Ego's Trap | ✔

45 | Connecting the Dots

☆☆☆ Chapter 45 ☆☆☆

Connecting the Dots

*Jade's Point of View (POV)*

There's no way that I'm overthinking things right now— it just makes sense. It all does, it's as clear as day. If I'm Roger's connection to the Reaper, everything would perfectly make sense. Sure, under the code and Oath, we're supposed to have something on our bodies to remind us of our place in the underworld, but Roger was an exceptionally talented trainee and hitman. He was the three-second fiend, the Reaper, the pride and joy of the most messed-up and criminally insane. Aside from that, he was pulled down to that world under special circumstances; as my breathing leverage to not be killed off for being a failure, by my own two hands. Hell may have bent the identity rule for him. Any rule, even, and because of that, I could have easily become his connection to what he hates most about himself, so of course he would want to keep me alive as his precautionary measure; alive and healthy with no risk of dying. Of course he would do anything within his power to have me not just retire from Blossom's line of work, but completely rewire my mindset into what it once was as well, so that I'm far from danger. So that his connection never dies.

Even if he may understand why I brought him down to hell, I'm still the embodiment of his pain.

"The buzz cut looks good on you, Jade. I'm not kidding. It's surprisingly fitting."

As I peered at the shrinking pastel green home I had just left out of, I mumbled a quick "thanks" into the palm of my hand. My elbow rested on the small bit of leather against the window of the front passenger seat. It didn't feel comfortable. Neither did the seat itself, nor the cool air hitting me on the chest from the small louver. Nothing felt comfortable, really.

Roger sneaked a glance at me as he turned the wheel to the right. His home was out of sight by then. "What, what's with the moping, then? It's fine, you can be honest. I won't take it to heart. Even if I feel that I did a decent job with you, I know I'm not the best out there for that stuff. I don't know how anymore, but years back, when I wanted to be a barber— I think it was in my last year of middle school, I gave Daniel a couple of bald spots, so... "

I'm the source of his pain. I'm his living, breathing burden.

"I like it, Roger. I really do, it feels light on my head, so thanks. I mean it."

"So, as I thought. It's not about the haircut," he sighed. "You've been off for a long while now, and it's not about the beer you tried sneaking into the bathroom, either. Tell me what's on your mind— and before you start complaining about the beer again, you're a bad drunk, and kids shouldn't drink in the first place."

He doesn't need to be nice to me. He shouldn't be nice to me. I don't deserve it. All he needs is to keep me alive, right? So why does he not hate me? If I'm right here to remind him of his pain, of his bloodstained hands, why can't he bring himself to hate me? Why, just why the hell can he not bring himself to hate me, if every single day that he lives I'm right here burdening him with my very presence— because he empathizes with me; because he understands? Understanding where I'm coming from can't be an excuse for lack of hate for fuck's sake, it just can't. Is it that he's just another Teresa, or is it that he does in fact hate me, but remains friendly to keep me around for his own sake?

"Nothing, nothing's on my mind," I mumbled once again into the palm of my hand, still looking out the window. The sky was still kind of bright, even though it was well over seven o'clock. Homes of all shapes and sizes passed by us at a steady pace, with the bright rays of the sun hitting me right in the eyes every now and then. "I'm seriously alright."

"No you're not, and you're not even trying to hide it," Roger scoffed. The slight reflection of his figure from the window told me he was not having it: he had a firm grip on the wheel. Considering that Roger is Roger, he may have spoon-fed me that sign. "You can trust me, Jade. I'm here to help. You should know that by now," he pressed. When nothing came out of me after a couple of seconds, he shook his head. "If... if it's something that has to do with me, I swear to you, I'm not against you for any reason. You should know that by now."

Bingo for Roger— he knows, or has some idea. He should know then, that if I really am his connection to the Reaper, I am the embodiment of his pain. That I'm the source of his pain. That I'm his living, breathing burden. That I'm a monster, far more of a monster than he is, because I created the Reaper to save my own skin. That it's a fact. He should hate me, blame me for everything he's been through. He must. There's no way, no possible way, that he doesn't. Even Teresa, who's her own type of person and is trying to forgive me; a despicable scumbag, has been clear to me about the blaming. Hell, she came over for a visit yesterday to break it down for me.

I heard myself mutter a short, simple word, but sharp and straight to the point: Why? As soon as I finally turned to face him, he followed, but something— I don't know what— felt off about it. "Why don't you hate me, Roger?"

A gasp escaped out of him at that. One that felt like a scream forced into becoming a whisper.

There was a sudden glimmer in his eyes, a sudden spark in them, of the most erratic kind. One I had never seen before, one that stabbed me right in the gut with an inexplicable type of fear. His eyes were looking right through me, ready to throw themselves off their sockets. Something told me it wasn't about me, and yet, it felt horribly personal.

The wheel under his mercy groaned in a language I couldn't understand, along with the break. The both of us were forced forward, and immediately after, pulled backwards by our belts. The car, as fast as it had acted out, came to a stop, trapping my words and any form of movement deep in my lungs. Then, as if unaffected, Roger bolted out of the car and crossed the road with a single objective in his mind: to reach the sidewalk. Or so I thought.

At first, I was more than convinced that he was out of his mind, that something within his sanity cracked, but once I let my lungs breathe and give me back some control, I understood that that was not the case. Far from it. It was a little funny, even, how quickly my mind understood what had happened once I spotted someone passed out on a lawn two houses down.

Roger had seen someone we knew, someone we cared for, disheveled and motionless.