HIM .. Joe Goldberg

DIE

I'VE NEVER CONSIDERED myself a killer. To be a killer is different than having killed, to be a killer is in your DNA. A person can be a murderer without having it in their blood, happens all the time. Killing is easy, natural even, to be a killer is to be a predator. Not everyone is build with fangs and claws.

A killer is a monster. I'm not a monster. I'll never be a killer.

It's raining as I leave Bed Stuy and walk into the subway, masking my tears. Oh, Joe. What have I done? How could I mess everything up so quickly? I refuse to let myself think about it, refuse to let the information process: you hate me now, you think I've betrayed you.

I can't put you in harms way, Joe. I won't. Even if it means hurting you in the moment, I'll always protect you. I can heal this, fix your bitter feelings with an explanation. You're a man of reason, Joe, you'll understand. I can't protect you from Charlie, a born killer, nor can I protect you from a bullet.

The apartment building was quiet in the early hours of the night, only the occasional dog barking or white noise coming from a TV. The rain beating against the roof of the complex, however, was maddeningly loud. Trumpets, drums, shouts and screams, the fucking pounding of horses as they gallop from Heaven to bring forth my reckoning.

Inside my apartment, the only light illuminates from the TV. Charlie is on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, his palm on his chin as he stares at the screen without emotion. Bored even. Like he just came home from a long day of work to collapse in front of a screen and allow his eyes to unfocus for a bit.

I close the door slowly behind me. "Master."

He holds up the hand that wasn't on his chin. "Save it, Brit."

I walk towards him, my heels clicking. An even tempo that I wish my speeding heart would follow. I sit beside him and say nothing, hands timidity folded on my lap.

Charlie exhales, never looking away from the TV. Fox News, his favorite. Tucker Carlson and his scrunched baby face is ranting and spewing modern American racism in what should be a news forecast. Charlie loves the hatred.

"Why'd you do it?" Is his very simple but agonizingly difficult question.

"I love him," I whisper, and stroke his arm with the tips of my fingers. His eyes slide to the corner and squint, glaring at me. "And you said to do anything for love."

"Love for him beats the love for your sisters?" Charlie asks. "Love for me?"

I nod. "He's the one, Charlie."

Charlie stands up with the remote in his grip and turns off the TV.  His rushes a hand through his thinning hair and turns to look at me. In the waist of his grey sweatpants, NYU when he once bummed it out as a college student, is a gun. "Britannia, when you came to me, you were lost. Alone. Scared. I gave you everything you have, everything you need and could ever want. I only ask for one thing." Charlie removes the gun and holds it with both hands. A little revolver, something small enough you could slide in your boot. It's his favorite piece, one that always gave him companionship throughout the years. It never disappoints him.

His eyes flicker to meet mine. "All I ask is for your soul, and you handed that willingly to someone else. Someone you don't even know."

"I'm sorry, Charlie." I begin to silently cry, suddenly relieved I pissed you off so much, Joe. I hope you hate me forever now, since I'll never see you again. I don't want you to mourn over my dead body, you deserve a life of happiness. With or without me, I'm willing to make the sacrifice. "I'm really sorry, but it's done."

He holds his arm out, and I look into the barrel.

"Sucks it has to end this way," Charlie sighs, though his face is without emotion, as unwavering as it was while he watched TV. "Once Hannah heals, we'll set up a little funeral for you like the other girls had."

"I'd like that." I smile.

His finger goes to the trigger, and I close my eyes. I'm thinking of you, Joe. The last thing I see before I die won't be a gun, but the beautiful mental image of your angelic face. It's a good thing to see.

The last thing I expect is for the door to jerk open, slamming against the wall with a noise that mimicked the very lightening outside, and to see your face without my eyes being shut. You aren't wearing the smile I pictured you with, instead you're panicked, those infinitely wide and alert eyes surveying the scene.

Then you scream my name and lunge at Charlie.