I can't believe what my life has turned into.

It's not exactly like I've had a swell time since birth. A mishap here, a mistake there, an unlucky incident here. But things were always manageable. A rejected love confession? Easy, find a different crush. A shitty job? Easy, quit. There was always some sort of solution, a way to mend the situation back together.

But this is something far beyond my control.

Colt Bradshaw is a murderer.

Who knows how many more he's killed and for how long? To think a person that charming and beloved by many was capable of such obscenity. But then again, I suppose that's the rule. When it comes to the art of murder, the more charismatic the less suspicions.

Why does he do it? How does he do it? Surely, the sight must be nightmare inducing. Or perhaps his mind is wired in such a way that he feels no disgust. Perhaps he enjoys the sight. Perhaps he derives some repulsive level of gratification from the act. How can anyone be so shrewd?

And he wants me to be a witness to that sick twisted world of his. He wants to rope me into his madness, so when his downfall finally arrives he won't be alone. But why me? Why me out of everyone on campus? Why did I have to walk in on his murder scene? Why did I have to take that stupid shortcut behind the shop?

Why did I have to be born?

This all just sucks. Right when I think things aren't so suckish, right when I'm about to finish up my degree, I just have to be reminded that I lucked out on life's stinky lottery, don't I?

The space in my bedroom feels smaller than usual. I say bedroom, but it's a space reserved in the apartment unit for my matress. The studio isn't so bad when you compare the price to the rest of the apartments around. At least I have a bathroom to myself. Some tenants are not so lucky.

Funny I should mention luck, because someone begins knocking on my door. And by the obnoxious sound of it, I know exactly who it is.

"You're still living in this dump?"

The sound of her voice only compares to nails on a chalkboard. Even more so displeasing is the way she strolls around my apartment, with entitlement and nothing less. I haven't seen or spoken to her since the semester started two weeks ago. She's lost a bit of weight.

My mother seems to age rapidly these days. Much more frail and fragile. It's the effect of the nicotine she used to poison herself with. I take a look at her face, particularly her hair. You can hardly tell the brown where the gray now is, or the white in her eyes where the red has taken over. She never did listen to me about quitting until her doctor intervened. After all, I'm the useless daughter who drove her darling boyfriend away.

"What do you want?" I ask, already exhausted from the conversation to come.

She goes straight to the point. "Where's the money?"

Of course. The usual. I go into my handbag for the exact amount she's looking for - eighty-six dollars - and hand it over.

She wastes no time counting through the bills. But apparently, it still isn't enough. "Que, eso es todo? Where's the rest?"

"It's eighty-six dollars even. That's all the doctor needs."

My mother scoffs, even going as far as rolling her eyes. "I was going to say you can't afford to be greedy, but," she takes a look around. "I guess you can."

My jaw ticks with something bordering on repulsion. Must she always throw out those snarky remarks? I try biting my lips back, but it slips through anyway. "I'm really starting to wonder why my father left. Are you sure it's because of me? Or maybe it's because you're a negligent failure who cares more about getting high than—"

Her hand meets my jaw before I can finish the sentence. It stings, the pain. But it comes nowhere close to the affliction buried deep inside me. I've always thought about giving her a taste, even just a smidgen. Why haven't I?

The look my mother gives me is nothing new. Resentment. Bitterness. Hatred. "You ruined everything. I'm like this because of you. If it wasn't for you, he'd still be here. If you hadn't been born—" She goes into a coughing fit that ends up lasting minutes. And when she finally regains her composure, she looks me straight in the eye and hammers the last nail into the coffin. "I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance."

These are all things I already know; it's not like she makes an effort to hide it. But each time she tells me, there's a bandage somewhere in my heart that rips open. I'm not sure why it still stings, I should be used to it by now. But I guess there are some wounds that just don't heal.

"You have the money," I point towards the door. "Please leave."

She doesn't think twice. She mouths some profanities in Spanish and dashes out the door, slamming it so hard it rattles the frame for seconds.

I want something of my own to slam, throw, hit. But I can't find anything that won't require cash to replace. So instead, I plop down on my couch and bury my head between my arms.

If I hadn't been born? Well, that makes two of us. She speaks like I want to be here. She speaks like it's my fault her damned boyfriend didn't want a child, like it's my fault he abandoned us. Let her live with that regret. Let it keep her as bitter as I am. It's the least she can do.

And yet here I am sponsoring her treatment. Even after all the berating, I've somehow been stuck with her medication tab. I like to pretend that I don't know why I condone the insults, but the reason is quite clear.

She's my mother. She raised me, and I hate that I'm still clinging on to that fact.

___

The following day, Jenny and I hang around the student lounge. We're on the second floor cooped up in the back by the window, taking in the scenic view below. The scenic view in question: puddles of dirty water and caked dirt scrubbed off to the pavement. It rained pretty hard last night.

But whereas I have profound interest in the wells of rainwater, Jenny has herself lost in the middle of a texting war. Must be option number two.

