Archive of Our Own

The gun is empty.

I’m sorry. If I explain a little more, you’ll understand why.

This morning there was the tiniest cut on the corner of my thumbnail that I tried to remind myself to double-band-aid after I finished cleaning. Not that it was bleeding or anything—it was so shallow that there was no blood—but the bleach really made it sting and I knew a bandaid would at least make me feel better. That it would prevent me from picking at it.

Get a bandaid. Get a bandaid. Get a bandaid.

Seriously, I told myself so many times, Jasper. At least believe that. I didn’t have any plans 24 hours ago. Or even twelve. From the point I’m writing this, I mean. Not from whenever you’re reading this. Although I’ve been meaning to do the gun thing for a while.

Sorry, I know I’m all over the place. But I really, really hope you’re still reading this. Or that you’ve gotten this far. And I’m seriously sorry about the bullets. I know they aren’t cheap.

So I was cleaning and I was worried that I’d forget about the bandaid, but I couldn’t stop cleaning; I was almost done at that point. It would’ve completely ruined my momentum if I’d had to pause, wash my hands, dig through my bag, yank out a notepad, and scribble down that stupid little instruction. (Yes, I remember where my notebook is, but not where the bandaids are. Sorry.) Not to mention the potential evidence I could be leaving all over the room.

Bathtubs are easy enough to clean. I have a whole system that helps me work faster, which makes me proud of myself. I put on the same outfit that I wear every time—my red t-shirt is starting to look more like a cotton print of blood-stained snow—slip on the knee pads that we got from that skater in Annapolis, and pull out the rag bag that we can’t throw away.

I don’t know enough about the police. Not like you do. But I trust you, which is why I never tried to throw them away ever again.

This wasn’t my mess this time, but this is just one of the many things we do for each other. You help fix my mistakes and I help fix yours. I force you to leave cleanup to me not because I think I do a better job (we both know I don’t) but because I don’t like it when you’re sad. And when you look at the messes for too long, I know it upsets you. You try pretty hard but you’re not good at hiding it. You care more than I can even pretend to, and you try so hard not to, and I wish your heart didn’t hurt you all the time.

If I could care more so you could care less, I’d make the trade, even if it was painful. It would be interesting to know what that flavor of guilt felt like.

I know this is awfully ironic if you’re reading this. But I do mean it. Honestly.

I like keeping a journal. You said they’re supposed to be personal. A place for secrets. You told me to put things in here that I wouldn’t want to tell you, but I’m excited for you to read these. Sometimes the things I write are for myself, but (if you couldn’t tell by now) they’re usually for you. I hope they make you feel better, somehow.

Again: sorry.

Anyways, I’m trying to explain about the bullets.

I couldn’t stop for a bandaid, so I sat back in the tub in my ugly, ruined shorts and closed my eyes for a few seconds.

Bandaids…bandaids…bandaids…

I repeated the manta until I was annoyed. Until the bleach made my finger sting some more. Until I was sure the annoyance combined with the pain would help me remember.

I’m sure you know by now that I didn’t remember.

Bleach is harmful to people because it’s so corrosive. It breaks down organic material. It’s supposed to be watered down when you’re using it the way I did this morning. You’re supposed to use gloves, I think. The smell of it intensifies when the mess is worse. These are all things I read when you’re moving us from one town to the next.

The bottle says that it “prevents odor-causing bacteria growth for 48 hours” and when I asked you if the blood-stink would return in two days you made a tsk noise and said “we’ll be long gone by then, and it won’t be our problem anymore” which made me giggle.

These journals were a good idea. You told me that you’d never look and that they’re just for my benefit, to help me figure things out. To remember stuff, maybe. No one at the hospital recommended anything like this, but that’s because they weren’t focused on helping me improve. I think they just wanted me contained, but I don’t know.

