The Hit List

Chapter 3

I watched as the bright red liquid in the soup blended with the milk to become a paler shade of salmon as I swirled it around on the heat. I reached into a plastic sleeve with my other hand and brought a dry square to my lips. It quickly stole all the moisture from my mouth, causing me to extend my hand towards a white mug, burning my tongue on the fruity tea. I forced myself to swallow, scalding my throat in the process.

The soup quickly came to a boil, and my hands carried it off the stove. Rehoming it from a pot to a large bowl. A bowl that remained the only clean one.

I crumbled the plastic sleeve between my hands, some crumbs spilling out of the slight opening onto my stained countertop. The crackers turn the liquid into a thick gloop. 

There was a buzz on my phone and a notification banner appeared on the screen. The sound no longer made me jump. Two weeks had passed since the incident, and after the first one, my neck no longer twisted itself into a knot, looking around every corner.

I glanced at the screen with a sense of detachment, a coping mechanism I had developed to shield myself from the anxiety that used to accompany every alert. Life had settled into a new routine, one where vigilance was balanced with the need to move forward.

Erik: Hey Evan, was just thinking about you. Hope you're doing well!

The soup now tasted of metal against my tongue, as I poured it around the dishes into the sink drain. I watched it get washed away, acid now eating away at my empty stomach. 

I dismissed the message with the same care I gave the others. At first, I was concerned that quitting my job out of the blue would point to me planning my demise, but I was confident in my original plan. Not so much now. 

Doubt had started to creep in, undermining the certainty I once felt. The initial adrenaline rush that had propelled my decision was waning, leaving me with questions I wasn't prepared to answer. The freedom I had sought now seemed fraught with uncertainty, and the isolation of my new reality began to weigh on me.

I'm not sure if the mysterious hacker or the website itself is to blame for my account being fully frozen. The tech support number was missing, not that I would have phoned it anyhow. But when I tried to sign up for several more websites and got the same response, I realized that the individual was still interfering with my plans. Most likely, he gets off on control.

Life was getting harder to live day by day. All of them bled together, finishing in identical manners. Laying in bed, sleep escaping me until early into the morning. Feelings evading me just as similarly.

Each day felt like an endless loop of monotony, draining my spirit and sapping my willpower. The once-clear lines between weekdays and weekends blurred, leaving me adrift in a sea of sameness. Nights were the worst, stretching on with an oppressive silence that only amplified my inner turmoil. 

During the 11th grade, I studied psychology for a semester, during which I learned about the limbic system. Areas of the brain responsible for producing emotions.

I can still picture myself wondering if it was possible to be born without them as I sat on a cheap, hard plastic chair. Could it be that I was the only individual missing theirs and that I would forever be an outcasted exception?

The sense of isolation was profound back then, making me feel like an anomaly, a puzzle piece that didn't fit anywhere. I wondered if I would ever find my place or if I was destined to navigate this world alone, forever searching for what was missing within me.

A part of me I had lost mine along the way. A piece of myself that had once brought such joyful feelings.

Feelings that were now faded, almost as though they were part of a polaroid sitting out in the sun; the memories still there. A little girl standing in her driveway. A ladybug rainjacket, matching umbrella, and boots. A smile showing off every tooth she had yet to lose. Her hair was cut in a short bob. Not quite a bowl-cut, but close. The world hadn't gotten to her yet. All she knew was cartoons and sugary cereal.

Even while I clung to these memories like a lifeline, I could not shake the nagging thought that, somewhere along the way, I had lost not just my innocence but also a part of myself that I feared may never be restored.

The weight of that loss bore down on me daily, a constant reminder of the person I used to be and the fragmented version that remained. I grasped at memories, hoping to piece together a semblance of my former self, but they slipped through my fingers like sand.

I wish I had lost the part of me that misses her.