The Kill Clause

by Lisa Unger

I like to think that Santa and I have a lot in common. First, there’s the breaking and entering. At this, we both have special skills, honed over time.

The other thing Santa and I have in common is a list. I know if you’ve been naughty or nice. In my case, if you’ve been very naughty and managed to anger the wrong people, I may be coming to see you in the night. I know when you are sleeping. I know when you’re awake.

The arrogance of that amuses me. That a person could feel so safe in the world that he has no compunction about dulling all his senses to sleep. That he could make himself so vulnerable, so defenseless for eight straight hours. That, more than anything else he has, communicates his extreme privilege.

That was the first thing I noticed about him—that flat, dead, entitled expression some men have. Like the world owes them. Like they can speak but don’t have to listen. Like they can take but only give when it serves them. Like other people exist to fulfill their needs and for no other reason. I heard him refer to his staff as NPCs, non-player characters, like in a video game. Just set dressing. He was joking. But he wasn’t. Do I sound angry? I’m not. I’m just fed up. Aren’t you?

She doesn’t remember, but she’s already learned to be polite, not to offend. They teach us young to please, not to hurt feelings.

“I’m not depressed,” I assured her. “Let’s just call it death curious.” Depressed implies that at some point you were happy, that there’s an alternate state of being to which you aspire.

You’re special, kid. You have a spark. Don’t let them snuff it out. That’s what Maxine would say when I’d take refuge at the gym after whatever drama had unfolded at school or at the group home where I finally wound up. She saved me from what I was about to become—on the pole, or addicted, or dead, like so many lost girls.

There’s so little comfort in this life; I’m a proponent of taking it where you can get it.

But maybe that’s how you feel when you’re a rescue. Anything that’s not harm looks like love.

Obviously, we were doomed from the start. The very foundation of our relationship was a sinkhole of lies, deception, and murder. Like, literal murder.

Maybe that’s what she means when she says she feels like my heart isn’t in it anymore. Maybe that’s just what people say when you stop buying whatever they happen to be selling.

In abuse situations, eventually you will run up against a hard place. You can’t continue under conditions that harm you. So you have to find a way out, no matter the consequences.

The world is full of parents who have no desire to parent.

Sometimes you have to hurt yourself to help someone else.

That’s the condition of childhood. We’re at the mercy of our parents’ choices.

But I cry now, for the child I was, for Apple. Because Julian and I are both probably going to be dead before morning. Because I’ve loved him since that first Vegas kiss and I never let myself really feel it—or anything.

For all his flaws, he’s the only person other than my mother whom I ever really loved, the way you love someone because of all their flaws and broken places, not in spite of them.

My enemy instead of my savior; maybe she’s always been that, and I was just too damaged and naive to know it.

Then Julian leans over and kisses me. Somehow it feels different, now that we’re free. Like it’s a choice we’re making, not a thing we’re stealing.