Now we’ll never figure out where I came from, or why I was in there, and it doesn’t even seem important anymore. We really wasted a lot of time on that mystery, didn’t we? I honestly think they know about people like us. The doctors, I mean. You once told me that our kind was supposed to have been eradicated decades ago, but I guess we slipped through the cracks. You don’t give me many details about what we are—you claim it’s safer for me—but you described it as “ghoulish” once and I had enough focus at that moment to write that word down a bunch so I could look it up later.

It seems about right.

We’ll never know for sure how I ended up in that place, or who I was before it, but I think they tried to fix me. I think that’s what happened.

I don’t feel sorry for the nurse I ate before I ran. But I’d told her twice that she was hurting me as she poked around for a vein. She didn’t listen.

That’s what everyone I’ve ever killed has had in common: I try to warn them, but then it’s too late! They’re not used to being told no. They’re not used to controlling their tempers. Kindness escaped them as it ran for its life and because of that I ended up taking theirs. But I’ve never thought of myself as a monster. (Not like you do.)

I’m just their karma.

You know all this. The facts about the bleach, the things you said this morning, the sparse memories I’ve relayed to you. But maybe this is where the journal is for me. If I didn’t write it, I might not remember. I hope reading it from me will still seem interesting and not feel like another static-soaked late-night rerun. Maybe hearing my thoughts about all these conversations will clear things up for you.

Maybe it’ll explain why I did what I did. Or I guess, what I’m going to do.

What might happen.

I’m serious when I say I’m sorry, Jazz.

Your pistol pressed harder into my hip every time I changed my position in that stupid tub. But no matter how painful the press of it was, you’ve probably already noticed how I never set it down in front of you. I couldn’t. Can’t. If I had, you could’ve picked it up. You’d sense the difference in weight and you’d know. You might get desperate.

You were already so, so upset with yourself.

Before you came back I unscrewed the tub-stopper. The bullet just barely fit through the little grate where the stopper is supposed to sit, and when it fell down the drain I heard the soft clink of metal on metal echo through the bathroom so clearly. I was afraid you’d materialize in response to that single-tone summoning spell.

But you didn’t appear, obviously. I think you were out smoking. Or maybe you were in the car meditating. I still haven’t asked. You could’ve gone for a drive, but I don’t think you’d wander that far from me while I’m cleaning up. You worry about me far too much.

There were only two bullets left in the chamber when I jammed the gun back beneath my waistband. I should be more careful with it, I know; I still can’t remember how to engage and disengage the safety. Sorry. I know I told you I remembered last time you asked me about it.

I don’t like to lie, but it’s far easier than reminding you how broken I am.

Bleach is irritating to skin, harmful to lungs, and fatal if ingested. I tasted it, once, about two or three months ago. There had been blood under my fingernails and I’d gotten distracted from cleaning and put my thumb in my mouth and that’s why I puked that night. It wasn’t because the man I killed was too drunk, which was my crappy excuse that I’m not sure you believed. (I didn’t want to lie but I also didn’t want you to worry. Sorry. The lies fall out of me so easily. I think I used to be good at it, before.)

I don’t remember where we were but the tub was teal and so were the tiles; I remember telling you how much I enjoyed the contrast between the vibrant blue-green and the deep crimson while I was scrubbing the grout. I don’t remember what you said, but I remember your eyes from where you stood in the doorway, watching me. You were holding the doorframe and furrowed your brow and stared at me, as if you were nervous about something, and I was still thrumming with the excitement of being freshly fed that I didn’t recognize how sad you were until a few weeks ago. Until I learned what that looked like on my own face.

You used to call it—this sickness I struggle with—optimism. I know, because that word is written 26 times on one of the first pages of my other journal. You don’t use that word any more when you’re talking to me. Or about me.

That made me so nervous. I thought it meant you would be more distant from me. But you still hold my hand like you’re scared I’ll run and fuck me like you want me to.

You keep your face so far away from mine most of the time. You don’t want me dead, and I’ve always understood that—I don’t want me dead, either—but I want to be closer to you. As close as I can be without ripping open your chest and crawling inside to sleep. If death means love, it doesn’t sound all that terrible.

