Assault With a Deadly Weapon || N.H / 1D

38.

Song recommendation: Only by Ry X
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I didn't tell anyone.

Not Styles.

Not Malik

Not Payne.

Not Tomlinson.

Not Niall.

I could barely admit to myself that I'd really killed a man. I was officially a murderer. If I acted like it didn't happen, then it felt like it didn't happen.

I acted like it didn't happen fifteen times. I went on fifteen more trips within that month, but in total I only killed one man. Once was enough.

"Why won't you finish the job?" Lucille asked me on our second trip out to Long Island.

"I don't know, I don't feel comfortable letting the men touch me." I lied.

"You're a loyal girl." She nodded. "I understand that. You can help with the clean up."

"Okay."

From there on out, I worked with Lucille, cleaning up the dead bodies. It was gruesome, but it was better than killing the man himself.

I was a nightmare, but I was also exhausted.

I spent hours alone during the day in the library, contemplating what I'd been doing. Usually, in the movies people brush over the fact that the villain's henchmen are being killed. They're disposable, like video game enemies with no real conscience. That's what I thought too for the longest time, but when I looked into Turner's eyes as he died, I realized that he was a living person. I had ended someone's life. His entire story, his legacy, was ended by a rusty knife, a bottle of absinthe, and a terrified young detective.

I killed someone.

"Hey."

I jumped, nearly dropping the book that I was pretending to read.

"It's okay, it's just me." Niall walked behind me, setting a cup of tea down on the table in front of me.

"Thank you." I responded quietly.

"You've been reading a lot lately." He wrapped his arms around me from behind, kissing my cheek softly. "Getting bored?"

"Just passing time." I replied simply.

I was trying so hard to stay distant from Niall. I felt guilty when I was around him. I didn't want to touch him because my hands felt dirty, no matter how many times I washed them, they still felt dirty. My whole body was covered in metaphorical dirt.

"What are you reading?" He wondered.

"Anne of Green Gables."

"I've never read it. Any good?" He rested his chin on my shoulder, grabbing the book with his hands. He read a few lines. "Sounds like it's old."

"1904 I believe." I nodded.

"Does it have any action?"

"None."

"Then why are you reading it?"

Because there's no murder. Anne Shirley Cuthbert was as far away from a murderer as I could get. I wanted to be in her shoes for a while. A young, bright eyed, girl, living in the Canadian islands, with her only worries being excelling in school, and finding her place in the world.

"Beauty in simplicity." I sighed.

"You're an odd one Ophelia Carter." He hung himself around my shoulders.