Chapter 37

Can't you just say sorry? The question they ask again and again like a broken machine. Or the audio they play at fares. When you sit by one of the rides for so long that the recorded voice is familiar to you like your shadow.

They ask it again. And again. And again. I wish it would stop. But not really. Talking helps to not think of him. Only a little. But it's more than what I can ask for.

For now, I can only pretend that I don't feel guilt for what I've done. I've never felt it before. But I want it to stop. Almost as if a chain were around my neck and dangling into my hollow chest, it holds me down. Not nicely.

I want it to stop.

Sitting at the mall's food court, I look at the table blankly. Pike sits with me as the other three go and buy whatever. He tries to make conversation, but I'm too short to keep it alive. But that's natural. I'm a killer. Harboring life isn't in my nature. Mentally or physically.

"How is art?" asks Pike. I look up from staring at the table and lo