I’ve always wanted to kiss you, even though you always say it’s a bad idea. If you’re reading this, you’re right.

I’m so, so sorry.

The bleach irritated the daylights out of that cut, but I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t forget about the bandaid. Maybe I knew I would forget and even wanted to. I can’t remember well enough, which doesn’t need to be said, but it’s true. I could probably climb into the bed of the truck when we stop for the night and put one on then, but I doubt I’ll remember. It takes so much energy to remember small things like that, and I have, like you once said to me, “much bigger fish to fry.”

(Do you like the fish drawings I put in the margins of that page? I was going to write that one for a few more pages but I was too sleepy that night.)

I still think about the day I asked you about the bleach we always keep in the back of the truck, and wondered about what was printed on the bottle. You chuckled and told me that I was reading it like your sister used to read cereal boxes (again, sorry I tasted it—I know that probably stresses you out, despite everything) and then asked if I remembered ever eating cereal.

My answer had been an obvious “no.”

You bought me Lucky Charms that day.

That was the day you had to explain to me what marketing was—the words aren’t exactly a lie, but brands like these prefer to stretch the truth to make themselves sound better—and ever since then my mind is full of the stories people tell to make others want. To make them trust.

This bleach will make your bathroom shine like new, or your money back. This bleach will eliminate 99.9% of all germs. This bleach will kill whatever you are afraid of, but can’t see. These paper towels have twice the absorbency of the leading competitor on the market. The food truck in Trappe serves the best chili dogs on the entire eastern shore. You can ‘make a difference’ by buying a Coca-Cola from any old regular gas station. Lucky Charms taste good not because of the marshmallows, but because of magic. If we read that self-help book I stole from Target last week, it’ll change our lives.

It might even fix us.

I think about these stories and I think about optimism and I wonder if you think I’m trying to market myself to you. I’m not, I need you to know that. Or at least, I’m not trying to. By reading this I hope you understand.

Do you remember when you gave me the gun? I only barely remember. Big surprise there. The important details are the ones that stuck, and I think it’s because after our conversation I opened this notebook and wrote “pull back the slide, hold it tight, use two hands, don’t point until you’re ready, aim for the chest” so many times that I got a hand cramp and had nine pages, front and back, to show for it.

I hate that you want me to use it against you. You’ve made me promise to, you’ve shown me how to aim, and you’ve taken me out into the woods twice now to practice. But no more than that. “Bullets aren’t free,” you joked after that second time. I remember that joke more than I remember whether I did well or not.

You were proud of me a few weeks ago after I fired that warning shot into the air when the assholes in the Food Lion parking lot wouldn’t go away. Proud of me because I’d remembered how to use it. But I could see—even after you fucked me behind the abandoned car dealership—the sorrow lining your eyes. After I came I stared at the phantom rings, still etched into the leftover scrap of a sign, and memorized the shape of them (that’s why I can recognize Toyotas now, in case you were wondering). I didn’t know if you were sad because I’d wasted a bullet or because this was what our life would always look like.

There were five bullets left when I started dropping them last night because it’s always easier to hide things from you when you’re upset with yourself. Each time I drop one I think about what you said. Bullets aren’t free.

I’m sorry, Jasper. I know it’s no consolation, but the shoes in the bottom of my bag—the ones I never wear—are worth at least eighty dollars. Probably more, but take whatever you can get for them. Just don’t spend it on

I wasn’t sure where you were when I scrubbed the tub. I know where you are now, as I’m writing this. You’re next to me in the car. I’m not sure where we’re going, but we were passing back over the bay bridge a couple hours ago when I started writing this so I know you’re trying to get us as far from the coast as possible. I think those are mountains in the distance but I’ve never seen any before, so I’m not sure. I really wanted to see the ocean, but we didn’t make it that far before you slipped up.

