𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XIX

         Janes pov
I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it
                                      Right?

I am a victim to the illusion of truth. Don't underestimate the power of repetition, because I have a theory; when you're told you did something so often by so many people, you start to believe it, too. Where were you the night of Dante Luciano's death? I know exactly where I was, and yet, I doubt my own memory.  A fatal flaw of mine.

My existence itself is against the law. Every breath I take goes against the system in some way. Your existence is an abomination, Jane. Dr. Martinez had said, but she was right about this. They'd kill me in the name of justice for something I can't control, and everyone would justify it because by default I'm the bad guy. The villain is always the hero in her own story, a voice tells me. But I didn't do anything wrong. I think.

The cell door opens, and a man in uniform holds it for me. "Jane Ivers? You're called up for an interrogation."  For a crime I didn't commit, but unfortunately know a lot of.

I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it I didnt do it And yet, as I'm following the man in uniform, that voice in my head replies with, Are you sure? I hate this question. Because not only does it sound like my therapist, but also because no. No, I'm not so sure.

       Henrys pov
Supposedly, when Xander had told me the news about what happened to Jane, I had torn the first person I could find to pieces with my bare hands. Supposedly.

Supposedly, because, I don't remember a thing. The only evidence is the pieces of body parts Xander had to clean, and the blood stain on my Prada button up. Turns out, the devil does wear Prada.

I try to calm my breathing, taking another pill my doctor had prescribed me. I thought you said you'd quit? She had asked me. I tried. I really tried to quit depending on alcohol and nicotine ever since I was forced to sober up in the psych ward—but turns out, I'm just not strong enough to go through life without it. I have to be drunk to numb the frightening feeling of, well, feeling. I've never relapsed before, considering I haven't been without at least a bottle since the fifth grade. I've started depending on it at a young age, and I can't imagine life without the comfort of rum and whiskey.

After all, being the villain was all I really ever knew, and for the first time, I felt gratitude for the role I was born to play. I felt the worn-out morals I had been trying to hold up with sticks and glue fall, felt the illusion of mercy self dissolve and the borrowed, used skin of humanity come apart, and with it, my resistance.

I want so badly to be someone else. To be better for her, to be the type of man she reads about in her books. But if anything happens to her, what good is being good? What good is fighting the role I'd gladly play to ensure her safety? She is, and always will be, a better person than I ever can be.

Jane Ivers, I will become the villain for you. Not to you. I'm going to burn down the world for you and hope it's enough. I might be sick, twisted, and wrong but I could use my knowledge of murder, the only thing I ever really excelled at, and use it to my advantage. This time, I have no excuse for my actions.

        Janes pov
Headache. Nausea. Migraine. Heavy eyelids.
These are the symptoms I get, a small warning, before the blood starts to make its way out of my eyes as if they are tears.

This time is different from the others because it's been so long since I've had to deal with this on my own. Henry is always there, always wiping the blood off my skin, always making sure my temperature is normal again and that my Chanel shoes don't get dirty in the process. I realize that Henry Elliot Vitiello is a constant, reliable thing. He is my only landline to reality, the only one that reassures me what's real and what's in my head. And I miss him.