Torture to Her Soul (Monster in His Eyes 2)

I wonder if I should tell her.

If I should tell her that's where her parents ran off to after destroying my life. If I should tell her they thought it would be their salvation. If I should tell her I tracked them there, found them living in that small house in Kissimmee, Florida, like they were the picture perfect family. It was the last place the two of them were together before Johnny sent Carmela on the run on her own and he came home, to face my judgment. We'll always have Kissimmee, I heard him once say.

He thought I'd leave her alone if he offered himself up on a platter, but I wasn't looking for an easy meal.

I wanted equal justice.

Paul walks away when one of his friends calls his name, wandering over to check the grill. The flames have died down a bit so I can barely see them from where I stand.

"Ethics and Society," I say, joining the conversation. "I'm assuming that deals with controversial social issues. Sounds fascinating."

"See!" Melody waves my direction. "He gets it! And remember that murder paper we wrote? You got an A on that one! This is right up your alley. Murder's totally your thing!"

I stifle a laugh at that.

I read Karissa's essay on murder. I saw it lying on Daniel's desk the first time I confronted him for how he was treating her in class. It was horrendous.

She deserved to fail it.

But of course I made him pass her anyway.

"And come on," Melody continues, really laying it on thick. "There's a whole section on sexual morality. You have to take it. Everyone else is all blah blah blah, but this is the business! Nowadays everybody wants to talk like they got something to say, you know? But nothing comes out when they move their lips. It's ridiculous. Where else are you going to get such titillating conversation?"

I have no idea what the hell the girl is rambling about, but it somehow cracks Karissa, the corner of her lips flickering with the hint of a smile. "From Eminem."

Melody clutches her chest dramatically, throwing her head back. "God, I wish. That man could titillate me all night long. But he's not here, and you are, so I think you should totally take this class with me."

"Besides," Paul shouts as he slaps the metal grate on top of the grill, "it's not like you have to worry about Santino this year. Someone already took care of that for you."

Karissa's eyes immediately shift in my direction as Melody's attention is diverted. She chastises her boyfriend for making light of their professor's death, while the gaze that's pointed at me is full of nothing but suspicion. She knows. I know she does. She hasn't come out and asked me, hasn't brought it up beyond the initial conversation the night she was questioned by the police, but I can see in her eyes that she's thought about it.

She wants to ask me.

I hope she never does.

Because if she's looking for remorse or some sort of rational explanation, she's never going to find what she wants from me. I don't regret for a second what I did. The man had it coming.

I jabbed that fucking pointer stick of his right through his heart.

I'd never stabbed someone in the heart before. It's callous, and personal, and I prefer to keep it strictly business. But he crossed me, and offended me, and I wanted him to look at me when death took him away. I expected it to be quick but he struggled. He fought, and he tried to run, the goddamn stick still sticking out of his chest when he got to his feet.

I learned a lesson that day.

I'll never do that again.

That's why I slit Johnny's throat before I put the knife in his chest.

I curve an eyebrow at Karissa, waiting for her to turn away from me again, but she doesn't.

She stares.

And stares.

And stares.

I feel like she grating at my soul when she stares at me that way.

Like she's scraping away some of the blackness, trying to salvage what might still be beneath. I wonder if she'll be disappointed to find every part of me is tainted, that even my good isn't as good as it should be.

After a moment, Melody turns back to her, refocusing, and drawing Karissa's attention away from me. "So? Will you at least consider it?"

Karissa sighs exasperatedly. "Fine."

"You'll think about it?"

"I'll take the damn class."

Melody squeals, once more grabbing her arm, this time excitedly. It doesn't take much to distract her as she switches subjects, inviting her other friends into the conversation when one of them chimes in and asks the million dollar question: "Who's the Santino guy?"

Melody launches into the whole tale, starting from the beginning, the first day Karissa walked into his classroom.

"He took one look at her and turned his nose up," Melody says, matter-of-fact. "He hated her for no reason. It was crazy."

Crazy, maybe, but there was a reason, and it certainly wasn't because he hated her. He never saw Karissa that day. I don't think he ever really saw her. He laid his eyes on a young girl who looked so very much like the one he fawned over as a teenager, the only girl Daniel Santino ever gave his heart to, and she crushed it, obliterated it. He always had a hard-on for Carmela, following her around like a puppy dog, lapping up every tiny speck of attention she gave him, devouring every bone she threw his way. Carmela humored his pesky crush, even went on a few dates with him.

She said it was compassion.

Said it was right to give him a fair shake.

But in the end she dropped him like a bad habit and picked up a worse one instead: Johnny.

He looked at Karissa that day when she walked in, and he didn't see his new student. He saw his old love. He saw the one who got away. And he wasn't angry to see her face again.

No, what Karissa sensed from him was terror.

Because he knew that was a face I'd been looking for.

And he knew, when I found it, exactly what I planned to do.

Melody is somewhere in the middle of the semester in her story, about when I seemed to have come in. I can tell Karissa's uncomfortable, with the way she's fidgeting, the way her eyes won't quite meet anybody's. I'm grateful when Paul interrupts, barging into the conversation with talk about the food as he slaps it on the grill, and I see Karissa breathe a sigh of relief, too.

I don't know why she puts herself through this.

I don't spend time around people unless I have to.

The day drags on into the late afternoon. Despite the 'no alcohol on the premises' sign we passed on the way in, they break out a cooler full of beer and crack open cans. I sip on a bottle of water Karissa brought while she gives in and drinks along with the others.

It's hot as fuck.

The company is boring.

I'm sweating, downright miserable, but I say nothing, picking apart an over-cooked burger I have no interest in ingesting. I'm sitting on the edge of the bench beside Karissa, so close ours arms brush together whenever one of us moves. Nobody notices or pays much attention to what I'm doing, except for Karissa, as her eyes routinely seek me out. She's trying to be coy about it, her gaze curious. After a few times, I catch her eyes and she freezes, knowing she's been caught.