Sorry. I dropped another bullet before we got in the car. You’d parked close enough to the storm drain tucked under the curb, so I’d like to think it will just take one more rain before it gets washed down with all the leaves accumulating.

I know, I’m sorry.

You tell me you aren’t afraid of me, but sometimes I wish you were. I know it’s too late for that, especially now. If you were afraid of me, you wouldn’t have listened to me in that diner in Philly. If you were afraid of me, you wouldn’t have taken me with you. If you were afraid of me, you would’ve left me behind in that Aberdeen gas station bathroom that I accidentally locked myself in.

You’d kicked that door in and knocked me back so hard—my forehead and chest took most of the impact—it had taken two minutes for me to catch my breath. There hadn’t been an ounce of hesitation as you’d swooped in, apologized, and carried me to the car. You hadn’t even thought twice to keep me away from your skin.

You even—you damn stupid stupid stupid idiot fool!—tucked my head under your chin, giving me full access to your unguarded neck. No clothing, no blanket, nothing between my cheek and the thrum of your pulse. I did never yell at you for that. It’s a little late now, I think.

I wonder sometimes if you wanted me to kill you that night. (Or if you wanted to kill me.) You’d seen that you’d hurt me, knowing what I do to people who hurt me. You’d held me tight, and you’d even pressed a kiss to the huge bump growing along my hairline. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that, or that I was too out of it! I count that as our first kiss. It’s the only time our mouths have been so close. It’s a risk that, 99% of the time, I could never envision you taking.

You say you won’t love me, because you can’t. Not that you’re physically incapable, but because it’s dangerous. I understand you don’t want me dead. You’re a gentleman, after all. But I can’t imagine that being loved to death would be all that bad. In fact, I think it would be perfect.

Maybe death is love, if you do it right.

Before I pulled out my notebook earlier, I reached over and felt an electric thrill shoot through my chest, down my body, and between my legs when you reached for me, too. You threaded our fingers together, you kissed my knuckles, you inhaled the scent of my skin, you even closed your eyes for a few seconds, which you quickly apologized for. I laughed and said, “whoever survives the crash gets the car” and for once, you didn’t scold me. You even smiled a little.

I want to tell you how much I love you, but I know you wouldn’t like that. But just know: I was thinking it the entire time.

But today I tugged our hands back toward me and kissed the back of your hand. I held it against my cheek, and my hum of contentment turned into a laugh when you asked if I was nuzzling you. I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. They’re still a little sore, to be honest. I keep catching myself smiling as I write, and you’re such an angel you don’t even ask what I’m putting on the paper.

I really, really love you. I want you to love me. Sorry. That probably hurts to read.

I will ask you, one more time. I’ll write this conversation down while we have it, and I won’t forget it because of that.

“What would happen if you fell in love with me?”

You aren’t looking at me. I know you hate this question. Sorry. But you’re listening to me scratch this all down against the paper, and since you’re polite you’ll probably wait until I look back over before you say anything. God, I love you.

“You don’t want that.”

“The answer? Or your love?”

Your jaw is twitching. You hate being stared at. Sorry. “Both.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“If I say ‘no’ you’re going to tell me anyways.”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

You aren’t saying anything. I’m going to switch to writing down my words before I say them. I have a feeling you’re about to get pretty upset. Your patience gets shorter when that happens. I need the time to write.

“I think we’d be fine if we tried.”

Your anger is now the third passenger, filling the space between us. Even despite our company, you are silent.

“Maybe eaters can’t eat other eaters.”

“That’s not true.”

I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that you knew that. You’ve never told me before. I’m a little upset right now. Why haven’t you told me this before?

“I don’t think you’d hurt me.”

“Yeah? What makes you different from the others?”

Your words aren’t meant to hurt me, but the reminder of the others you’ve loved stings. A thumb on a bruise. Bleach in a cut.

“The others weren’t eaters.”

“Alice…”

“I think—”

“This isn’t some witch’s curse, Alice. True love’s kiss isn’t going to fix me.”

