Chapter 22: Natural Born Killers

Four days later, Katrina was watching Vincent put the finishing touches to Bullet's face with a tiny paintbrush.

"I'm bored," she told him languidly, heaving herself off of his worktable.

"Why?" Vincent asked. "There's plenty to do."

She sniffed. "Like what?"

His eye smiled at her from behind the mask. "You could dust the House of Wax."

Katrina stuck her tongue out at him. "That sounds like big fun." She sat quietly for a moment, chewing on her sparkly pink fingernails. "Vincent, is Bo . . . you know . . . right in the head?"

Vincent turned to look at her. "What do you mean?"

"What happened to him when you guys were little?"

He put the paintbrush he was holding into a bowl of water. "I don't think . . . he would like it if I told you."

"I've seen the scars on his wrists. What did your mother do?"

"My mother tried to control him!" Vincent said defensively.

Katrina bit her lip. "I'm sorry. But I just want to know."

He sighed. "Bo was always violent. He got in fights all the time at school, and almost killed someone twice. No one wanted to say anything because he was the doctor's son."

"Yes, and?"

"He would hit and kick Mama and Dad. They strapped his arms and legs to his high chair and left him there until he behaved. Father Carl was always at our house, forcing him to confess his sins. Sometimes he and Mama would shut the door and do things to him. I don't know what . . . all I could hear was his screaming. It got worse when Mama got a tumor in her brain. She thought he was the Devil. She'd beat him with her Bible and force him to fast and pray for days on end."

"Poor Bo-Bo," Katrina murmured, horrified. "I can't believe it."

"Mama couldn't help it, Katrina. She was insane."

"Yes, but can't you see what she did was wrong? What would you say about my dad beating me?"

Vincent stared at her. "That's . . . wrong."

She shook her head. "It's the same thing, Vincent."

He said nothing, turning to pick up his paintbrush again.

"Vincent?"

Katrina waited a few more moments, but when he still didn't answer she stood up and stalked out. Vincent laid the paintbrush down gently and gripped the corners of his table, thinking hard. "Mama was a good woman . . . she took care of me and loved me. Bo was out of control."

But somehow, he didn't seem too sure.

Katrina exited the trapdoor and slammed it down, huffing loudly. She stalked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator before settling herself on the couch to watch some television.

"For God's fucking sake," she shouted a few minutes later.

"What the fuck?" Bo asked as he came down the stairs.

"The television only gets two channels!"

"Yeah."

"So that sucks."

"I take it you're bored."

She downed the remainder of her beer. "However did you guess?"

He took a seat across from her so he could pull on his boots. Katrina's eyes rested on the scars on his wrists and she began to twirl her hair idly. Bo caught her gaze and anger flashed across his face.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" he asked coldly.

"Hmm?" Her eyes widened and she looked away. "Nothing."

"Do you like what Mama did to me?" Bo asked, shoving his right wrist under her nose.

"No. I don't."

He sneered at her. "Mama would have loved your Pa, Kitty Kat. They were two fucking peas out of the same mother fucking pod."

Katrina looked up at him and nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry, Bo."

He stared down at her for several long moments, the fire in his eyes dying down. "I'm not. I turned out fine, didn't I?" He threw himself back down on his chair. "You got the shit beat out of you all the time and you turned out fine too."

She let out a mirthless chuckle. "Some people might say that killin' people might come from the fact that Pa abused me. Troubled childhood and all that shit."

Bo nodded once. "Maybe so, darlin'. I don't believe in all that doctor bullshit though. Psychiatrists and psychologists and all . . . they fucking piss me the fuck off. They blame shit on your past, what you've done and what happened to you to make you do it. All I found out when I had one was that Mama and Dad and Father Carl punished me, it was for doing something I wanted to do in the first place."

"I'm confused."

He leaned over, grinning widely. "Are you tryin' to tell me that you didn't want to run a knife through someone's body since you were little? Does it really come from getting' the shit beat out of you?"

Katrina laughed. "So you're telling me that you've always wanted to kill someone?"

Bo nodded, a small smirk playing about his lips.

Her laughter trailed off as she stared into his serious yet maniacal expression. She swallowed hard. "You're right," she said finally. "The first time I killed someone, I didn't hesitate. I just did it. It was like . . . like nothing. I didn't care. It was fun. And I got addicted."

"When was your first?"

Katrina smiled. "When I was nine. I was coming home from a friend's house and some redneck ass fourteen year old boy pulled me into the bushes tryin' to fuck me. I carried a screwdriver around back then. Stabbed him in the neck with it."

"Men just can't resist you, can they?"

She shook her head. "I guess not. Men in this state are child molesting rapist assholes."

"I don't like kids. That's just too fucked up for me."

Katrina laughed at him. "Wow, something fucked up that you won't do. You're a sadistic pig."

Bo shrugged. "Yeah, but you know you love it."

"Do you think you'll ever stop someday, you know, live a normal life?"

"Hell no. What fun is there in a white picket fence and a fat fucking cat on the rug?"

"Nothing interesting to me, not right now anyway. You're right. Fucking with people is just way too fun."

"Natural born killers," he said, grabbing her hand and kissing it. "Cheers to us."