I tear my eyes from him and stare up at the ceiling. “I never asked to be born rich. It just happened. I tried to do the best with what I had. I tried to leave the world a better place than I found it. What the hell else do you expect from me?”

  Whiteface shakes his head and stands. Casually, he rubs his cigarette out on my bare arm. I don’t give him the pleasure of hearing me scream. He chuckles and resumes his act. “What I want, Mr. Bachman, is for you to look down. Just once.” He spins the table and pushes it back against the wall. Then he locks the castors and helps me sit up. My legs and arms are still strapped to the table, but I have some range of movement.

  “People like you are the real sinners,” Whiteface says as I try to focus my eyes in the dark. Something moves across the room, but I can’t tell what it is. “You talk like you’re trying to change the world for the better. But everything you do is to get closer to heaven—to feel like you’re some kind of hero—when truly, the stones at the top of the pyramid do the least to keep the structure standing. Your kind knows nothing of sacrifice. You’ve never had to make a hard decision in your life.”

  “That’s not true.” I don’t know why I bother to protest. Nothing I say will convince him.

  “Maybe you think it isn’t, but that’s only because you’ve never known the kind of suffering the people you’re standing on have known. Have you ever, for example, had to choose between food and medicine? Have you ever gone hungry so your children could eat? Have you ever had to choose the life of one loved one over another?”

  I don’t know how to answer him.

  “Exactly,” he says. “But once again, you’re a lucky boy. You have a very clever teacher at your disposal today. Look how easily I broke you down. Now all I have to do is build you back up in the image of a different god, a god you don’t have to look up to see.” He switches on the lights, and I finally realize what’s been writhing on the floor across the room. “Look down, Mr. Bachman,” Whiteface says. “Look down and see your new god.”

  Three people are tied to the far wall in place of Jacob. They all have burlap sacks over their heads, and their hands are bound behind them. I thought I didn’t have any more tears to shed, but I was wrong. I’d accepted my own death. I’d accepted the deaths of Remy and Jacob. But this… Looking down at Grandpa’s white sneakers and Mom’s pink, cashmere sweater, I think I’m going to be sick. Tears gather in my eyes and cascade down my face because I know it’s already over. Everything I ever loved…

  Whiteface confirms my fears by pulling the burlap sacks off the heads of my mom and grandpa. Their mouths are sealed with duct tape, and Mom’s face glistens with tears. Grandpa just looks scared and confused. The third person remains covered, but I can tell she’s a woman with long black hair. From the pocket of his jacket, Whiteface produces a large piece of chalk. It’s the kind of chalk I’ve seen children draw on sidewalks with. He writes one word over the heads of my family in thick, block letters. SACRIFICE. Then he takes out a collapsible pointer, taps the word with it, and begins his disgusting lecture.

  “Sacrifice,” he says. “The first thing people usually forget about sacrifice is it’s always a choice. You can’t sacrifice anything you haven’t chosen to give up. For example, your friends Jakey boy and… What was his name? Reynold? They weren’t sacrifices because you didn’t make a choice. Did the loss of those boys hurt? Sure. Probably. But were they sacrificed by you? Absolutely not.”

  I try to scream at him, but my voice is barely a whisper.

  “I’m going to make the first choice an easy one,” Whiteface says, ignoring my pathetic outburst. “At least, it would be easy for anyone practiced in making sacrifices. I suppose it’ll be a bit more challenging for you.” He raps his pointer over the third person’s head. “Choose between your grandfather and this mystery woman here.”

  The woman shifts and tilts her head back. Her throat is streaked with what looks like running eyeliner. Whoever she is, she doesn’t deserve this either. I close my eyes.

  The blast of a gunshot rings in my ears. Adrenaline crackles like electricity down my arms and legs. My eyes snap open to find Whiteface grinning at me. “That was a warning shot,” he says. “If you won’t choose, I’ll choose for you. The next time I fire, it’ll be into this fine gentleman’s head. He kicks Grandpa’s shoe. “He’ll be dead, and you’ll have learned nothing at all. I should warn you, the longer you take to learn, the more people will have to die for your lessons. So, who should I shoot next?”

