Author: The Fourth Prophet PM
He craved their blood. He craved her blood. Nothing would stop him from having it. Not the Accusers, not anybody.Rated: Fiction T - English - Suspense - Words: 1,638 - Published: 05-26-12 - id: 3026087
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Let it be known, I do know how to use quotation marks. I take my inspiration off of The Road.
He swung again with the brick, as hard as he could, cracking it off the head of his predator turned prey, his...victim. Victim. The word tasted delicious against his mouth, pushing up from his throat. He frowned. He looked down at the shivering mass of flesh underneath him, as it gurgled out nonsense. He hated how it didn't mesh, how it wasn't coherent with that oh so lovely word...victim. How long had he known that word from the other side? It felt good to be on the right side, the good side, for once in his life.
He was forgetting something. Oh right, he thought, it was the victim. He let out a laugh, that, to the wrong ears, would have sounded pyschotic. He knew better.
Oh, he was forgetting again! He couldn't just leave loose ends. He raised the brick up again, parts of it broken off after bouncing off the victim's head, and smashed it against his prey's skull. The snapping sound he heard was delicious, orgasmic almost. Indescribable was all he could say of the shudder that ran down his spine, chilling his bones pleasently. To finally be rid of his sub-human predator was exhilarating. He felt like he could almost dance in the alley, the setting of what he could call the best moment of his life. It was his stage, he was the main character, and the brick was his prop.
He frowned. He hoped he wouldn't become one of those eccentric murderers. The crazy ones who think that just because they took a life, they were the next Johnny Depp.
He was smarter than that. Taking a life was much more grand. You don't see family members gathered around a casket because a relative watched a romance comedy.
He laughed. He should be a comedian when he grows up.
He smacked himself over the head. Stupid, he screamed inside his head, you're forgetting about the body.
He shouldn't make these mistakes. Mistakes get you caught. Quickly.
How should he handle this now? Could he hide the body? No, the victim was big, bigger than him. Plus, he couldn't just carry him and the milk at the same time.
The milk! He ran over to where he dropped it when the victim had started chasing after him.
He cursed out loud when he saw that one of the seals of the milk was broken. Great, he screamed inside himself, instead of two gallons, I have one. Mom'll think I stole her money!
He kicked the broken milk angriliy. There was barely any milk left. He smacked himself over the head repeatedly in frustration. He swore several more times.
He threw himself at the wall, crying. He didn't want to disappoint her.
He stood up and stomped his foot into his victim's head in anger, until, finally, his foot sunk into his head.
It calmed him, taking it out on his victim. He pushed the victim over with his foot. He stared a little more at the face of his former tormentor. He was almost studying it, like a mad scientist with a new "guinea pig". He quit wasting time and got ready to leace. It looked like his only option was to leave the victim. He almost left, except he had forgotten the milk and the brick. He went back to grab the unbroken one, when the other caught his eye. It barely had any left.
He put down the unbroken milk gallon and walked over to the broken one, picking it up. He shook it a litte, smiling at the sound it made inside. He opened it up, walked over to his victim, and dumped it on his face. The milk spilled into his unseeing eyes, splashing into his hair. He threw the gallon into the victim's face, then picked it back up. Fingerprints would be his death.
Then the victim wouldn't be alone.
He walked away, scooping up the brick and placing it in his jacket pocket. He wasn't as afraid of his mother anymore. Not about the milk.
He was The Predator and he had nothing to be afraid of.
She swung around her son in her arms, until finally falling down into the grass, laughing. Her son giggled as she reached over and started tickling him. She loved her son very much, enfolding him in her arms to give him a big hug. She let go, releasing him from her love trap, so she could just stare at him. Stare at her creation. But, soon, her son giggled and jumped on her again. Sometimes, her little boy could be quite the handful. Nevertheless, she took on his challenge willingly, because she knew he wanted her to.
As they laid in the grass, with her son finally exhausted, she leaned on her elbow, smiling.
You know how much I love you? She asked.
Is it, the son outstretched, this much.
More, she said, outstretching her own arms, I love you even more than that.
And Daddy too, the boy said, right?
She hesitated, feeling her husband's eyes burning on her back from the direction of the porch. She knew what her answer must be.
Yes. Daddy too, she said. Lieing was hard.
Even when he yells at you? The boy asked innocently.
She is startled, What are you talking about?
Well, the boy went on almost as if he's guilty of something, sometimes I stay up late even when you tell me to go to bed and I hear you guys yelling. Daddy says a lot of bad words.
She couldn't believe his words. She said, I can't believe you stayed up!
She was more worried about what he heard than him staying up, but she didn't want him to see that.
I'm sorry, he said, I didn't mean to.
She sighed, wondering how you do that, and said, It's okay.
Are you mad at me? The son asked, visibly worried.
No, the mother told him, not really. But don't eavesdrop anymore.
I won't, the son said, hugging his mother. I'm sorry.
Okay, the mother said.
She was shaken. She didn't like that he heard them.
Or more importantly, him.
The son grew bored because of his mother's silence and left, to go play with his father.
The mother stayed back.
She didn't want to see her husband. Hardly ever did.
The only good thing from him was her beautiful son.
She was The Mother, after all, and her job was to love her son.
No matter what.
Someone pushes him against the lockers, and his books fall from his hands.
He hears a snicker from someone.
He ignores whoever did it. Instead, he bends to pick up his books.
He's quickly shoved down further. He falls over his books. Again, he ignores it. Stay quiet, he thinks.
He is afraid of what would happen if he stood up to them. He is low on the social bar, and therefore a nobody.
Nobodies are weak, and so he is.
He longs to be The Predator again.
Soon, he tells himself, soon.
He picks up his books, wondering who is next. The first kill, just that one year ago, was amazing, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The next were more planned, more clever.
But not as exciting.
No, they really weren't. Soon, he almost grew...bored. Bored...with killing. An interesting idea.
So he didn't stop there. He went on to others. Different people, some who thought a shortcut down an alley was a good idea.
Explaining to Mother was difficult. Luckily, she usually worked late.
She thinks he's doing drugs or something. He loves her but...sometimes...
The Predator was bold and growing moreso with each kill. He left more evidence, taunting The Accusers who worked on his victims.
That word, victim, was too growing lackluster.
The Predator was telling him ideas.
Killing her, it says, will be the ultimate thrill.
I love her, he replies, and besides, we would be the obvious suspects.
The Predator agrees, but will soon bring the issue up again...and again...and again until...
It does not matter. He will satiate its hunger soon.
He carresses the small knife in his backpocket, remembering all the memories he made with it. At first, he hadn't known what to do, after the first victim. He couldn't just hit people with bricks all the time.
Though he had thought about it.
Then it came, like a beacon of light. He saw it, knew he needed it. It was his Mother's ironically, but she had a lot for cooking.
At first he felt guilt, even sorrow. Those words would probably have sounded strange to some people. The Accusers would say he was remorseless and devoid of any feeling of guilt. This was not true, of course.
He just felt no remorse for those he killed. Their lives were no doubt full of darkness and monotony. They spent their times as a drone of society. Their entire lives were only a means to an interesting end.
He lets go of the knife, slightly cutting his thumb. Somehow, he finds this enjoyable, though he is no masochist.
Maybe it's the thrill of what the blade will encounter next.
Today, he thinks as he enters his next classroom, sitting in the back, It must happen today.
If only he could show those around him who The Predator was.
Right now, however, he must be content in being The Nobody.