We all serve something. We've all fallen victim to heartless adoration. Whether it be some kind of god, a nameless entity with a chokehold around your existence—the kind that demands sacrifices, demands pagan ritual offered in its name or expects items in return for their support. There may be some who worship an image and some who prefer an object; people have choices, and people have opinions.  Everyone wants to feel as though they have a purpose. That what they're doing is valid, without wasted efforts. 

        But I am bound to nobody, no god, no goddess, no deity, no object that I set near my bedside lamp and recite verses to in hopes of receiving its blessing. I'm not that type of girl. I'm the self-serving kind who will do anything for the right price. 

        Who am I then? What am I? I'm someone who takes, takes, takes. Who wants what she wants and will get it, even if it comes at the cost of her humanity. I'd stoop—hands on her knees, bent into weird positions, straining and straining eternally—if it meant a dream of mine came to fruition. No isn't an answer; it's a plea to restrain selfish urges, to beat devilish flirting. 

        And that's what I've done. I've taken a life. Taken something that I hate, snatched it away, and played Grim Reaper. There's no end to death, no pity for those who've had the aura drained. Call me inhumane, but there's no reason to cry or mourn. The cries of humanity have reigned throughout the centuries, but what good does it cause? 

        Are we so out of touch with reality that we've devolved into soulless dummies?

        I stare into my palm, at the lines of my hand, at the appendages that did the deed. And then at the scene of the crime, at the couple screaming for help, doing mouth-to-mouth, waving at me to do something. 

        But I stand frozen as my body belongs to someone else.

        "The police are on the way!" A voice screeches, entering one side of my head and exiting the other. "You're not getting away with this!"

        My body faces them—as the neighborhood lights flicker on, and nervous chatter begins. Faces squeeze into the equation, voices line the night, and whatever mayhem the angry thunderstorm wrecked didn't stand a chance against them. 

        "What happened?!" A man with a slender neck and fluffy eyebrows asks, edging by me, with no impression that I began this. He could've ended this pointless ordeal if he'd seen the unfazed admiration stretching my cheeks. 

        Maybe next time, mister Giraffe. 

        I was a murderer, I was a sinner, I was a rotten piece of pork. Any trust I'd gained at all during my life was gone. Even I, the perpetrator, knew that. 

        No longer could I stay here; this was my punishment. It was a banishment, a self-inflicted insolation. To contain my evil meant I had to flee the scene. 

        So I ran and ran. I escaped the shouts and the scampering of feet, the ones that wanted to persecute me. I crossed the backyards of Zander's neighbors I once waved to. 

        My feet went until I reached my house, and the rose bushes met me, and I climbed through the unlocked window. I sucked in my stomach. Even though it was flat, the dimensions for me to contort myself through were tight. 

        Landing on my carpet, I leaped into action; I ripped apart my closet, tossing outfit after outfit into my tan backpack. The contents overflowed, and I realized I didn't need to look glamorous or acceptable; I needed to leave. Leave, I couldn't stress that enough.

        "Shit," I mutter, emptying it. I slam it down, hands trembling; if I were to get caught, my life would be over. I'd live the rest of my days out in a jail cell. Of course, I'd have an unhappy cellmate and an unhappy warden. 

        I flip the backpack over and stare at the open flap. What do I need? What are things that can be left behind? I need my debit card, clothes, and hygiene essentials. Video games, makeup, and my entire beauty set can be left here. If I survive this, if I manage to outsmart the police, I'll return and swipe these. 

        As I roll my sweats and shorts, there's a rustling in the corner, and I see a shape move in my peripheral vision. I stop, take in a breath, and get on my knees. I shuffle to my desk and plug it into the outlet. 

        "Can you save it?" my body language screams my necessity for timeliness. "Apollo, please, don't say anything." I comb back my hair, wishing I didn't dye it so I didn't stand out like a candle. A wavy, silk candle blowing in the wind.  "Please go back to sleep." 

        Heavy, burdensome breathing emerges from the shadows. "I feel the anguish," Apollo yawns, "no need to lie. I'm tethered to you, remember?" He stands sleepily, covering his face as the light overwhelms him. 

        "Yippee," I say, dripping in sarcasm, "just what I need." I throw in another pair of booty shorts, "can you leave me alone."

        "What's wrong?" He asks, groping for the button to turn off the lamp. "Did you break up with Zander? You usually stay all night and return late the next day." 

