HIM .. Joe Goldberg

CLYDE

"A CULT." You say slowly, testing the word on your mouth and wincing at the taste. "You were trapped in a cult?"

My head is resting on your shoulder. We're sitting in the lobby of the apartment complex, gazing at police as they swarm the area and walk in and out. A few of my neighbors were there, watching the commotion or talking to police to get an idea of what happened. One of my neighbors that I share a wall with talks to a cop for such a long time, I can't help but listen in on the conversation.

"I knew there was something off," the older woman said sadly as she crossed her arms over her wide chest. Linda, or Miranda, or something with a -da at the end. A widow in her late sixties with grown children and two ugly Havanese that bark whenever I walk too loudly through the hall, her grey hair is tied into a tiny bun on her head and her nightgown makes her wide figure seem lumpy. We spoke when I first moved in, she gave me banana bread, and then we never interacted again beside a polite smile when we pass each other in the building. She's glancing at me like we're good friends now, the worried maternal look that I never would've expected otherwise. "That man has always came into the building and gave me the creeps, now I know why."

Charlie Sams, New York's own Charles Manson I've heard him dubbed, has been found dead in apartment 3B of Willow Heights. Wanted for the murder of three girls, Lacy Marx, Brianna Gilbert, and Hannah Sams, along with the kidnapping of ten plus girls.

Including myself.

You didn't think the Rabbits plotted an escape route just in case things ever went sour between Charlie, Joe? Surely you can believe that we're more clever than that. 

"He found me when I was a teenager," I sigh in his ear. "I was impressionable, ran away from home, and," I shrug, "was never allowed to leave after."

"Well, yeah. Isn't that the thing about cults?"

I pinch your thigh as you laugh. Only you, Joe Goldberg, could make a joke in the light of two murders. This is why we work so well together.

You continue, "So, Hannah. He was the one who kidnapped her, the reason why she was missing?"

Why the fuck are you still on Hannah, Joe? Hannah is fucking dead, why are you still asking about her?

I try to suppress my irritation. "She was the one who introduced me to Charlie." How does that sound? Huh, Joe? Your fucking obsession got me to join a goddamn cult. Not so prefect now, hmm? I say, because I know you're fucking thinking about her, "I went into the bedroom because Charlie said she was there, but he had already killed her."

"Wow. Why did he...?"

Why do you care? I look up at you. "What? Kill her?"

You look away from me and bite the inside of your cheek and dammit Joe, dammit all to Hell, I'm going to punch you in the balls I swear to God. "I don't know, Joe. He was psycho, high on crank and a drunk. He did a lot of things that I couldn't understand."

It feels so weird to talk down on Charlie, like I still have to glance over my shoulder lest his bloody corpse attacks me from behind. His power still lingers within me, and I hear his voice as I speak.

Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch. I'm not a drug addict or a lush, and you understood why I do the things I did just fine. You've done even worse, you batshit crazy whore. You're a killer.

I'm not a killer.

Killer.

I press my fingers into your waist and close my eyes. With your arm over my shoulder, you begin stroking my hair.

"It's okay now, Brit. I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

"It's fine, Joe. It is. I just want this night to be over."

And after a plethora of questions, a trip to the hospital and then to the police station, I finally get my wish. In fact, half of the next day is over when we reach your apartment and stumble in, exhausted to the point of bloodshot eyes and a slouch. You grab my torso as you crash onto the couch, holding me on your chest and stroking my hair behind my ears.

I cuddle under your chin and breathe your scent, moaning in comfort. "I'm so glad to be laying down again."

"You and me both," you settle into a gentle smile. "I could stay here forever."

"Mmm, let's do it." I snuggle myself closer into you. If I could slip into your skin and mold myself into you, Joe, I would.

This isn't you, Brit.

Charlie's voice leaves me frightened and cold. You don't notice the way I shift slightly, switching on your boxy television and flipping through channels. My muscles tense, his words were so close that I could feel his warm breath tickle the back of my neck.

I have to will myself not to hiss anything in reply. It isn't real, and you don't need to be introduce to my internal drama.

Charlie speaks again, And you know it, you fucking know it! You think you can be a wife, Brit? Think you can be some normal broad and cook your dildo husband dinner each night? Give him a martini after work? You're more delusional than you give yourself credit for, Brit. You're a killer.

Shut up.

Killer.

"No!"

You jump slightly and I'm immediately humiliated. You adjust yourself so you can look down at me and rise an eyebrow. "What?" You cock a smile, but it doesn't quiet ease the sudden concern in your eyes.

I look at the TV and point at it. "Fox News. Absolutely not. No."

You notice the TV screen and laugh before changing the channel. "Oh, fuck no. I hate Fox."

Of course you hate Fox, Joe, just as Charlie loved it, because you're not Charlie. You're Joe Goldberg, book clerk, intelligent, and the love of my life. Nothing about Charlie can apply to you because the two of you are completely different personalities, completely different universes.

You love me, Joe. You see me. Charlie never saw me the way you do.

Or maybe I'm the only person who can see you and your twisted truth.

I close my eyes and try to fall asleep.