Close to the Enemy

"You're Kleo," Anya Brown casually said one day, her head peeking above our fence.

I was in our backyard that afternoon, killing ants with my abominable magnifier. I like pretending that I could control the sun; hence, the ant-killing. It would seem Anya has that power too. Her honey skin and auburn hair gleaming under the sunlight.

Like a laser pointer, I direct the light to her eyes. She ducks down, not wanting to tolerate the intense light.

"How do you know that name?" I asked. She was sitting down on her feet on the other side of the fence.

I let go of the magnifying glass, the ants in a frenzy under it. I went closer to the fence and looked down on her. Her hazel eyes looked up at me like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Kleo Unsworth. Daughter of the serial killer Lee Unsworth," she mumbled.

"That doesn't answer my question," I sighed.

"You're kinda cute for a––"

"For a what? A serial killer's daughter?"

"For someone in the neighborhood. Everyone in this town is ugly," she said as she shrugged her shoulders. She finally stands up. I can see the light in her eyes. "You see that house across us? Alex with the lazy eye lives there. I think his parents were cousins."

"Are you just here to bother me?"

She starts to jump over the fence. Her feet buffers in hesitation, causing her to almost trip flat on her face. I catch her by the chest and stand her right up again.

Anya and I never talked before. She was just another schoolmate who I happened to see loitering around under the bleachers during lunch breaks. One of those people, I guess— the type who'd hit a blunt in their car and make out with someone they knew from the internet.

People like her intimidated me. Not because she seems to be more on the other side of the social spectrum from me, but because she's undeniably pretty. The kind of pretty that's untouchable like the sun.

"So what's it like?" She took out a packet of gum and offered me one. I shook my head. She throws it in her mouth and chews on it like one of those mean girl cartoon characters. "Having a psycho for a dad?"

"He was a sociopath," I corrected her. "And why should I tell you? I don't owe you anything. You do know that you could ruin my life carrying that info around, right?"

She lolled her head to the side and chewed her gum carelessly. She looked at me like a piece of meat. I felt heat rising up to my cheeks as she placed her gaze at me in a calculating manner.

"Well do you want me to?" she asked. She popped her gum after forming a bubble with it. Her gaze never broke. "Do you want me to ruin you, Kleo?"

I stifled a shiver. I didn't want her to notice how I caught my breath when she said those words. Between the two of us she seemed more like the sociopath's daughter.

"No," I muttered. "I want you to leave me alone."

And leave me alone she did. Not before she scoffed at me though. To which I— as much as I didn't want to admit— found hot.

I still don't know what Anya Brown wanted from me. Our interaction that afternoon left me with so many questions. But not enough to bother me for the rest of the evening. It was taco tuesday. I can't be bothered while it's taco tuesday.

"We should move out again," I told my mom that evening. I take a bite from my soft-shelled taco. "I don't like it here anymore."

That was a lie. Unlike main characters from whatever T.V. show it is with glamorous indie outcasts, I actually like our town. I don't want to move out of it. I'm just shooting my shot if ever Anya was the type of girl who would publicize my relation to a serial killer.

"Honey, you know we can't afford that."

I know. My mom is working two jobs already but we're still barely managing to get by. I want to be glad that she found a boyfriend under our circumstances but her boyfriend is a police officer. They all look alike. Pasty, blond men that take their profile picture inside of a car with aviator shades on. His name is Chad— figures— and there's a reason why he's not married yet in his 30s.

"Why? You can go and get Chad with you," desperate measures. "And I could actually transfer to a good school."

"Not right now, honey," she said as she stacked our empty plates. "We really can't afford it."

I couldn't sleep last night. Whenever I'm nervous I would pick on my dried lips and chew on the skin. I like the way it bleeds. I like the metallic taste of blood and the way my lips smooths out for a while. It goes through another cycle after it dries out again. But I've run out of skin to chew on,m and so I'm left with my thoughts.

If the whole school knows, I'd probably kill myself.

It's not so bad of an idea. Mr. Garett from our philosophy class told us we shouldn't fear death. We didn't feel anything before we came upon existence so there's a guarantee that death is just as peaceful. And if Anya exposes me to the whole school, the only guaranteed peace that I'll get after that would be in death.

My suicide note should include her. Just so I could haunt her, like how she's haunting me right now. I should guilt her even in my grave so she would know better than go around exposing children of serial killers.

It's probably going to take me a week before I break. Sam— the only decent friend I have—wouldn't be able to look at me the same again after that. My circle of friends in the yearbook committee aren't even that solid. They don't even answer me in the group chat, I feel like they've been waiting for a reason to ditch me anyways.

I fell asleep at 5 in the morning.

I dreamt of my dad that night.

"You did this," he kept whispering like a mantra. His hands were red and stuck together with a handcuff. His face was that of a man in hysterics, drowning in flickering red and blue lights. "You ruined everything."

My mom snatches me and locks me in her arms. She was also whispering something in my ears, but they weren't words of comfort.

"Why do you have to look so much like your father?"

I woke up in cold sweat. I turned off the alarm in my phone and went to the bathroom. Once. Twice. Thrice. My face was drying out from the amount of times that I've washed it. Still, my eyes were puffy.

I brushed my jet black hair. I rubbed my hooded eyes, not wanting to see the gray in them. I'm also starting to hate my small perky nose that I got from him.

"I don't know, mom. I don't know why I had to look like him."