𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXXVIII

I stiffen, remembering the paper Elliot had written. Patient 001–yes, Lily. I nod. "What can you tell me about her?"

Jane looks at me, narrowing her eyes. "She wasn't the first patient, but she was the first successful one. Patient 000 didn't make it, so they never talked about her." Rose. Patient 000 is Rose. "I really only know from the stories Dr. Martinez told me as a little kid, so I don't know what's real or what's fake, but she descended, I think. They treated her and I was told she lived happily." She faces me fully, her body tangled in mine. "But if you ask me? She never looked happy in the pictures."

I nod. "Do you know how she died?"

"A boy." She says. "A boy named—"

"Elliot."

She looks at me confused. "How'd you know?"

I shrug. "Research," I mutter. She stares at me, like she knows I'm lying. Like she knows all my ticks, the exact rhythm of my heart. She knows, but she doesn't push it. And for that, I'm grateful. I'm grateful for the comfort of her presence, the way her pinky finger wraps around mine, even under the sheets of the bed. We both follow a strict, productive, and competitive schedule—waking up before the sun, crossing out everything on our to-do lists before most get out of bed. And yet, the clock hits 12 pm and we just lay there. Time slips away—a second, a minute, an hour. I'm touching her with not just my hands but with my heart and I think we're both scared it'll slip and fall. We're both scared this moment will be interrupted and the curtains will be pulled back to reveal some cruel joke—and I fear we can never enjoy the happiness because we'll be too busy fearing the catch that always follows.

There's a knock on the door and we both stiffen. This is it, I'm thinking. This is when they tell me I wasn't manufactured to be happy. She must be thinking the same thing, because she frantically sits up, removing her pink from mine, taking a deep intake of breath. I get up after her, checking to see if my knife is still under the pillow. It is. But when I see her face, I crumble, just a little. The painted expression on her face was familiar, and I wondered if we were painted with the same brushes, the same colors—and I didn't like it.

I never had any hope. I was born to be a killer, born with the blood of murderers in me. The path was paved, constructed, planned out for me years in advance. She has hope, though. She has always had a potential I've never had.  She will go on to do great things, and all I can do is hope that she keeps me in her thoughts, for I have never deserved her. She will dance through life, and I'll simply be there to take down anyone in her path. No, I have never deserved her.

But neither does anyone else. Not even the devil himself. There may be men better than me—who pray every day, who will take her to church, kiss her hand and tell her she's beautiful. A good man that would sacrifice anything to save the world, even if the price was her. But me, with my soul already so dark? I would sacrifice the world to save her in a heartbeat. Hell, I'd burn it to pieces if she was simply cold.

For their sake, I pray to any god she believes in to let me keep her. Because this world, I fear, would be in so much danger if a single hair on her hair was ever touched by death. So I kiss her forehead, despite my shaking hands, and despite her worried expression. I put on my boxers, letting her get bathed and dressed while I thread the fabrics of my mask together, tying it securely on my face for the rest of the world to see. I'll bear all the bad news in the world if it means she won't ask me if we're wrong to be together again.

Xander yawns at me from the other side of the door, and I close it behind us, heading to the kitchen. Three sets of coffee cups scatter the island and I take the black coffee, adding a cup full of sugar to the other one for Jane. Xander watches me with a grin across his face until I raise my eyebrows at him. "Did she paint you like one of your french girls?" He asks, trying not to laugh at his own joke.