Torture to Her Soul
Page 48

She wants to ask me.
I hope she never does.
Because if she's looking for remorse or some sort of rational explanation, she's never going to find what she wants from me. I don't regret for a second what I did. The man had it coming.
I jabbed that fucking pointer stick of his right through his heart.
I'd never stabbed someone in the heart before. It's callous, and personal, and I prefer to keep it strictly business. But he crossed me, and offended me, and I wanted him to look at me when death took him away. I expected it to be quick but he struggled. He fought, and he tried to run, the goddamn stick still sticking out of his chest when he got to his feet.
I learned a lesson that day.
I'll never do that again.
That's why I slit Johnny's throat before I put the knife in his chest.
I curve an eyebrow at Karissa, waiting for her to turn away from me again, but she doesn't.
She stares.
And stares.
And stares.
I feel like she grating at my soul when she stares at me that way.
Like she's scraping away some of the blackness, trying to salvage what might still be beneath. I wonder if she'll be disappointed to find every part of me is tainted, that even my good isn't as good as it should be.
After a moment, Melody turns back to her, refocusing, and drawing Karissa's attention away from me. "So? Will you at least consider it?"
Karissa sighs exasperatedly. "Fine."
"You'll think about it?"
"I'll take the damn class."
Melody squeals, once more grabbing her arm, this time excitedly. It doesn't take much to distract her as she switches subjects, inviting her other friends into the conversation when one of them chimes in and asks the million dollar question: "Who's the Santino guy?"
Melody launches into the whole tale, starting from the beginning, the first day Karissa walked into his classroom.
"He took one look at her and turned his nose up," Melody says, matter-of-fact. "He hated her for no reason. It was crazy."
Crazy, maybe, but there was a reason, and it certainly wasn't because he hated her. He never saw Karissa that day. I don't think he ever really saw her. He laid his eyes on a young girl who looked so very much like the one he fawned over as a teenager, the only girl Daniel Santino ever gave his heart to, and she crushed it, obliterated it. He always had a hard-on for Carmela, following her around like a puppy dog, lapping up every tiny speck of attention she gave him, devouring every bone she threw his way. Carmela humored his pesky crush, even went on a few dates with him.
She said it was compassion.
Said it was right to give him a fair shake.
But in the end she dropped him like a bad habit and picked up a worse one instead: Johnny.
He looked at Karissa that day when she walked in, and he didn't see his new student. He saw his old love. He saw the one who got away. And he wasn't angry to see her face again.
No, what Karissa sensed from him was terror.
Because he knew that was a face I'd been looking for.
And he knew, when I found it, exactly what I planned to do.
Melody is somewhere in the middle of the semester in her story, about when I seemed to have come in. I can tell Karissa's uncomfortable, with the way she's fidgeting, the way her eyes won't quite meet anybody's. I'm grateful when Paul interrupts, barging into the conversation with talk about the food as he slaps it on the grill, and I see Karissa breathe a sigh of relief, too.
I don't know why she puts herself through this.
I don't spend time around people unless I have to.
The day drags on into the late afternoon. Despite the 'no alcohol on the premises' sign we passed on the way in, they break out a cooler full of beer and crack open cans. I sip on a bottle of water Karissa brought while she gives in and drinks along with the others.
It's hot as fuck.
The company is boring.
I'm sweating, downright miserable, but I say nothing, picking apart an over-cooked burger I have no interest in ingesting. I'm sitting on the edge of the bench beside Karissa, so close ours arms brush together whenever one of us moves. Nobody notices or pays much attention to what I'm doing, except for Karissa, as her eyes routinely seek me out. She's trying to be coy about it, her gaze curious. After a few times, I catch her eyes and she freezes, knowing she's been caught.
I take a small bite, straining as I chew, fighting the urge to gag on the dry meat as she watches me.
After a moment, she leans closer, close enough that only I can hear, as she whispers, "what if it's poisoned?"
I grab a napkin from the table, spitting out everything that's in my mouth. Disgusting. I toss the napkin down on top of my plate and shove it aside.
I'm done with that shit.
Her eyes widen. "I didn't mean for you to do that."
"It wasn't you," I say, grabbing my bottle of water and taking a swig. "I couldn't choke that down if I had to."
She looks from me to her plate, to her untouched burger, then back to me again. She says nothing, standing up and grabbing her plate, hesitating before grabbing mine, too. After throwing them away, she chugs what's left in her can of beer and tosses it in the trash before grabbing another from the cooler.
Late afternoon morphs into early evening. Everything is cleaned up, most of it discarded, abandoned besides the coolers, as they decide to make their way down the waterfront to go swimming.
I sit along the side of the in-ground pool, at a round little table with a gigantic blue umbrella over my head. People pack the small area, at least a hundred sets of eyes that could easily wander Karissa's way, but she seems to not care as she sheds her clothes, discarding them at the table beside me, leaving her standing there in a slinky pink bikini that makes her tanned skin glow.