  The stranger in the burlap sack tugs at her bonds. I want to comfort her, but I can’t. So, I say the only thing I can think to say. “None of them deserves to die, and I don’t want to cause anyone’s death. I choose myself. Shoot me next.”

  Whiteface rolls his eyes. “Again? You keep trying that move, and I keep telling you it’s a foul. You’re just opting out of everything. Absolving yourself of responsibility doesn’t mean you’re not responsible. Haven’t you learned anything? Even if you do nothing, you’re still part of a system that creates incalculable suffering. You’re like one of those people who complain about the government and then refuses to vote.”

  “I vote,” I mutter, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s too busy lecturing.

  “It doesn’t matter how frequently you martyr yourself, Mr. Bachman. If you refuse to look down, you’re worse than a coward. Now… look down! And choose.”

  He really is going to do it. Maybe this was why he killed my friends, so I’d have no doubt about his intention to follow through. I glance between Mom, Grandpa, and the stranger beside them. Mom shakes her head at me. The movement is so subtle, I doubt Whiteface even notices it. I gulp and say, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.” Then I turn back to the demon with the gun. “Every life is precious. Just because I don’t know someone doesn’t mean she’s any less important than anyone else.”

  Whiteface throws back his head and groans. “Jeeesus. I don’t care about your reasoning. Just tell me your choice!”

  “I won’t choose.”

  He doesn’t hesitate. Before I can draw another breath, he lifts his arm and fires at my grandpa’s head. The moment doesn’t seem real. Mom’s strangled scream is only an echo in my ears. Grandpa is dead, and I’m choking on the sudden truth of it. Whatever memories he still had are gone. However many days I had left to spend with him are gone. The rest of his life was going to be short, but that didn’t make it any less precious. If anything, it made it more precious. I bow my head and feel the constant dripping of my own tears on my stomach.

  “You think you’re helpless,” Whiteface says, “but you’re not. You could have easily stopped that from happening. All you had to do was sacrifice someone else instead. But you didn’t, did you? You let your own grandfather die for the sake of this bitch here.” He points his gun at the woman in the burlap sack. “What a mistake!” He laughs. “You don’t know anything about her, but I do. She’s a psycho piece of shit. She’s killed so many people, and she’s going to kill even more if she survives.”

  I refuse to look up at him. Instead, I slouch and stare at my own abs. To think I used to be proud of them. “You’re a liar,” I say. “She probably never killed anyone.”

  Whiteface lets out a derisive laugh. “My dear boy, there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll kill you when all is said and done. But never mind that. Even if I’m lying, are you really going to let your mother die for this complete stranger?”

  “No,” I mutter.

  “What’s that?” Whiteface cups a hand to his ear. “Can’t hear you. Speak up in class. Just say the words kill that woman, Mr. Whiteface, and I will. Bam-bam, and it’ll be all over. Your mother goes free. You go free with a new and better understanding of how the world works. Step down from your cloud. You’re no angel. You’d do the wrong thing for the right reason just like the rest of us. I know you would. You know you would. You’re a killer, Mr. Bachman. It’s just a matter of pushing past your pesky denial.”

  My head is throbbing. My mother slumps to one side, new tears rolling over the duct tape on her mouth. Her father is dead. Her husband is dead. Now, to save her life, her son must become the kind of man she could never even stand to look at. But that’s not who I am. I know that’s not who I am.

  “Choose!” Whiteface wags his gun in the air. “Come on. Don’t put it off. It’ll only get harder. Make your sacrifice. Who will it be? This monster or your own mother?”

  “She’s a person, not a monster.”

  Whiteface snorts. “Oh, say that after you get to know her a little. I dare you. So, am I safe in assuming you plan to spare her and sacrifice your mother?”

  “No!” I sit up straighter.

  “It’s one or the other,” Whiteface says.

  “It’s not. I won’t choose. You’ve lost. I’m just unteachable, okay? So, stop trying. Please, let them go. Just let them go and do whatever you want to me.”

