Wanted

by Lauren Biel

It was a murder scene. I was a murderer.

Glass skittered across the floor as I tried to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Which it was. I had used an unlocked door to gain entry, however, and I needed something a little more obvious.

It wasn't meant to end this way. They were supposed to give up their money and cherished possessions. They weren't supposed to fight.

Shit, the man wasn't even supposed to be there. I watched the home until I thought I knew their schedule. I’m not sure how I got it so wrong. Could have been because of how incredibly fucked up I was.

I was too old for this shit. Who starts meth at thirty-five? Someone who went through a messy divorce. A man who lost everything he ever worked for.

I leaned over and snorted, inhaling the same garbage meth that sent me into a murderous delirium. What could go wrong?

The darkness disoriented me. Tree trunks rose from the earth like pillars, and branches snaked across the gaps between them, as if trying to grab me.

Every time my shirt hung up on one, I panicked, tearing more pieces off like Hansel leaving breadcrumbs back to the crime scene.

Fucking...

I kept going, alternating between panic and confusion, until I saw a modern A-frame house tucked within a clearing. Boxwood shrubs stood below the windows. Trees surrounded the home like a perimet...

I looked back at the depths of the forest behind me. I wasn't sure how long I'd been walking. Being high on that stuff turned the concept of time into a complex math problem. I could...

It was the perfect place to hide out.

If no one was home, I might take a shower or a nap. I couldn’t recall the last time I slept.

But if it turned out there was someone there or if they came home, I'd have to kill them. I'd have no choice. The thought of murdering again made me ill. Or maybe it was the drugs. Both, probably.

I teetered on the tightrope between mania and sanity. My thoughts raced over each other, merging into one length...

People did that all the time—latched the screen door but not the door that kept people like me out of their homes.

Nothing hindered the basic B&E like a damn canine.

Panic set in and rattled my muscles more than the accidental murders had. A whole-body fear that came from knowing I needed the drug—physically needed it—and had no way to replenish my stash. Fuck me.

I was hearing things, which probably wasn't from the meth but from insomnia psychosis, which I guess was from the meth.

My mind wandered. I had a thing for big, curvy women. And redheads. There was something about wrapping my hand in those fiery locks of hair that made me ache.

I knew I was a bad person, but I wasn't half the shitbag back then as I was now.

I had been a goddamn workhorse. And for what? So my wife could fuck the neighbor and run off with him?

I wanted the opposite of everything my life embodied at that moment. I didn't want to be divorced. A drug addict. A murderer. On the lam and in her fucking house.

She just needed to know that I was manic, desperate, and fucking lonely. And I needed goddamn tape!

I drew deep breaths into my lungs, reminding myself that I was a lot of things, but a rapist wasn't one of them.

Well, I was also not a murderer until the devil on my shoulder told me to be one. And he was screaming for her.

Even though I was, in fact, on drugs, I took offense to her accusation.

“Your pupils are blown. And you have nystagmus.” “What the fuck does that mean?” “Your pupils are quivering. Vibrating. Meth? Are you on meth?”

Her analysis did nothing but piss me off. Fuck her. What did she know? Had she ever gone from having it all to living in a bedbug-infested motel?

Did she know what it was like to hurt until drugs were the only escape from the hell burning around her? Doubtful. She was fucking beautiful, ...

“I can help you,” she said. “No one can help me,” I said with a sneer. And it was true.

Soon enough, I'd be hurting. Really fucking hurting. Once the drugs ran out, the devil on my shoulder would start to suffocate, and I’d crash like a motherfucker.

She was so young. I was over a decade older than her. How was I so fucked up and she was so . . . not.

My eyes hardened the more hers rounded with fear. Her chest rubbed against mine.

Fuck her, whispered the devil on my shoulder.

Just thinking about it made me swell with excitement. I fucking wanted that. I wanted her. She was perfect, and if I’d met her anywhe...

Instead, I was fantasizing about taking her against her will every which way I could....

She dug around in a drawer of brightly colored underwear, hesitating before she pivoted her body to reveal a goddamn gun in her hand. She raised it at me with her finger curled around the trigger. The safety was on.

“Rule number one of using a firearm for self-defense . . . know what condition your gun is in,” I scolded her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Don’t apologize for trying to defend yourself,”

“But I will put a bullet through your pretty head if you pull shit like that again. So thanks for this.” I gestured toward her gun behind my back, and her shoulders deflated.

“You don’t look well,” she whispered. Which was real fucking rude, but if I looked anything like I felt, then she was correct.

Her touch was tender as much as it was firm, and I couldn’t help but think she was probably an excellent nurse.

“Why the hell am I helping you?” “Because you took an oath,”

“How long have you been using? Daily?” “This is beginning to feel like an intake form,”

I knew I had to stay awake because I didn’t trust her not to turn on me. I’d sure as fuck turn on me.

I blinked heavily. I was still on one knee in front of her. She was nowhere near the sink, and I was not balls deep inside her. At what point was it not the drugs encouraging such horrible thoughts?

“You were such a bad husband, Cole. I've been fucking the neighbor.”

I was delirious. It was my fourth day without sleep.

I was riding the line of just high enough to stay alive but not enough to feel good.