Khaos

The shower confuses me.

It confuses me so much that I end up struggling for close to five minutes just trying to figure out how to turn the water on. There are so many different dials and nozzles, I feel stupid knowing that Jamie would think I'm stupid for not knowing how to do something so basic. I feel stupid for even being here, for even attempting to believe that luck like this is even possible.

It was luck that Jamie ended up in my alleyway.

It was luck that I heard her scream – although it was such a high-pitched scream, luck had nothing to do with it.

It was luck that I cared.

In the end, she'll realize that I came from the darkness because I am the darkness.

I play around with the dials some more, hating the fact that Jamie is obviously wealthy.

Once I do figure it out – heaven.

It's the only way to describe it.

I haven't had a hot shower in months, and the feel of the hot spray beating against my filthy skin is almost enough to bring me to my knees with gratitude. The water at my feet is murky with dirt and, on a whim, I squirt some purple shower gel into my hands and soap up my entire body.

Purple means...Lavender Bliss, it says on the label.

It obviously belongs to Jamie, this woman who has been confusing me so greatly.

Who lets a stranger – someone like me – into their home? Who offers them such kindness and expects nothing in return?

No one. No one.

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the tile in the shower stall, recalling everything that she's said to me thus far.

Someone out there wants to hurt me.

My eyes snap open.

The first rays of sunlight are streaking through the large window directly opposite the shower stall. When Jamie and I made our way through the front door, I guessed it was almost daybreak.

And now I'm just wondering if she'll change her mind. Come to her senses and realize how insane it is to let me into her home. Realize that shock made her do something so foolish.

Someone out there wants to hurt me.

But something tells me Jamie knows exactly what she wants.

Someone wants to hurt her, and she wants me to...protect her. To be here, in her home. With her.

She doesn't know what she's asked of me.

***

Derision.

It's the first thing I read on her face once I leave the bedroom and find her sitting in the living room, watching the television. One thing I've realized: People are either afraid of me or disgusted by me. Or both. I should be used to it by now - I am. I should expect it - I do. But it rubs me the wrong way that she is looking at me like this. Like I'm dirt on the ground.

I saved her life.

I did something good.

You can't win with people. How could I forget that? How could I think for one second that this could even work?

"You need new clothes," she states, surprising me.

She's not sneering, or mocking me. She's simply stating a fact.

Calling my T-shirt and jeans threadbare would be kind. They're rotten. I know this. I've patched up holes and tears so many times, there's more patching than actual clothing. I'm not stupid, blind, or unaware of this fact.

But I don't need kindness, or charity, or other gestures that make me feel even more insignificant than I already am. Standing there, arms at my side, I shake my head at this woman, Jamie.

No.

"Listen," she says, getting to her feet and placing the cup on the coffee table. She's holding her hands up in surrender, like she wants to calm me down, make sure I don't snap at her, and all that does is further irritate me. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, okay? Your clothing is old. It's falling apart. I can't stand around and look at you like that."

Too fucking bad.

Looking at her looking at me, I realize two things.

One: I'm trying to wordlessly communicate with her.

Two: She's very pretty.

That first thought doesn't bother me so much – I was taught that silence is virtuous, and I've never been much of a talker, anyway – but my second thought annoys me.

There's no reason for me to be appreciative of this woman's looks – any woman's looks – especially when there's nothing I can or want to do about it.

But Jamie is very pretty.

In the diner, when she'd sat across me with a busted lip and her dark hair in disarray, I'd been more concerned about how, perhaps, she should've sought medical attention. Or, at least, gotten the hell away from me.

She's Asian – maybe Korean, Japanese, or Chinese. I wouldn't know. But her features are very distinct: Big, honey-brown eyes, a small nose, and pouty, rosebud lips. All of that in a heart-shaped, porcelain-skinned face.

Like me, she's taken a shower, and her hair is wet, pulled up into a bun. Unlike me, her clothing is crisp and clean – a baggy gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants – and her lip is busted.

Jamie is very pretty.

I'm not blind.

For a time, I was.

So sure that your life was normal, that you even had a life.

It's this thought that propels me away from this woman. No way can I let my darkness touch her.

I turn on my heel and head back to the bedroom, closing the door behind me and locking it. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes turn into even more minutes - and I'm still leaning against the door.

Someone knocks. Of course, it's Jamie.

"Hey, big guy," she says to me through the door, "I didn't mean to offend you. I just... It's not right, for you to have nothing and for me to have so much. Can't I just want to be nice to you?"

My silence should tell her to go away, and yet, she stays.

The truth is that no one really wants to be nice.

They think they have to be. They think they should be.

They want to get to heaven, perhaps, or impress their Bible study group, or even to assuage the guilt they have for having so much when other people have so little.

"Look at me, everyone. I donated ten dollars to the homeless man at the stoplight. Aren't I just the best person?"

"Aw, hell. I just made eye contact with a beggar on the street, and I'm eating something. I'll feel like a dick if I don't do anything. Better give him a couple dollars."

"Hey, people – I spend my weekends at the soup kitchen. I smile at homeless people. I'm so nice."

But I've been to those soup kitchens. I've been in the presence of those very people – those nice people – and I've noticed how they don't smile at me. I've noticed how they look shocked to see me, then afraid of me, then restless to get away from me – in that order. I've noticed how they lie.

Their kindness doesn't extend to me – and should I blame them?

I am what they believe I am: A brainwashed monster.

A sharp pain pierces my chest, and for the longest time, I press a fist against it.

Since I've joined the outside world, I've learned that I'm just as human as everyone else.

I hurt. I hate. I hope.

But I am Khaos, one of the Four Horsemen, and even if my old family has been dispersed, that is all I will ever be.

Jamie doesn't believe that.

And to prove she doesn't, she says: "I'm sorry."

Seconds turn to minutes, minutes turn into even more minutes – until I unlock the door and slowly pull it open.

Jamie is standing out in the hallway, and the second I appear in the doorway, she takes a step back, looking up at me expectantly.

I clear my throat first, this time. "I'm Khaos," I tell her.

I don't miss how she arches a brow. "Seriously?" she wants to know, and I don't know what to say to that.

But then she does something so amazing it makes the pain in my chest vanish completely.

She smiles at me.

"Okay, Khaos," she says, like she's on the verge of laughing. "Are you going to stop being such a big baby and let me take you shopping for some pants that don't look like they were ravaged by moths and then shrunk in the wash?"

"I have no –" I automatically begin, starting to lose my patience with her.

"No money?" Jamie rolls her eyes at me. "Yeah. I got that the first hundred times. God, big guy, has anyone ever told you that you sound like a bad song on repeat? And this is only day one."

That brings an important question to mind. "How many days do you want me for?" I ask – and the skin of her cheeks instantly flames a deep red.

I don't know why. It's a valid question.

How long do I have to pretend?

She instantly averts her eyes. "We'll talk about that later."

"Later," I echo.

Later doesn't come.

Dear Reader,

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