The Girl Who Would Be King(38)

I half-stumble half-crawl to the trailer and when I knock, a woman inside says, “Yeah honey, you forget something?” I glance around wondering who she might be talking to, but don’t see anyone nearby. Once inside, I see Joan, and the look on her face when I walk in is priceless, and if the feeling of sickness hadn’t been fading, instead of increasing, I would have thought she was who I was looking for based on that look.

Her trailer is dark except for some warm light coming from a backroom. There are posters covering the walls, most of her in younger, hotter days. It’s almost sad. She’d been pretty smokin’ when she first started out, and maybe just a little older than me, but she isn’t much to look at now, that’s for sure. She’s all old and ruined now, and standing there, maybe twelve feet away from me, filling up a doorway in an old bathrobe. The scene reminds me of Delia. In fact, despite their obvious physical differences Joan does remind me of my mother, in all the pathetic ways.

And I find myself angry with her. Angry that she isn’t my mother and angry that she reminds me of her in the first place, but I can’t decide which is worse. I can taste her fear and desperation even though I haven’t done anything yet. Tasting her fear is making my stomach growl and I didn’t realize until now that I’d been hungering for fear like hers. It’s been days since I feasted on Lena, you know, like metaphorically feasted…I didn’t actually eat her or anything…gross.

I wonder if I should feel bad for Joan instead of mad at her.

I wonder again if there’s something broken inside me and think of Adrian, for just a moment. I slide my finger along a dusty, fake wood tabletop. “Hello Joan.”

“Who are you?” she asks, trying to sound strong. I appreciate her attempt; it’s quite frankly more fun when they don’t mew like injured kittens.

“Lola. Lola LeFever,” I say. She laughs a little under her breath. “What’s so funny?” I ask, my voice hard and flat.

“You’re just a kid. I can see now that you’re just a kid, but that’s a good name I suppose…if you’re in a circus.”

“It’s a good name no matter where you are,” I say.

“No, really only if you work for the circus…or maybe if you live in a comic book, I guess.”

“What does that mean?” I demand. Angry that this worthless, deformed woman is enjoying herself at my expense.

“Lola LeFever? It’s ridiculous…” she trails off, chuckling to herself.

“Listen grandma, I’m not here to talk about my name. I’m here to freaking kill you - so you might want to try to take this – and me – a little more seriously.”

“Oh, I see. Lola LeFever is going to kill me? Please. You sound like a mediocre porn star…at best.”

“You’re gonna take that back,” I say, my voice hardening. She laughs again. I’m getting real sick of her laughing. “Y’know this is why killers shouldn’t talk to their victims. Often enough, I’ve found my victims don’t understand how serious the conversation is until it’s much too late. I keep trying to help you understand how serious it is, but you’re ignoring me.”

That gets her. She’s still trying to be tough, but I can see a change in her eyes – the acceptance of what she had first felt when I came in. I make a move toward her and she takes half a step backward. Once she does that it’s all over, and she knows it. I can see it spread from her eyes into her whole face, like disease. The fear ratchets up in the room until it’s almost solid, like I can touch it and squeeze the life out of it, just like everything else.

“You know, I came here because I thought you might be something special – something like me – but I can see now you’re worthless, just like the rest,” I say. She takes another step back from me, but she’s got nowhere to go. I move across the room at neck-breaking speed, and we’re eye to eye faster than she can blink. She breathes in like she’s going to say something but I’m tired of hearing her talk. She’s never going to say anything again.

I plunge my fist straight through her chest. I feel her heart beating in my hand, for just a moment, before it’s permanently still.

Her body falls away from me and hits the floor with a defeated thud. I jump away from it, leaving a bloody handprint on the wall in the process. I wash my hands in the tiny kitchenette sink and dry them on a ruffled yellow towel, tossing it at the body wedged in the hallway on my way out the door.

I step outside feeling sated and full. I break the knob off the front door, hopefully putting a little distance between me and the discovery of the body.