Page 109 of Little Psycho
“Why would I believe anything you say?”I spit.“You’ll just twist the truth like you guys always do.You're all the fucking same.”
“True,” he admits, “but wouldn’t it be more satisfying to hear it from my lips?After all, if you’re going to rob me of my life, wouldn’t you like to know every dirty detail before you do?”
The absurdity of his proposition lingers in the air, but curiosity sparks within me.Maybe there is something to gain from this mess.My mind races, weighing the options: the thrill of revenge or this twisted confessional.
I take another step towards him, lowering my knife slightly.Despite the cloud of anger and pain enveloping me, I can’t shake the feeling that the real victory lies not just in killing him but in understanding everything he took from me.
“Talk,” I say, my voice steadier as I prepare to listen.“But remember, this shit ends with you.”
He grins—the kind of grin that makes my skin crawl.“Then let's make this a story worth telling.”He exhales slowly, the smoke swirling toward the ceiling in a languid dance."You want to know how it all began?"he says, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, as if we’re sitting in a café and not on the brink of murder.
A part of me still curses my wavering resolve, but I force myself to remain in control."Yes," I respond, my voice clipped."Get on with it."
He leans straighter against the headboard, appearing to relish the opportunity to amuse me with his narrative."It started long before your father became a senator.It's always about the family, isn't it?The image they project to the world, especially to voters.Thomas took me under his wing and guided me through the shadows of our political landscape.He taught me that the ends justify the means, that morality is a game made by those who can afford to ignore it."There’s a twisted gleam in his eyes, a nostalgic hunger for power that sends a shudder running through me.
"And what about me?"I interject, desperate to steer the story back to how it involved me and how it unraveled the threads of my life."Where do I fit into your whimsical tale of politics and corruption?"
He synchronizes his gaze with mine, a fake seriousness resting on his features that makes my stomach churn again."You, my dear Calista, were just an unfortunate participant.A loose end that needed to be tied up for the greater good of Elaine's ambitions and Thomas's ideal legacy.You see, it was never personal.Your mother is a sick woman, first.She was the brains behind the secret society.Hurting you was a way for her to make money, and praying on so many men's weaknesses was her specialty.Your father wanted nothing to do with it, but your mother can be very...persuasive, and he eventually caved.You weren't my first little girl, and definitely not my last, but you were my favorite," he says, grinning, making me feel sick to my stomach.
"You're fucked," I spit, shaking my head, not knowing if I can stomach anymore of what he has to say.But he continues, and of course, I let him.
"Your mother realized that she could come out on top if she catered to what the community wanted, and when she found out so many men had secrets involving children and twisted fantasies, she knew that with you, she had her meal ticket.It was all about money, Calista, all about the thrill of being on top, being sought after; even if it wasn't her they were wanting, it was you.It was always you, Calista.And we were all promised you if we stepped aside so your father could climb the ranks in the political world, but she fucking played us all."
Those words strike harder than I expect, the raw, cold truth unfolding before me.I had always known, deep down, that I was nothing more than a pawn in their sordid game—their favorite puppet—but hearing it vocalized sends a fresh wave of anger coursing through me.
"So, what?You think I'm here to listen to you justify your fucking actions?"I spit, tightening my grip on the knife, but he holds up a hand, the cigarette still clinging to his fingers.
"Not justify," he says."Understand.There’s a difference."He breathes in deep, sucking the smoke from the cigarette before blowing it out lazily."In this world, sentimentality is a weakness.I found my strength in detachment.In learning to do what was necessary rather than what was right.Ah, but you’ll learn in time—if they let you live long enough."
"You really are a piece of fucking work," I mutter, baffled."You think you’re so fucking clever, Pete, don’t you?"
He shrugs, his casual attitude infuriating me further."I think the clever ones are the survivors.Those are the real winners in this game, like you...at least for now, until they find you and sink their poisoned claws into you again, because they will, Calista.Mark my fucking words."
My heart races, anticipation mingling with rage.I had thought confronting him would clear the demons of my past, but he’s only reconstructing the cage I thought I had broken free from.
“Enough with the philosophical bullshit.You may have thought it was all a game, but it was real to me.You all fuckingdestroyedmy life.”My voice wavers as I say it, but I press on, hands trembling, holding back burning tears.“It wasn’t just a political move for me; it was everything; it was my fucking innocence, my fucking life."
He savors the last of his cigarette before snuffing it out in an ashtray beside him.“You say that as if you were the only one affected.Your mother and father made choices for their own gain, and in that sense, you were just collateral damage, just as I was.”
For a moment, I lose myself in the confusion of his words.There’s no denying that my father had his part in everything—that his ambitions had dragged me into this twisted world.Yet, I refuse to let him shift the blame off his shoulders.
“No.This shit is about you.You and the fucking choices you made.”My voice rises again, sharper than before.“You made those decisions; you made the choice to hurt me.My father may have been a damn coward, but I won’t fucking cower before you.”
A spark of something flashes in his eyes, realization mixed with something darker—perhaps respect.“Fascinating.You think you can tear down the walls I built with your words?I’m impressed.But you need to realize that every layer you strip away won’t change what has been done.”
“Then why are you giving this to me?”I ask, the tension in the air shifting like the tide.“Why confess anything at all?You could easily dismiss me, swallow your pride, and end it with a laugh.You know, take the coward's way out.”
He leans forward, eyes narrowing, shrouding the space between us in a heavy cloak of unspoken truths.“Because, Calista, deep down, I know what you really want.You're not just after revenge; you crave understanding.You want to know why you were chosen to suffer in ways you will never forget.You want answers so that you can reclaim yourself in a world that took so much from you.”
His words strike a chord, and I feel the wall of composure I’ve built for myself begin to crack.“You’re wrong,” I say, but the conviction behind my words feels shallow even to me.
“Yes, the darkness feels sweet when it whispers to you, doesn’t it?”He smiles, not a hint of remorse.“But here’s the kicker, my dear.The longer you dance with me—playing this grim little game—the deeper you sink into the very chaos that holds you captive.You may be here seeking control, but I promise you, it will slip through your fingers before you know it.”
With the knife trembling in my grip, I can feel the distinct weight of his words wrapping around me.The truth feels heavier than the steel in my hand, and I know what he says resonates louder than I care to acknowledge.
I look into his eyes—a storm swelling with the twisted remnants of a past that has defined me thus far—and feel the fog of uncertainty close in.
Then it’s time to cut through that fog.