Jimmi was a quite soul. So quiet, so secluded nobody knew if he even existed. The only way he expressed himself was through his work.

Publications in weekly journals and newspapers under the alias of Brian Hemmingway or in his more important work just anonymous. Nobody could know who he really was then. They were only allowed to know what he wanted them to know, and what he wanted was to show off his bigger projects.

Unlike the publications these were not to get famous. These were for the game. The only game he ever enjoyed playing. And with the only friends he's ever had. He's never met them. He doesn't want to.

Jimmi was very clean and precise in everything he did. One of the reasons nobody very much liked him. Even the few he called friends. But they at least secretly admired him. He would write to them from time to time. Have them play his game. He controlled them and they hated him for it.

The game they played was kind of like hide and seek. Except there were always exactly 2 people to find. They could only ever find one. The easy one. They were meant to find one. That's how it's played. And it was somebody new each time. But they could never find Jimmi.

But one day there was a mistake. A minor stumble in the wonderful ballet he plays during these magical moments. The star, bless her soul, was able to send one final message that will forever haunt poor Jimmi. A not so personal message from the last dying source of ink available. Poorly scribbled on the blank canvas of emptiness wherever she could find it. A hint to where Jimmi has been hiding all along.

His friends didn't take long to find Jimmi. You should have seen the ratings that day.

At his doorstep they waited patiently for an answer. The bell rang and eventually appeared a middle aged woman. Wrung out and tired. Emotionally scarred but unclear why at first glance.

"Ma'am we need to speak to your son Brian."

"What's the matter officer?"

"We need to ask him some questions, this is very important. He may be involved in some murders."

"Oh my god. You can't be serious."

"We are very serious. May we come in?"

What they learned was not quite what they expected. Brian was an only son. But it wasn't always that way. He once had a younger brother. Jimmy. Jimmy was just as quite. 3 years younger to Brian but quite possibly equal in intelligence.

Despite being small even for his age he had a very dominating personality. The kind of person who would be able to take control of a room or situation by simply being there and being himself.

He died last year at the age of 7.

Picked up by a stranger walking home from school. Police never found the body. Because Brian did first. The side of the stream behind his house, about a mile down. Stripped of all his clothes, and his dignity, Brian was so shocked by his discovery. He couldn't understand it. He felt it was partially his fault even though he clearly didn't do it. He had decided to stay after school. Not to talk but to finish writing. He was so caught up in his new work. He let him walk home on his own. He should have protected him.

Or maybe he should get revenge. Yeah, you see Jimmy didn't really die that day. He took a different host. Some call it his soul but it's really his beliefs, his thoughts, his personality. It took over Brian. He became Jimmi. A better Jimmi. This is how it needed to be.

Jimmi would wait. Wait wherever he needed for however long. He had all the time he needed now. His mother never bothered with where he was. Most parents would be over watching their children's every step after their son went missing but it emotionally damaged Jimmi's mother. She grew ever distant. Afraid of the hurt if anything ever happened to her other son. Mostly they were kids from Jimmi's school. Kids who had no hope in life. The jocks, pretty girls, the gangsters. There was no discrimination. Everyone owed for something. And they would pay. His favorite way was suffocation. Rather from drowning or by hand. He loved feeling them struggle then just stop as he takes whatever was left of their miserable existence.

He'd then place their bodies in strange and beautiful poses. It was art. He wasn't the only one who thought so. So many men dressed in blue would come to take pictures then steal his art. They must share the same views.

One of his works didn't die. She lived, for a little bit anyways. After he strangled them he would always cut them, deep. He would try as hard as he could to decapitate them with whatever he could find. Sometimes he would bring the biggest kitchen knife he could find.

She had managed to scribble the only fragments of her remaining life. The movements of the end of her life.

When Jimmi's friends talked to him they were deeply disturbed at what he told them. How could a child be capable of such atrocities?

. They could not believe it, but they had to take him away. Back to their house to play.

What they hadn't realized is that he was more than capable. So much so he anticipated this. Neatly concealed he managed to sneak on board his person a small knife.

That was the last time anyone spoke to Jimmi, or his friends.