  “You keep saying that like it’s an option, and I keep telling you it isn’t. Now choose.”

  I grit my teeth. “No. I’m not a murderer.”

  Whiteface tightens his grip on his gun. “That’s not an answer. You don’t get to make the rules of this game. I gave you a choice. Make your sacrifice, or I’ll kill them both.”

  Mom whimpers through the duct tape over her mouth. I can’t stand the sound of it. But every time the girl beside her shifts, I think of Rebecca with her long black hair and warm smile. Whiteface is a liar, if nothing else. Maybe Rebecca isn’t really dead. Maybe she’s right here waiting to hear her fate. She had so many plans, such a love of life. She was always smiling. That’s what I remember most about her. Even when we were slammed, she just kept laughing and joking with the customers. And I know it wasn’t fake. If this woman is Rebecca, how can I kill her? What makes her less important than any of us here? Why do I have the right to decide who lives and who dies?

  The gun goes off, and I look up to see Whiteface standing over my mom. He’s shot her. He’s already shot her. “Why!” I shriek. “Why, why, why, why! You said I could choose! I was going to choose!”

  He shrugs. “You hesitated. Too bad.”

  “Mom!” My voice is hoarse and hollow. Blood pours from my mom’s nose like water from a faucet, coating her pink cashmere. This is a nightmare. It’s only a nightmare. I squeeze my eyes shut and count to three, but when I open them again, the same scene greets me.

  And something in me finally shatters.

  “All you had to do was make one choice,” Whiteface says. The quiet sympathy in his voice disgusts me. Everything he does is a lie. “You couldn’t sacrifice a total stranger, not even to save your own mother. I would have shot anyone to save my mother. That’s real love, isn’t it? Stop crying and listen. Can a man who loves himself above everyone else ever know true loss? The thing is, you did make a choice, whether you want to admit it or not. ‘I’m not a murderer,’ you said. That was the most important thing to you. You wouldn’t give up your perceived righteousness. It wasn’t this woman you refused to sacrifice. You understand that, don’t you? It was you. It was always all about you.”

  I can barely breathe, but I force out the words, “Fuck you.” I sound like a hurt child. I sound weak and useless, and that’s because I am. I’m weak, and I’m useless.

  “Yes, fuck me. Fuck me.” Whiteface bursts out laughing. “That’s all you have to say? Kids these days don’t know how to show gratitude. Well, never mind. You’re welcome, son. You’re welcome for the lesson. I sacrificed myself to your education, and I can see it’s already working. You’re suffering, aren’t you? Suffering is the only way we learn.”

  I scream again, and my scream melts into sobbing.

  “Don’t cry, Mr. Bachman. You should be relieved. The only person you ever really cared about is still intact.” He cackles and shoves his extendable pointer in my face. “You. Well done, boy. Well done. How does it feel to be alone with yourself? Would you still choose yourself over everyone else, given another chance? I wonder.”

  He crosses the room and is about to open the door when something occurs to him. “You know, there are some perks to being a monster. Since I’m doomed to the role, maybe I should embrace it. For example…” He strides over to the girl on the floor and grabs her by the back of the neck. She yelps, but he doesn’t react. “All this violence has given me such a powerful craving for flesh.” He crouches behind her and tilts her head back, breathing in the scent of her. “Delicious,” he murmurs. “What do you think, Mr. Bachman? Should I fuck her?” He laughs and stands. “Oh, what am I even saying? You don’t get a choice anymore.”

  There’s no strength left in me. I feel a void where my soul once was. Life has become repulsive. Just kill me, I think, but I don’t have the energy to say it. He won’t oblige me anyway. He wants me to suffer.

  He pulls out another needle and walks up to me. “I may be a monster, but I’m not an exhibitionist. My girl and I would like a little privacy, if you don’t mind.” He sticks the needle in my neck this time, and the unconsciousness that follows is a relief.

  * * *

  The next time I open my eyes, Whiteface is gone. The bodies of my mom and grandpa are still slumped against the wall, and the black-haired girl has been left in the corner like a rolled-up, used towel. I don’t even know who I am anymore. If someone asked me my name, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell them. All I know is, in my attempts to avoid becoming a monster, I’ve become something even worse—a coward. All this suffering is because of me, because of my weakness.