My heart is pounding because you said the L word, which you hate to say. I don’t have the same reservations, but I haven’t told you yet. I will now, I think.

“I love—”

“Alice.” Your voice strikes me like a whip. I’ll be quiet now, I think. You don’t mean to hurt me, but I love to push you into doing it.

You’re probably sick of reading me say ‘sorry,’ but I’m very good at doing things you don’t want me to. Now, you’re aware of just how true that is. The situation really is dire, I’m afraid.

I’m going to try to market my grief as something prettier. Something that might make you hungry.

It doesn’t bother me when you slip up and eat other girls. I would probably react normally to pain if I could remember my life; guilt, too. I wonder a lot about who my first meal probably was, and think about how old I was, and all sorts of normal things a normal person would dwell on. I like to clean up our messes. I read everything I can get my hands on because I like to read, not because my life depends on it. I forgot about the bandaids on accident

Sorry. I already said I hate lying to you, and I do. But sometimes I think it’s better like this. Here’s something that was born a lie but is very true: I know how this ends. I’ve known since the first night you held me. That was the first night that I knew I wanted to die in those arms.

I think they call that a confession.

I’ve started picking at my nail. The one with the invisible, bleach-irritated cut. It’s not bleeding yet, but if I keep at it, it’ll probably start.

The first girl you loved was gone before you ever told her. The last girl you loved was gone hours after she said it to you. I want you to love me, too, even though we both know what that means.

But you’ve always been such a sweet soul, Jasper. You don’t like to give your love a home because then you destroy it, and I’m sorry. I can’t imagine having it as bad as you do.

The only people I’ve ever killed at least deserved to be torn through. They do leave an aftertaste, though. Maybe you can relate, but when we talk about what we do we don’t get into specifics. Nor do we dig too deeply into the past. I don’t have much to offer on that end.

I only use the word kill because it’s the only one you can bear to use. You won’t say ‘eat’, you steer clear from ‘murder,’ and ‘destroy’ is another one that I use that you cringe at. You once told me that destroy and kill don’t mean the same thing. Then, I pointed to the dictionary entry I was reading, and you still doubled down. But I guess I do see what you mean. You usually destroy an item and kill a living thing. Sometimes that trips me up, creating the distinction between “living” and not. Maybe this was what the hospital was trying to fix. Or trying to keep locked away, at least.

I’m not killing paper when I tear pages from this notebook. I don’t kill the M&Ms as I eat them. I don’t kill evidence of what we are.

I wonder what I would kill if I could. What items that I wish possessed life so they could feel pain. The bleach, definitely. I’d kill that bathroom in Aberdeen. I’d kill those wasps that stung me in Shenandoah, but I think they killed themselves. You mentioned something of the sort, but hadn’t had the energy for my follow-up questions that day. I think kill is appropriate for wasps, but I’m not going to ask you for clarification right now. (You turned the radio on a couple minutes ago, which you only do when you’re annoyed with me. When you want me to be quiet.)

I’d kill your past lovers for you, to rid you from the pain that haunts you, but I think that’s another gray area. Your lovers were people, even though I wish they weren’t. Sorry, I know.

It would be easier if that was the way I’d been designed: to destroy the world that hurts me. I still do that, in a way, but destroying people is pretty inconvenient. I know I would feel guilty if I knew how, but I’m glad I don’t. You feel enough remorse for the both of us when one of us slips.

It makes me sad, how much you hate to cry in front of me. But it’s better for you that I lie, so I pretend not to notice your bloodshot eyes. I don’t point out the way your nose gets pink the same way mine does when the heat isn’t working in whatever shit-hole we’re staying in. I lie to you then, too, when I tell you that I don’t even feel the cold, but I think you know that’s a lie. You never push, but the instant you offer your arms beneath the covers I cinch myself to your side like a magnet returning home.

You’re always so warm, and the heat of you wakes me up as much as it soothes me calm.

You say you won’t love me, not that you don’t.

