t want me to hurt myself. You should have thought about it before you kidnapped me. You know I’m a fighter.”

“That’s why I chose you.”

She runs her fingers through her hair, sighing. “You want me to fight for this love?”

“No. I wanted you to fight for yourself.”

She rises and sways a little, and I make a move to help her, but she steps back. “Well, you got that in spades. This is a dead end, Kierian. A dead end. We have no chance,” she whispers with resignation and collapses back onto her seat with a loud thud.

Her stomach rumble fills the space and her cheeks heat up. “I told you to eat breakfast.” I quickly grab the untouched pancake plate and place it on her lap. “Eat.” She doesn’t object, just like yesterday, and it hits me. “More strength when fed, right?”

“I don’t have to justify anything to you.”

And she continues to munch on her food while I try to study the unfamiliar emotions inside my chest that make me act and sound like a hormonal teenager instead of a serial killer.