  “Rebecca,” I say to the girl in the corner. I don’t know that she’s Rebecca, but she may as well be. “Rebecca, I’m so sorry.” I hate the sound of my own voice. I shouldn’t be alive. My family and friends are dead, all because I failed to make a choice. Now this poor girl has been violated and abused. Maybe she wishes she was dead too. Maybe I should have let him kill her.

  No, I’m overthinking. That’s what got me into this mess in the first place. I swear I’ll never hesitate again because now I know what the right answer is. I play it over and over again in my head.

  Who should die first? Whiteface asks, still holding the gun.

  You, I answer. You should die. Kill yourself. And if you won’t, I’ll be happy to do it for you, you weak, piece-of-shit coward. I don’t know whether I’m talking to Whiteface or myself anymore, and I don’t suppose it matters. It’s just an imaginary conversation, anyway.

  * * *

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have. The girl is gone. The word SACRIFICE is still written in chalk over my mom and grandpa’s heads. How comfortable have I become with death that I’m able to sleep in the same room with my family’s corpses? The scent of the room is so putrid, I gag on it more than once. They say hell smells like sulfur, but I’d prefer sulfur to this. No, this is what hell smells like. I know it. It smells like the dead and the dying. It smells like hopelessness. This is the smell of people breaking down. Whiteface left them here so I could watch them rot.

  My father would tell me to love my enemies. He would quote the Bible and insist I forgive those who abused me. My father was dead wrong. And now he’s dead and wrong. I laugh at the thought because he was so fucking lucky to have died when he did. I’ll never forgive the man who calls himself Whiteface. That I know for sure. I want every breath he takes for the rest of his life to be saturated with pain.

  “He thinks he’s already suffered,” I say to the empty room. “He has no idea what suffering is. I’ll teach him, though. I’ll teach him just like he taught me.” I’m sure I sound like a lunatic, and maybe that’s because I am. It’s fine. If a lunatic would have saved Mom, Grandpa, and Rebecca, then that’s what I’d rather be.

  The sound of more gunshots jolts me from my rumination. The concrete room rumbles and the lights flicker out. I tug at my shackles. The ghost of a scent wafts into my nostrils, and I’m suddenly assaulted by sanity. It’s peppermint, and it reminds me that Phoebe is still alive. She’s not here, is she? God, please don’t let her be here too. Surely, Whiteface would have included her in my torture if he had her here. No, she must be safe. I have to make sure she stays that way.

  As if in answer to my unspoken prayer, a shadow begins to work at the straps on my arms. “Who are you?” I say to the stranger. “What is this?”

  A woman with a thick French accent whispers, “I am the girl you saved, monsieur, and now I’m going to save you. Don’t make a sound.”

  As the straps on my wrists loosen, I ask, “Why did he bring you here?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “But I am not sticking around to find out.” Over our heads, someone screams. The girl doesn’t react but keeps unbinding me. “Do you think you can walk?” she asks.

  “I think so.” One of my knees is definitely broken, but I can probably limp on it if I can get past the pain.

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  “You go,” I say. “I have to stay and kill him.”

  Her hand is on my shoulder as she asks, “Why?”

  “He’ll go after my girlfriend next. I can’t let him live. I won’t hesitate again.”

  “Is this Rebecca person your girlfriend?” she asks.

  “No.” I smile at the thought of Phoebe alive, bartending back in Mobile. “It’s someone else. You kind of smell like her, though.”

  “Mm. She must have good taste, your petite amie.” She laughs a little. “Our friend, the beast, thought he broke me, so he didn’t bother to bind me again. But I am impossible to break. Remember that if we meet again, monsieur. Remember that I am impossible to break.”

  More screams and gunshots ring in my ears. The room is nearly pitch black. All I see is a shaft of light from the cracked door. When I’m free, the French woman presses something cold and metallic into my hands. “What’s this?” I whisper.