I wish it was me who killed him, just to watch him suffer

I stare out at the rain, jaw tight, my nails digging into my palms. The words spill out before I can stop them, low and raw. “I wish it was me who killed him. Just so I could watch him suffer.”

Monica’s head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “Jesus, Thalia…”

“I mean it.” My voice is steady—too steady. “He deserved worse than what he probably got. I wanted him to feel it. To see it in his eyes when he realized what was coming. To see the fear. To know what it’s like to be helpless. Just like he made me feel.”

My fingers tremble, but I don’t unclench them. The knot in my chest tightens, dark and heavy. “And the worst part? I don’t even feel bad about it. I should, right? But I don’t. I hate that I feel this way. I hate that a part of me wanted him to beg.”

Monica grips the wheel tighter. She doesn’t say anything right away. The rain drums against the car, louder now, filling the space between us.

Finally, her voice comes quiet, almost cautious. “That’s not you, Thalia. You shouldn't let him poison your head like that.”

But I’m not sure if I believe her.