His breaths came in short gasps, fists clenching the sheets so tight, his knuckles turned white. Victor hated this part. This part of the night when he would wake up from his terrible nightmares. Not nightmares, memories from his past. Rubbing his eyes, he climbed out of bed and walked slowly towards his bathroom. He switched the light on and rested his hands on either side of the sink. Staring down at the drain, his thoughts scrambled about his mind. Slowly, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror. Glistening brown eyes stared back into his. Victor was a very handsome man for 25, but he hated himself dreading every second staring at himself. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and savored the darkness of his eyelids. Yet when he opened them, the reflection had not vanished as he hoped. Fighting the hatred, he studied himself. He had a clear pale complexion, full pink lips with a silver ring on the lower lip, a straight small nose and those chestnut brown eyes, his hair was platinum blonde and cut very short, and a small diamond stud in his left ear. He was amazingly cute, yet he hated himself. Shaking his head, he looked down at the white sink. His eyes caught on the razor that sat only inches from his fingertips. Without thinking, he grabbed it and held his left arm before him. He saw the scars already created by this so many times before, he felt the adrenaline rush urging him to do it, the pain drove him. It was something he had to do. Pressing the blade to his forearm, Victor ran it slowly down to his wrists. Blood immediately oozed from the cut and dripped down, soiling the white sink with spots of blood. Victor closed his eyes and smiled to himself. The pain was bad, but Victor had taught himself that it was good for him. Pain was something he had tried to escape his whole childhood, now it was something he thrived on. His glory came from watching the blood drip from the wound and disturb the beauty of the shiny white sink. It was a release from reality. As the pain faded, he grabbed the hand towel hanging beside the sink and wrapped it around his arm. Not even bothering to shut the light, Victor walked back to bed and laid down on top of the mess of blankets and pillows. Lightening flashed through the room, as he stared blankly at the wall across from him. With the pain subsiding and the blood stopped, he dropped the blood-soaked towel on the ground and rolled over. Something screamed inside his mind, he had forgotten to do something. Quickly, he climbed out of bed and out his bedroom door. He ran down the winding stairs and stopped in the living room. What was it? He asked himself. Victor walked around the room and stopped. He spotted it on the couch. "My, my. What a mistake.so sorry to have kept you waiting all this time Anna." Victor walked towards the couch as the lightening flashed, the glassy eyes of a woman stared back at him from the couch.
* * * * * * * *
Victor Gabriel Jameson. Born March 15th, 1980 to Mr. And Mrs. Jameson of Clifton Rock Avenue, Sinabue, Ohio. Since that day his life has been filled with memories. Painful memories. His childhood hadn't been the most pleasant time of his life. At the age of 3, his mother died leaving him with his father and two siblings who shortly died after to unknown causes. At least, that's what his father told the medical examiners. Victor knew the truth. His father knew he knew the truth. This caused so much more torture to erupt. By the time he was eleven, Victor had broken both arms, all of his left fingers, both ankles, fractured his jaw twice, and bruised his spine and vertebrae in three spots. His father, George Jameson had been a wretched drunk. A murderer. An abuser. Victor knew this all too well. His mother along with his two siblings had all been beaten to death, but his father's well respected name did him well from jail time. Victor learned to keep his mouth shut by the age of five, never speaking a word unless spoken to. By the time he was fifteen, Victor dropped out of school to work in his father's store. Always avoiding eye contact, never holding his head high, he kept to himself, doing what was needed to be done. His father grew older, more weak and tired, yet he never put the bottle down till the day he died. It was early March 15th, the day of his 18th birthday. Victor stood in the living room of their house, watching his father pour his third drink. He watched as he had all those long years, his father gulp down that drink and go for another. "Today is your birthday, boy.and its about time you learned a little something." Victor watched as his father spoke, evil burning in his dark eyes. He saw the aging signs everywhere, the spots of gray hair in George's hair and beard, the frail wrinkled skin. Yet, his eyes had always been glossy and cold, as if he was dead, staring right through you. Just thinking of it made Victor's insides squirm. He tugged at his flannel shirt and watched his father walk over to the window, where he spotted the sun rising slowly. "Eighteen is it?" George asked, his husky voice quavering. Victor nodded and began to speak, his voice cracking, "Yes sir." George finished the last of his drink and eyed his son with suspicion. "Well boy. For eighteen years I have supported you, gave you food, housing, the clothing on your back. I think its about time you learned to provide for yourself." George rambled, pouring his fifth drink. Victor felt the lump rise in his throat. "Yes sir." He whispered, the anger boiling inside. Victor eyed the souvenir guns that hung on the wall above the couch. His father's prized possessions, always loaded for their "safety". George turned his back on Victor and gazed out the window. "Victor Gabriel.I want you out of my house by sundown, you hear me boy." George said harshly. But he did not see Victor reaching over the couch, grabbing the loaded shotgun. "I said.did you hear me boy." George said angrily, turning around. He froze, eyes widened. "What do you think your doing.after all I've done for you, you ain't going to shoot me.you're a little sissy. You always have been.I should have killed you just like all the other mistakes." George spat out, tossing his cup to the ground, glass shattered everywhere. "None of that matters now does it?' George challenged him. Victor pulled the gun back till it clicked and held it up. "Your not going to shoot me you little wussy..your not even holding the thing right." As he moved forward, Victor pulled the gun to eye level and without warning pulled the trigger. Within seconds, his father was on the ground. Victor dropped the gun like it was on fire and backed away as he watched the bullet wound erupt with blood all over his father's new green shirt. "Ungrateful little bastard." George sputtered in his last moments. Victor pressed against the wall behind him, watching his father struggle and finally die, his eyes glazing over. Victor's eyes grew distant, his hands pressed against the wooden wall behind him. He tugged at his pants and turned quickly, darting out the front door and out across the yard. He ran for miles, not wanting to look back. And that was how he got here. Los Angeles, California. From there, he developed his talent. He was an artist, his paintings and drawings amazing, full of pain and death but oh so breathtaking to the eye. But even drawing could not cease the frustration. He found himself waking from dreadful nightmares of his childhood. He would think for moments and just when it was too much, he would cut himself, sometimes even burn himself with cigarette butts. Was It his fault he was this way? No. He had never knew real love from anyone but how was taken from him. Every woman he fell for hurt him.every woman who fell for him.he hurt. It was like a drug for his pain. Murder. His father had been his first, but far from his last. Since his 18th birthday, almost seven years ago, he had murdered almost a dozen women. Hurting himself was a minor relief, but hurting another person was the anecdote to his pain. His philosophy, relieve pain with pain. Victor thought he was stupid, he thought he was ugly and useless. Yet he was oh so wrong. His intelligence was immense even though he hadn't been schooled longer than sophomore year in high school. He was so beautiful on the outside, on the inside he was too yet there was a thick film of pain and twisted anger covering that. Victor was an excellent artist, always drawing and painting when he hated himself the most yet his best talent was the one he could share with none. His talent of murder was his favorite. The way he killed the woman, twisting them to fit his anger need at that time. He wasn't insane. Oh no. He was the clearest of mind yet, but something had blown up a long time ago inside his soul. This was the only way he could release it. By hurting himself and anyone who dared to love him.