Jenna

"What did you want to do with your life, Jenna?"

I stared across the gray table into his equally gray eyes, staying perfectly still. They knew how to get inside you, to tear you apart. He'd won. He knew it. I closed my eyes in an attempt to still the tears that would surely come. What had I wanted to do with my life?

"Surely you remember, Jenna," he said quietly in that monotonous voice that, surely, no one could stand. "A vet? What did you want to do when you were small?"
He'd never dreamed of being a lawyer when he was seven. Life corrupted him like it corrupted me. Only he was a liar. He always got what he wanted as a kid. Or maybe he never did.

I opened my eyes, gazing down at my handcuffed hands that lie on the table. All his lies were in the manilla envelopes across the table, the ones he carefully set aside to stare at me with his unforgiving, pity-filled eyes. It was as if I were an animal. Some helpless animal who was about to die for her crimes. Oh, how appropriate.
A little smirk played across my face. I wondered if he could see through my black hair like he could see through the rest of me.

"I always wanted to be an artist," lies were so hard to tell to him; I had found myself incapable of it so many times before. "I just wanted to doodle on paper. I used to, I used to be decent at it. Then I made art out of the people I killed." Hahaha, I couldn't keep myself from chuckling. Other killers would sit and smirk at you. I'd laugh. And then cry. His words hurt more than Daddy's art. Oh, he was the first to burn.

"Just like your father made art out of you?"

I could feel his eyes more than rage at that question. He knew too much. How did he know everything? About Daddy? No one knew about Daddy... I killed him before he could tell them. He was so nice when he took his pills. Why couldn't he always be so nice? Why did he have to use Daddy against me? I loved Daddy.

"Daddy was sick," why did my voice have to crack like that? "He had to burn to make him better." The metal chair was uncomfortable now. Uncomfortable and impossible to move in. I squirmed and flipped my hair out of my face, daring to meet his gaze again. It was no different than before, not his wrinkled face or his gray hair. He was so unchangeable. Why did he have to be that way?

"You're sick too, Jenna," he said, those pale lips hardly opening to let out the song of my nightmare, "so shouldn't you burn too?" His large hand went to one of his envelopes, pulling it closer to him. The pinstripe suit he was wearing didn't even move. Maybe it was made of cardboard.

"Too painful for me," I told him simply, staring at his hands, "Daddy had to burn the pills out of him." His hands were so much like Daddy's. I looked down at my own hands, realizing how similar they looked to Mommy's. I leaned back in my chair, almost nervous. The light was hurting my eyes now, that horrible florescent light. Why didn't it hurt him like it hurt me?

"What you did is wrong," he told me as if I didn't know. "He didn't have to die to become better." I shut my eyes tight again. Yes, yes, he had to die. All the art he made on me, all the art he made me make on others. He put me here with this man. Daddy had to die. He had to burn out his sins.

"He wasn't right for the world," I said quietly, staring at the concrete wall beyond him. "I'm an angel. I pick who lives and dies. Their sins are written on their bodies now. They've been damned by me." I could feel the tension in the air. A moment later, he breathed in, almost like a sigh. I looked at him now, tried to stare through him. I wasn't like him, and that was the way it was supposed to be. I grinned at him, almost chuckling.

"I was his angel and I'm your angel," I thought I saw fear in his eyes before he grabbed his files and walked from the room.
He believed, and that was all I'd ever need.



[ i may actually make this into a story. o:
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