~~Luca~~
Five minutes have passed since she disappeared into her room to change and I remain seated on the couch, staring at the screen of my phone without actually seeing anything on it.
I am counting down the seconds in my head, giving her exactly the time I allowed. If she does not open that door when I reach zero, I will go in there and drag her out myself.
"Five… four… three… two—"
The door opens, and she steps out hesitantly.
She has changed into loose grey sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie that nearly swallows her frame. The sleeves are long enough to cover part of her hands and she keeps tugging at the hem as if trying to make herself smaller. Her brown hair is no longer dripping wet but slightly damp, tied up into a messy bun at the top of her head. A few strands cling to her cheeks. She does not move closer immediately.
I can feel her fear from where I sit.
I know just how terrified she is of me, and there is something about that fear that drives me insane. It coils inside my chest and makes me want to press further, to see how far I can push before she breaks. I want to engrain more of that fear into that pretty head of hers until it becomes instinct.
"Why are you standing so far away?" I ask casually.
She looks at me then, and for a brief second I see it in her eyes. She wants to glare. She wants to tell me to go to hell. But she swallows it down because she knows better. She knows it might get me mad.
She begins walking slowly and stops beside a chair that is positioned far from mine, placing it deliberately between us like it is some kind of shield. Her fingers curl around the backrest and she parts her lips as if she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
She is so fascinating.
"How about I start telling you a story about my childhood," I say while leaning back into the couch. "I have so many interesting stories about my life, but this is one of my favourites."
She swallows hard. I can see her throat move. She is probably remembering that I could end her life if I decided to. The thought amuses me slightly.
"Sure," she says finally, forcing a smile that barely touches her face.
I nod once, satisfied.
"Twenty seven years ago, two people decided to have sex without a condom and that is how I came into existence," I begin evenly. "My mother decided to run away while she was still pregnant with me and my father had no idea. He was too busy sleeping with countless women to notice one missing."
Her hazel eyes drop when she cannot hold my gaze any longer.
"So I grew up with my mum in poverty," I continue. "A small apartment. Peeling paint. A fridge that was never full..."
"Was that the reason why you turned into a murderer?"
She asks and I chuckle at how hard it is for her to keep her thoughts to herself. "No." I respond then continue,
"I loved my mum," I say, and my tone does not change. "She was a good mother. When she was sober, she was perfect. She would braid my hair when I was younger. She would sing to me while cooking whatever little food we had. She would kiss my forehead before bed and tell me that I was her miracle."
I pause briefly, not because I need to, but because she is watching me carefully.
"She just happened to love drugs too."
"One night, two men showed up at our door. I remember it clearly. I was in my bedroom when I heard the banging, then the shouting." My voice remains steady, almost detached. "They were asking for her. Demanding that she return the money she borrowed."
I look directly at Elena now.
"She did not have the money."
"They were not playing," I continue. "They pushed their way inside. I was peeking through my bedroom door."
"They told her she had one last chance. She cried. She begged. She promised she would pay them back." I shrug lightly. "But promises are worthless when you owe the wrong people."
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees.
"They shot her."
The words leave my mouth flatly.
"I watched them take her life while I stood there, too scared to move. Too young to understand that the world had just ended." I hold her gaze deliberately. "I have never been that hurt before. She was the only family I knew."
"How old were you?" she asks.
Curious little thing.
"I was eleven," I say, keeping my gaze locked on hers.
She doesn't look away this time. There's something different in her expression now. Not just fear.
"I'm so sorry," she says quietly.
I don't know if her words are genuine or if she's just trying to stay on my good side. Either way, I accept them with a small nod.
"You don't have to feel sorry about it," I reply evenly. "The ones responsible paid for what they did."
Her fingers tighten around the chair again.
"Did you kill them?"
Silence stretches between us and my mind drifts back to the twelve year old me and how I shot one of the men responsible.
If I had been bigger, stronger, older… I would have made it slower. I would have made him beg to die.
"Yeah," I finally answer.
She inhales softly.
At this point, she doesn't look surprised. Not really. It's like she expected it. But I can still smell the fear on her.
"Who took you in once your mother died?" she asks.
I hold her gaze for a long moment.
Instead of answering, I lean back against the couch and tilt my head slightly.
"Could I get something to eat?" I ask calmly. "I'm starving."
Confusion flickers across her face. She wasn't expecting that.