He’d scrubbed the blood and gore away once, twice, a dozen times, but still he felt it. Warm and sticky. A blanket of shame; a cape of pleasure. He’d liked the killing, the violence, the dirty mess of it. No amount of soap and water could wash that away. When he finally gave up, shut off the water, dried and dressed, he felt no better. His reflection was different. His eyes looked hungry now. Desperate and dangerous. He stepped out of the small bathroom to find Gary leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting for him. “Feeling better?” he asked cheerfully. “No.” Gary pushed away from the wall. “But you see what we’re up against, aye? No denying the face of your enemy anymore, is there?” “No.” Yet a part of him did deny it. A part of him felt that despite what he’d seen, despite the blood he couldn’t seem to wash off, despite the fear and the thrill, he’d been . . . duped. The facts had been laid out in black and white, indisputable, but ultimately false.
What do You think about The Five Deaths Of Roxanne Love?