Earlier in the summer I made you tell me about her, the last one, and when you started to cry I wanted to reach forward and offer myself up. You’d loved that girl. You’d wanted to marry her. I know it doesn’t make up for her loss, but does it bring you any comfort at all? Knowing that, at least you can carry her with you, all of the time?

It seems romantic to me, but I want you to love me, not to be disgusted by me, so that’s one of the thoughts I keep to myself.

Kept.

Once I get your mouth on me, I’ll know you love me, and

I want to tell you stories about the future we’ll never have. A future not designed for eaters. I’d market it to you like this:

We’ll each find a job where we don’t have to be near people that much, and it'll be enough to sustain us. We’ll become a memory designed for others to forget and people will stop looking for us eventually. We’ll stay in one place and settle down and you’ll enjoy having a permanent home. We’ll be happy without friends, just the two of us all the time, forever and ever.

I have to stop. I’m starting to get a little sad now. I know we’ll never have that, and it’s fine. Really. But to me, the next best thing is what you won’t give me. It’s such a shame because I want it so badly. I have killed for it. I would die for it.

You just apologized. I can’t say anything because I might actually cry, which I don’t do often, and that’ll freak you out. I’m just going to grab your hand again and kiss the moon-shaped scar on your palm and hope you know you’re forgiven. You are, of course, but that doesn’t matter. I’m the one who is sorry.

I love you and crave you and want you to take me but you’ve convinced yourself of your monstrosity in a way that makes me want to market you differently. I spend lots of time doing that, actually. I’m very good at it.

You are a stranger’s best bet when they’re in trouble and need help. You’re gentler than every doctor or nurse or therapist back in Wilmington. You only ever steal from people who deserve it, or from those who already have enough. You broke the doorframe on accident two nights ago because it was built poorly. You hold me close to you in public not out of jealousy, but because you know I get cold so easily. You aren’t on speaking terms with your sister because your luck went sour years ago. You left your hometown because you wanted to see America in its entirety. You have a warrant out because no one, not even the authorities, will ever understand you, not like I do.

The man you killed last night knew what he was signing up for the instant he put his hands on me.

You gave me your gun because you love me.

You know how to love, and you do it correctly.

You will never hurt me in a way I hate.

I’m holding your hand again and I just said it. I said the whole thing. You haven’t scolded me yet, or pulled your hand back, and I don’t think you will. Not now. Not when we both know the same thing.

I know you love me. I know that tonight is the night. I know the heat of your mouth on mine will be hot enough to melt the flesh from my bone independently from your habits you hate.

There are many things I don’t know, and it’s right now, feeling the warmth of your hand in mine, hearing the way you’ve turned the radio back down, smelling the cigarettes and sweat that cling to you, that makes me happy about what’s next. Not that I know what that is, but I have a hunch.

Because while your skin is smoke and salt, I don’t crave you the same.

In my head, this is how I see it:

We stop a few hours after nightfall—we pause for gas twice more—and we pull into a motel a little bit nicer than what we’re used to. (Last night’s meal had the decency to leave behind plenty of cash.) You apologize again. I apologize again. We know our lines well by this point.

I arrange my items on the bed closest to the bathroom even though I will end up in yours. I like the option of having a wall near me. You prefer being closer to the door. You go outside for another cigarette and that’s when I’ll dispose of the final bullet in

Actually, scratch that. Maybe I’ll do it beforehand. I don’t want you to know where it is and tear this room apart searching. Life isn’t a curse, Jasper, and neither are you.

I start picking at my nail again. I take it too far. The finger begins to bleed.

I always stay up later than you so I crawl into your bed after you fall asleep. Your body knows its lines, too, and you pull me into your arms after some time. I whisper you awake.

You hum and blink those pretty brown eyes.

I say, “I love you.” You protest. I say it again. Your eyes get wet. I put my hands on each side of your face and my thumb drifts downward. You whisper my name. I pull you close.

Then, I press my bleeding finger into your mouth, and you say it back.