Forgive Me by Kateri Stanley (love letters to the dead txt) 📗

You look at me when he speaks. I don't want to answer, but he's getting nearer to you. I have to try the best I can. For us.

“It felt good, but I hurt so many other people in the aftermath. They all had families, children, and I wiped their loved ones from the Earth.”

“But they deserved it,” he says harshly. Something in his stare changes. “I liked Sheila though. She was kind to me. Sheila and Peter called me Izzie, the others only addressed me as Isaiah. Keeping things as formal as possible.”

“Sheila must have grown a conscience after I escaped.”

“She introduced me to the works of Homer.”

“Me too.”

“What’s your favourite quote?”

“Light is the task-”

“where many share the toil.” He grins manically. “That’s a good one.” His gaze drops with sadness, I can hear the heartbreak in his voice. “I was never as good as you. Everything I did was always second best. They’d pump me full of your blood, grill me with tests and equations. I did what they ordered, all I wanted was their approval. I was never good enough!”

I knew how it felt. “I'm sorry.”

He laughs sarcastically. “Well, it's too late pal!”

“Isaiah, why did you kill all of those people?”

He holds his arm out to me as if he is addressing a speaker in a conference. “I was just following in your amazing footsteps, it’s what any sibling would do for their big brother. I thought it would get your attention,” he scowls at you, disgust in his face, “and hers.”

I shake my head. “But you killed innocent people.”

“They weren’t that innocent,” he scoffs and then his head whips to the corner of the room. His eyes wince from something. I can’t sense another heartbeat, but he is reacting as if someone else is here. “The human race is such a disappointment. Evil lies in all of us. Our ancestors only killed for survival, hunting animals. Now, we’re recording attacks on our phones and uploading it to YouTube so others can enjoy the pain. It happened to us too, we’re the victims, before the internet generation could get a whiff of it.”

“The scars on your arms,” you say, coughing through the fire aches in your body, “it all came from the blood. Isaac’s blood. It changed you, made you like him. Perfect, indestructible.”

“I was,” he replies, turning back to you. “I’m not anymore.”

We were engineered, created from torture and pain. Our bodies pushed to the ultimate limit. If I’d known they were going to infect others, I would’ve escaped sooner. Heather Blair should’ve killed me at birth, punched me in the womb, bled me out into nothing.

He peers into my face. “Can you imagine what they would’ve done to you if you’d stayed?”

“Yes, I’d be locked in a cage, made to kill for them, they’d harvest me like a battery chicken,” I reply.

“I’d rather have that life, then this hollow frightful one,” he says.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“And look how you ended up. The home, the successful entrepreneur with a loving family to go with it…”

I swallow bitterly. “I know, I do have a better life than you. I should’ve let you kill Peter.”

I see your gaze flood to mine. I know you're hurt by it. I'm sorry because I know you loved him. But would you have loved the man I knew?

His stare darkens and for a moment, I regret it. His eyes glaze over me, his jaw tightens. “Yes, you fucking should’ve. I wouldn't be what I am... and Anna would still be...” His voice trails off. I see a flash of clarity in his face. I know what he’s feeling.

“You…you loved Anna, didn’t you?” I say.

His lips tighten. I know this. I feel it all too much when you’re around me.

“Yes,” he utters, sadness bleeding out. “I-I loved her, but I hate them more. But none of that matters now.” He turns back to you. “Seeing as I’m feeling generous, I’d like to help you with your article, Miss McLachlan. They say writers create from real life. I think it’d be good for you to get a dose of what it was like for me and your lover boy. You’ll gather a better perspective when you put it together.”

“I don’t understand,” you utter.

I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Not one iota.

He rips the electric cords from the chair and restraints. “Get up, soldier.”

“No, Isaiah. She’s not strong enough!”

You rise timidly. “I…I thought we were playing a game of Truth?”

“Done that. I’m bored of it now.”

He's playing with us. I need to get free. Tension is filling the room. He kicks you behind the knees and you stumble to the ground. He picks something up from the table by the wall, where your father's interrogation tools used to sleep. “A soldier is strong and they must be able to cope with any situation before them,” he says calmy.

My heart is racing, I know what's coming. I've heard these words before. You look so lost. Run, please, leave. Stripe, get out. Get Sofia and get out of here. Now. He throws a knife at your feet. I yell at you to run and hide.

“Shut up!” he shouts, pointing the remote. The electric current shudders through me. I can't speak for a few beats.

“Try and hurt me,” he says, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

You move forward, the knife in your hand. I can tell you don't know what’s coming, you know you won't win. “I don't want to fight you, Isaiah. I’m not strong enough, Isaac’s right.”

“Then you're not a soldier. You really shouldn't take everything I say as gospel. I made that mistake with your father,” he says before he launches himself at you.

The electricity stops. My wrist clicks as I dislocate it so one hand is free. I don’t feel anything. I begin to work overtime on the other restraint.

He knocks you to the ground and begins to throttle you, laughing and cackling. I scream, my