When we get to Oak Lawn, I direct the taxi to my parents’ house. They’re not expecting me, but that’s for the best. It makes the whole thing look more authentic, less like a setup.

The driver helps me unload a small suitcase I packed for the occasion, and I pay him, tipping him an extra twenty bucks for my earlier rudeness. He drives off, and I wheel my suitcase to the door of my childhood home.

Stopping in front of the familiar brown door, I ring the doorbell. I know my parents are home because I see the lights in the living room. It takes them a couple of minutes to get to the door—a couple of minutes that feel like an hour in my exhausted state.

My mom opens the door, and her jaw goes slack with astonishment as she sees me standing there, my hand resting on the handle of the suitcase.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, my voice shaking. “Can I come in?”

25

Julian

At first, there is only darkness and pain. Pain that tears at me. Pain that shreds me from within. The darkness is easier. There is no pain in that, only oblivion. Still, I hate the nothingness that consumes me when I’m in that dark void. Hate the blankness of non-existence. As time passes, I come to crave the pain because it’s the opposite of that blankness—because feeling something is better than feeling nothing.

Gradually, the dark void recedes, lessens its hold on me. Now, alongside the pain, there are memories. Some good, some bad—they come at me in waves. My mother’s gentle smile as she reads me a bedtime story. My father’s hard voice and harder fists. Running through the jungle after a colorful butterfly, as happy and carefree as only a child can be. Killing my first man in that jungle. Playing with my cat Lola, then fishing and laughing with a bright-eyed, twelve-year-old girl… with Maria.

Maria’s body broken and violated, her light and innocence forever destroyed.

Blood on my hands, the satisfaction of hearing her murderers’ screams. Eating sushi in the best restaurant in Tokyo. Flies buzzing over my mother’s corpse. The thrill of closing my first deal, the lure of money pouring in. More death and violence. Death I cause, death I revel in.

And then there is her.

My Nora. The girl I stole because she reminded me of Maria.

The girl who is now my reason for existing.

I hold the image of her in my mind, letting all the other memories fade into the background. She’s all I want to think about, all I want to focus on. She makes the hurt go away, makes the darkness disappear. I may have brought her suffering, but she’s brought me the only happiness I’ve known since my early years.

As time crawls by, I become aware of other things. Besides the pain, there are sounds and sensations. I hear voices and feel a cold breeze on my face. My left shoulder burns, my broken arm throbs, and I’m dying of thirst. Still, I seem to be alive.