WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 10 | NO PITY FOR THE WEAK

[WILLIAM]

⑅

I'VE NEVER TAKEN CARE OF SOMEONE BEFORE.

It's not an excuse, but at least it makes me different from the rest of the pricks who've made a woman cry. They did it on purpose, but I did it for a purpose. I had to keep her safe, and I didn't expect her to start weeping at the sight of a dead body—especially one of someone she shouldn't care for.

Then again, she has a bigger heart than mine. I wouldn't go as far to say she had a better heart, but her misplaced grief counted for something. I've never cared for someone before. I didn't know what to do for her.

I snapped that man's neck, and added another tally to my kill count. She just huddled into the corner of the room and began to choke sobs into the crook of her arm. I'd seen her cry before, but this time I didn't ask her to stop. I didn't try to console her. I didn't try to explain any of it to her.

Perhaps I was in my own state of shock too.

I can still remember the feeling of her hand on my shoulder—a cold, prickly sensation that felt entirely unwelcome. No one touches me. To most people, I don't even exist. If she was anyone else, I might have killed her without thinking—and I hated it. The worst part was that I touched her too; I hurt her.

I never thought skin could feel so foreign. For a mere second, I forgot who I was, what I was doing, and where I stood. I could barely see in the dim light, but yet I knew exactly what was going on in her head. We were feeling the same thing:

Afraid.

"Go away," she spat out, a heap of shambles in the corner.

I was still lingering over the dead body, watching it for the slightest twitch. I knew there wouldn't be one, but for some reason, I was overly paranoid. It was taking a lot in me not to cut off his hands, just because I knew they touched her.

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"Go away."

"I can't."

"Please."

"You know it's against my job to—"

"I don't want to hear about your damn job," she spat out. Suddenly she was on her feet, rushing to a stop in front of me with utter hatred in her eyes. "I am sick of you having no compassion or decency, and using your career as the same excuse every time."

She was still crying. "You're in shock, Lovey."

"Of course I bloody am! There is someone dead on the floor, and you killed them!"

"He would have killed you."

She was panicking. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were having trouble staying on mine. They were everywhere; the walls, the ceilings, the floor. I wanted to be nice to her—to stop her from going mad—but I wasn't sure how to go about it.

I only stood there, letting her berate me with colorful insults until she had outcried every tear in her body. Then I kept my silence as she slumped back down in defeat, head in her hands. It worked, the quiet. Although it took nearly forever, she had calmed down to her usual self, and was able to stand on her feet. It was then I realized I had made the right choice.

By staying silent, she could pretend I wasn't there.

If I wasn't there, her life would be normal again.