asylum [kai parker] editing/rewriting

Thirty-Two

(sorry in advance. this was planned. this isn't the end, so don't panic)

S I M O N E

Today started off like any other day. Waking up in the truck, starting conversation about something idiotic. Then putting on my glasses, sliding in my contacts, and tying up my hair. Now we're sitting in a diner across from each other. Kai sits in front of me, eating his French fries for breakfast. It's been a while since we've rated out like this. Recently we've just picked up a few groceries to make sandwiches. And I'm sure if we had a scale, I'd be lighter than I was a few weeks ago.

"So, about last night." Kai tosses some food into his mouth. "You like it when I call you kitten?"

"I lied." I lie, yet again.

"Okay, kitten. You keep telling yourself that." He smirks, squirting a little ketchup on his plate.

I reach for the syrup and pour it on to my small stack of waffles. It's a nice change, waffles. I've had so many scrambled pancakes lately, and Kai isn't the greatest cook. We eat in a strained, painful silence. It's the suffocating silence that just makes me feel like someone's grabbing my neck and trying to kill me. "I want to go to California."

"California? Don't you mean hell?" He chews his hamburger, eating it like he's some sort of prince.

"It's warmer there..." I start, knowing the main reason why I want to go there. We'd have to pass through Oregon. I could be caught, saved. But do I even want that?

"No. No. End of story. We'd be caught for sure. We can stay in town here for a while. Washington is nice, yeah?" He changes the subject. Just. Like. That.

N I C K
Home isn't the same. Sheriff doesn't speak unless spoken to. He spends his time staring at Malachai's files, searching for something that's not there. Trust me, I've checked, but there's nothing in them that can help us.

It's been weeks. I haven't shaved, and the sheriff definitely hasn't either. My mom has baked many, many pies to the point where it's all there is in the Alexander's fridge.

The sheriff isn't coping. In fact, he's turned to liquor. From the stories Simone has told me, this isn't that different than her life when she was four, and throughout her childhood. It's my time to intervene.

I've just been standing here, sitting on his couch and drinking too. Perhaps it's not my place, but he needs something to push him to keep looking.

"Get up." I grab the bottle of beer from his table, and set it elsewhere on the counter.

"Adams..." He says sternly, staring at me intently and it's more of a glare. Malachai's victims are spread out on the table, blood and all. It's sickening and my stomach just hurts at the sight. "She could be...she could be next."

My throat tightens and I shake my head. "She won't."

"He- you don't know that." He looks at the pictures in thought.

"She's alright."

"But we don't know that!" He yells, looking at me before shaking his head.

"We do. We've found the plate they're using at that motel. We have the whole entire United States looking, and no bodies have been found." I cringe, trying to word it so it actually sounds optimistic. "I'm going patrolling today, you can join me." I demand, not bothering to ask him.

"Alright." Sheriff Alexander stands up, grabbing his coat. His red eyes have improved in the last week, but it doesn't look like he's gotten much sleep.