by Barbara Tsipouras
It’s my turn now. I know it. But where to hide? Where to seek help? There’s nowhere I could possibly go and nobody who could possibly help me. It is too late now. I’m deeply involved. He’s here right beside me in my bed.
Two years I waited for him. Two years I missed him, was faithful, always visited, brought him whatever he wanted and when he finally was released I embraced him with all my love and was glad to see him full of energy, ready to re-start life.
I didn’t see how twisted and screwed he was, took him back into my house and my bed, had big dreams.
I thought he had overcome all that. It was over. Nobody recognizes him anymore. The video is long forgotten.
Until he told me.
At first I didn’t take him seriously, thought he was joking. But he was not.
Today I saw it in his eyes, the desire to be finally caught, to be found, to be famous of his own accord. He wants to go back, respected and feared.
Two months have passed. In the beginning he always came home filled with joy, satisfied that he did it again. Seeking approval he told me in detail, how he bought the knife and stuck it into the next old guy passing the street or went to buy a gun and shot the vendor. Or the poor girl he strangled in the park. He was so proud of all these random kills.
I did nothing to stop him. Nor did I leave. I thought it would stop, but it didn’t.
The police never came. Now there is no joy anymore, merely exhaustion. He’s tired, disillusioned.
Nobody besides me knows what he’s done.
His thirst for fame is unbroken. I saw it in his eyes. And I’ll be the victim to send him back to prison as a celebrity. That’s his aim. I’m the target.
Now, after aggressive and passionate sex, appropriate for the last time, he’s lying by my side. Drunk as usual, breathing hard and snoring.
Torn between love, fear and hatred I look at him.
He still has the chance to wake up.
But he won’t.