By Jaxon Billingsley
Her
present is sprawled out across the table, blank like a canvas. She’ll love it;
of course, she will. I’ve always wanted what’s best for her, and now I’ve got
it. That perfection she needs. It’s beautiful. Pale and lifeless, and
beautiful, splashed with red. Beautiful. She’ll love it. I know she will. I
love it.
***
I can
remember the last time I knew she was safe. Really safe. We were laying in our
bed, my arms wrapped around her body. It was a perfect, warm embrace. She
smelled like vanilla, skin soft and smooth. I’ve always loved her skin. It was
before everything. Before she found herself stuffed in the trunk of a car.
Before she had to kick out the rear light of the car, before the police got to
her through a gun fight. Before six months of not leaving the house. It was
safe like this. Comforting like this.
***
If I had
savored that moment just a little while longer, held her closer for just
another second, perhaps she wouldn’t have gotten kidnapped. Perhaps she’d still
be safe. It’s my fault really. I needed to do a better job of keeping her safe.
***
It had
been six months since the night. Six months of nothing but fear and the safety
of a locked house. And yet… She wanted to leave. We were standing in the
kitchen, face to face. I was leaning against the counter, and she was standing
in front of me.
“You
don’t know what’s good for you.”
“And you
do?”
“You were
kidnapped.”
She sighs
and softens. “It’s been six months. I’ll be okay. I’ll be with friends, and I
won’t be alone at all.”
“I almost
lost you.”
“You
won’t lose me. I promise I won’t even go to the restroom alone.”
“I don’t
want you to go.”
“I don’t
need your permission to leave the house.”
I opened
my mouth and closed it. Silence permeating my heart at that. I didn’t know what
to say.
***
If she
wouldn’t keep herself safe, then I would.
She slept
on the right side of our bed. I crept into our room, door hinges squeaking
slightly. She was currently sleeping, wrapped up in the duvet, all comfortable
sleeping on her left side. I moved slowly, quietly until I was right next to
her. I peeled back the covers and raised my hand. The knife I held gripped
fiercely between my fingers and palm. I held it to her throat and one slice.
Just like that, quick and easy.
***
I leaned
into her ear, lips caressing her earlobe. “You should have listened to me. I’m
sorry, but I love you enough to keep you safe forever.”
About the Author
Jaxon Billingsley is a freshman at ICC. They are a poet, essayist, dog parent,
a Dungeons and Dragons enthusiast, nonbinary, mentally ill, a feminist, and a
socialist. Their highest achievement thus far is they submitted to and then was
formally rejected by the New Yorker.