I'm not sure if I should interrupt. It seems quite heated, their argument. I have to wait until she sets her phone down before I can get a word in. "My mom stopped by yesterday."

Jenny sits up in her seat, face caked with newfound concern. "Oh, my God, are you okay?"

I nod, convinced I am. But I know there's some part of me that isn't.

"I don't understand why you still keep her around." Jenny continues. "She's a piece of shit, no offense."

No offense taken. "Sometimes, it feels like I'm stuck. She's trying to recover from her addiction. I just don't know if-"

Jenny's phone pings again, and on the top of her screen, a notification flashes. Another text message. She attends to it in the blink of an eye.

I bite my tongue while Jenny responds to whatever drama she has going on. I wonder if she heard a thing I said.

"He wants me to meet him up at the Jove diner. For an apology, I hope." she says, half annoyed and yet excited. Then she pauses and looks at me with some scraps of remorse. "See you later?"

I give her a smile. "See you later."

The smile fades as soon as she takes off. What else do I do? There's this awful taste that's turned my mouth bitter since yesterday. It's clawed my throat and poisoned my tongue. It won't go away. I at least wish I knew how to make it go away.

But I suppose that's how hopelessness works. It drags you down and buries you deep within your own misery, forever awaiting some form of help that just won't come.

To make matters beyond worse, I get a visit from the one person I don't want to see. Colt Bradshaw. He takes Jenny's place across the table with nothing to welcome me with. No smile or greeting. Just the same look of apathy.

Why has he made it his mission to torture me?

"What do you want?" I ask, trying to keep my heart from going into overdrive. I'm not doing a very good job.

Colt just keeps sipping from his cup of fruit smoothie. Nothing more.

With silence as his only response, I decide to bring up the question that has kept me on edge ever since that night in the woods. "How do you know where I live?"

He looks like he's searching for a way to tell me, cocking his head and dawdling. I never knew murderers cared that much about other people's feelings.

"Do you know what makes a perfect victim?" Colt asks, and only when I shake my head does he continue. "Their circumstances. You can't just snag a target at random, you have to make sure no one will come looking for them. Those who have close to no family or friends or social life. Those who have no one to fight for them."

Hold on. That sounds an awful lot like me . . .

"I picked you out the very first day of class. I don't know if you know this, but you give off a vibe that says 'I'm a loser'. And I was right. So I looked into you; your family history, your place of residence, your routine, everything. And then I set a date for the murder."

Oh, my God. I never stood a chance against life, did I?

The school year started with a target already pinned to my back. How can I get up when the universe insists on keeping me knocked down?

I can't move much at all now - not out of fear, but shock. "Then why haven't you killed me?"

Colt leans back against his seat, smoothie in hand and eyes out the window. "I felt bad in some way. Nobody would miss you if you were gone. And that's sad."

It sounds like a joke, so I give him the chance to laugh. But he doesn't. He means it.

No way . . . Am I getting pity from a murderer?

This is just great, isn't it? A life so shitty that even a murderer finds pitiful. This is gold. He felt bad, and so he decided to keep me around as a witness. At this point, I'm not sure which choice is better. Death, or this pathetic excuse for a life.

Colt must have seen the desolation on my face, because he asks, "What's the problem? I thought you wished you were dead."

"Not like this!" I argue. "I was supposed to get hit by a bus or something. Accidental. Not bludgeoned to death!"

He shrugs. "We can still have that happen. I'll be behind the bus."

It won't be the same. I don't want to know when my death will be, I want it to just happen. And certainly not by the hands of this man, this devil.

But then it suddenly hits me, the kind of situation I'm currently in. A murderer. I'm talking to a murderer. There's a murderer right in front of me. Doesn't the responsibility lie within me to alert the police? To prevent him from causing more harm? I can't just be a bystander. I have to do something.

Colt somehow sees right through me. "You can go to the authorities if you want, but you're more or less an accomplice now. And I have your fingerprints."

". . . my what?"

"Fingerprints. From the shovel. For insurance."

Maybe it's time I start begging God for forgiveness.

There's just nothing I could have done to warrant all this. It has to be something I did in my past life.

This could be considered a hostage situation, couldn't it? What if he starts soliciting favors from me under duress? What if he turns me into his henchmen? Worse, what if he coerces me into murder?

I truly am doomed.

Luckily, I'm saved from entertaining this devil any further. Looks to be some of his friends. Whether they're from the football team, I don't know - but Colt gives them all a smile once he sees them, masking that cold stare he had earlier. It's almost eerie seeing him flip his switch on.

They enter some barrage of greetings, and that's when the Colt Bradshaw I'm used to seeing around campus appears. All cheery and chirpy and bright. He even cracks jokes.

Who is this in front of me?

Soon, they're on their way down the student lounge, away from my own world of misfortune, while I struggle to grasp a brand new ill-fated reality with Colt Bradshaw in it.