        I shake my head, "we didn't." I go right back to shoving items into my small backpack. "Thanks for the concern, nothing's wrong." 

        Apollo finds the switch, sending us into near blindness. "Why are you packing?" He jumps at the opportunity to shower me with useless questions, extending my time here dramatically. 

        He's like a rabbit, hopping around me, poking me endlessly. 'Will you do this?' 'What's bothering you?' 'Can I help you?' 'Tell me the problem, and I'll help.' Apollo isn't helpful; he's troublesome, and I want to be left alone, to wallow in my depravity, to simmer in the gastric juices of my murderous intentions. 

        "I'm going to Erika's," Lie, lie, lie. "Is that an issue, Dad?" I leave the word open for interpretation and fold a pair of underwear, shoving it in the crevice between two shirts. It sticks out, but I don't mess with it any further. Turning to Apollo, I shift every ounce of weight and sit flat on the floor, legs in both directions. Toes high in the air, enjoying their nakedness. "Why haven't you said anything?" 

        "Because this isn't like you." 

        "How am I not like myself?" I ask more rhetorically than an actual question. "Tell me, educate me." To enrage him, I turn back on the lamp, casting his face in a yellow glow. Those blue curls are all the more tasty, and his cheekbones all the more present. 

        Apollo shields his eyes, then closes them when he realizes it's futile. No matter what he does, light will pour into his plump, sensitive, overbearing pupils. "You're not okay, something's wrong." 

        I smile so diligently it hurts me. It's like staring at your reflection in a cracked mirror, "Eh, it's fine, go to bed." I stand wobbly at first, but soon, my strength returns, and I stand confidently. "Talk to you later?" 

        "Not a chance," he gets up, eyes watering as he reopens them, exposed to the deteriorating light. "I'm going with you." 

        When did Apollo become my servant? "No thanks," I grab my car keys, "I'm fine by myself." 

        But that doesn't stop him from grabbing my hand, bringing me onto the bed, or staring into his magnificent eyes. If we're being honest—truthful with ourselves—then the two of us have changed together, more than just a slight readjustment, but an entire overhaul, a redesign, a reawakening. 

        "Violet." He stops, takes my hands, and devours them with his, even if he didn't mean to; it's eye-opening. "What's wrong?"

        It's as if he's trying to get beneath my skin, to scrape away my stubborn personality, and to create someone in his image. "Stop asking." Bad for him, I'm not bending. "I'm fine with a capital F." 

        "You're crappy with a capital C." Apollo grips my hands tighter, and they pop. I keep calm and nod, signaling that he's right. 

        That I'm being a complacent bitch, just for him, to win him over and leave me be. 

        Besides, what's so wrong with sharing your mind with a parasite? It's not like he can read my mind or anything. My arms go limp, and as I navigate toward him, my eyes float all around, taking in all his brilliance. 

        "Apollo, can you keep a secret?" I lean on his chest, and the familiarity of his heartbeat strangles me, forms a knot inside my throat, and makes it difficult to breathe—but to waver now is to admit defeat would mean I'd have to hang my white flag. 

        A Gwendolyn doesn't quit, even in the face of adversity. 

        He makes a low noise with his mouth, a sound that makes my heart stop. "Yeah," his shoulders bulk and I'm suddenly wrapped in his embrace. "I can." 

        "Don't tell your partner, please," I play with my top lip, making it crash with the bottom. "Minerva can't know." 

        Apollo nods nervously, "Gotcha." His tone scares me. He's understanding, but it's lined with guilt—as if he's assuming I've committed a heinous crime. Like he's holding a sign on the side of the road, and I'm about to pass him. He hoists it over his head, biceps flexing, parading his superhuman strength. YOU DON'T HAVE TO FIGHT ALONE, would be the message. It would prompt me to stop on the side of the road, shake his hand, hug him, and welcome him in as my passenger princess.

        Thump, thump, thump—my heart paces itself, bracing for impact, for the gong to drop. "Zander and I..."—my chest tightens, making this impossible—"I pushed him into oncoming traffic."

        Apollo hugs me, cradling me like I'm his. It's uncomfortable and comforting at the same time. 

        "I need to go Apollo." I break away, placing my hand on his chest, his heart pumping vigorously. "I'm sorry." 

        "You're not alone," he parts his blue hair, horns visible, sparkling in all their aerodynamic glory. "I'm coming." 

