His(20)
When he walked in with his knife gleaming, though, I couldn’t help but cringe.
“Easy, kitten,” he said. He opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of something, but I couldn’t see what it was. Oh, lord, I hoped it wasn’t human parts.
I swallowed and tried to relax. Questions. Get him comfortable.
“My name is Kat,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Your name is kitten, kitten. Why do you want to know my name?” His back was turned to me, silverware clanking against a plate.
“I want to know more about you.” I said, gulping.
He peered at me over his shoulder, his brows suspicious.
“A name means nothing. You can call me Gav.”
“Gav.” I cast around in my brain for more to keep him talking. “Is that short for Gavin?”
“Gavriel,” he said. “My parents were religious. At least, my mother was.”
He turned back around with the plate and I saw it clearly now. No human parts - a rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes and some green beans. He put the plate down next to my head. I could smell the meaty scent of the chicken and it reminded me of the smell of the man he’d burned in the fireplace. My stomach wrenched and I tried not to heave.
A loud clang brought my attention back to the table next to me. He’d set the knife down right next to my cheek.
“Wha—what’s that?”
“Dinner,” Gav said. He forked a mouthful of chicken into his mouth.
“I mean the knife.”
“It’s a knife, kitten. It’s nothing. Just a prop. If I’m going to be a serial killer, I have to have a knife.” He chuckled.
“You are a serial killer. What do you mean, just a prop?”
“Just a prop. Like Chekhov’s knife.” His jaw worked, chewing the next piece of meat, and I frowned.
“You mean Chekhov’s gun.”
“Oh, no,” Gav said. “I don’t believe in guns. Here.” He put a fork of chicken under my nose. “Have something to eat.”
My stomach growled. Even with the terrible reminder of the smell of meat, I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since… well, since lunch the day before. Reluctantly, I opened my mouth. His eyes tracked my lips and did not leave them even as I chewed the cold chicken. My appetite came back with a crash after the first bite.
“Why not?” I asked after swallowing.
“Why not what?”
“Why don’t you believe in guns?” I asked. He offered another fork of food and I took it.
“If you shoot someone from far enough away, you can’t even tell that they’re dying. You won’t even get to see them die. You don’t get to see what you’ve done. It’s sterile, bland. It’s not a kill if it’s not up close. You miss all the good parts.”
I nearly choked on the bite of food, but managed to force it down.
He continued to feed me, small bites of mashed potato and beans and chicken. Cold leftovers, but I had never tasted anything so delicious. Even as his words made me shiver, his actions told me that he wouldn’t kill me. No, he would do worse. But maybe I could escape.
He sighed, looking off as I finished the bite.
“Guns make death inhuman,” he said.
“Would you call yourself human?” I asked, a thin line of bitterness running into my voice.
“Of course I’m human. Human is a species. I’m not humane, that’s all. I’m not a person.” His eyes seemed to change colors as he talked, grayish shades of green and blue that swirled around on the surface but never admitted any deeper.
“Then what are you?”
He shrugged.
“A persona. A character on the page, comprising as many dimensions as the edge of a knife. I kill, that’s all. That’s what I am. A knife.”
“Nothing else?”
I wanted to see behind the mask he was wearing. I was sure there was more to him, something that I could take from him. Something I could use to guilt him, seduce him. Something.
“What do you want me to say, kitten?”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything. Or have you just always been a serial killer?”
“I’ve been many things. A doctor, a healer.”
I coughed on the bite of food, and he chuckled at my reaction.
“Yes, a healer. Now, though, I don’t just sew up wounds. I stop the wounds before they start.”
“You kill bad men.”
I tried to make it seem like I understood. I wasn’t sure if it was working. He sighed.
“I suppose you could say that. I make them suffer. I take away their sins.”
“It must be hard.”
“Which part? The kidnapping part, or the torture part, or—”