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         The hotel room's compartmentalized, and that's purposeful, as it wasn't some high-end place. I had to find a lower-rated hotel to decrease getting found. Or, that's what I want to believe. As much as I hate to come out and express it, I'm in a dangerously vulnerable spot. 

        My body wants to destress—which would entice taking a bath—but I'm running out of options, and doing that could compromise everything. 

        "What caused you to kill him?" Apollo asks, laying back on the queen-sized bed. "You didn't seem like the type." His voice is not appalling, granite-infused, or belittling. "I can't even begin to think how you feel..." 

        Same. I don't know what I'm feeling; this emotion, this gagging emotion, confuses me. "Neither do I," I retort plain and direct, "The police can track me, or this," I hold up my iPhone, the thing that's endured years of misconduct. "Can you do the honors?" 

        Apollo scratches his chin, devoid of even the scraggliest of hairs. "Huh?" 

        "Destroy." I plop it in his lap, "I can't risk it." My face turns upward toward the flickering fan light. "And for the love of all things good, can you take care of that?"

        He nods, standing. The iPhone bends, cracks, and shatters, becoming a handful of broken glass and metal. Apollo goes over to the window, unlatches it, and tosses the pieces into the ally below. They pollute the earth, but I couldn't care less. He dusts off his fingers and puts everything back. 

        "Done," he sits, hunching forward like a gnome. "What's our next plan of action?" 

        "The light." 

        "Right, right." His thumb glows, and it's the first I've seen something this spectacular. It hisses like that of a screaming child and fires off into the ceiling, destroying the dying bulb. The light descends on me tenderly, and I try to catch it. 

        The specks drift around, reminding me of the dust particles you see on a bright, sunny day. 

        "Violet?" Apollo touches my hand, "you have no clue what you're doing, right?" 

        I lift my shirt over my shoulders, "80% true." I bunch the socks around my ankles, throwing them on the floor. "Avoiding the authority is plan A." I shake my neck, hair falling over my blue lacy bra. "I'm taking a shower." My eyes catch him, and they linger longer than naturally appropriate. "Make sure no one knocks." 

        Apollo doesn't respond. 

        "You okay?" I say, low, gritty, in charge. 

        No response, not even a turn. 

        I bite my thumb, sucking on the nail. "Apollo?" 

        "Got it." Is all he murmurs, placing his hands over his head. "Enjoy. I'll be here if you need anything." 

        Stepping onto the cold, slightly damp carpet, I consider this. "Thanks," is what I muster up, what escapes my shriveled lips. "And Apollo?" 

        He shifts to face me, the bed squeaking. "What?" 

        "Thanks for not disowning me," my voice holds on to any strength, to a mindset of absolute thankfulness. "You have my gratitude." And, in the cover of modesty, in the small space of the bathroom, I stare into the woman in the reflection: in the grime-covered mirror.

        And looking back, the girl in the mirror frowns, contemplating what her meaning is, what her calling should be. Is she a hero? Is she a saint? Is she the main villain? Is she a witch? Just what is she? She's none because she's nothing. She can't be compared or amount to anything because she takes and takes and takes. 

        The girl in the mirror smiles, but it's not in happiness, but in fear—she's a devil, a scrawny, ego-driven opioid. Something that people can ingest into them, to give themselves to, but I won't make their dreams come true. I won't be there for them on their belated birthday party, wedding day, or first kid. I exist to steal, to kill, to eradicate any and everything that makes me frown. They'll never see these days because they'll be so full of toxins they'll die. 

        I'll benefit because that's what murderers do; we benefit from snuffing the lives of people. 

        "You're who you are because of the things you do, the people you meet, the things you see." I press my face on the cold glass, "I'm who I am because this is who I am." I stretch my cheeks, but that doesn't make me any more appealing. It doesn't make me think I'm worthy of someone's attention. It's the opposite, it's the opposite, I'm the opposite. 

        It only reassures me that I, indeed, hate who I am. 

        I turn my head away, unable to continue staring into the eyes of the woman devil, into the mundane, dull eyes of a killer—of the unchanging pupils of someone who forcibly murdered her future husband. 

        Now I'm alone, all alone. 

        My hand reaches for the knob to turn on the rip-roaring hot water, to coat myself in a new identity. And as I step in, as the water cleanses my sins, I gaze at the faucet head in amusement. 

        Then I burst out laughing until my face was red, my cheeks hurt, and I was moments away from a debilitating migraine. 

        I am a killer! And nothing can change that.