Psychopath's Prey

by V. F. Mason

  Rational. You should act rational.

  Instead, I focus on my surroundings, assessing the place while being slightly taken aback by the design.

  The place consists of a wide, spacious living room that has a couch, two chairs, and a fluffy fur rug right in front of a fireplace, albeit a fake one.

  The kitchen counter has an arc-like shape so it’s the extension of the room with an assortment of pots and pans on the stove. Why the hell does he have cooking devices here?

  Also, from the corner of my eye, I see a hallway that leads to one more room, probably the master. Everything is colored in shades of gray, even the curtains, and all this gives the vibe of a black and white movie.

  Especially the silence that echoes around the walls louder than any sound could.

  Nothing in this room indicates that its owner tortures and kills his victims in the basement.

  “Before you consider running…” Kierian’s deep voice snaps my attention back to him. “The security system is activated. No one can get in or out without my permission. I haven’t turned it on before, but you aren’t very obedient.” He clucked with his tongue. “Bad girls get punished.”

  Not answering his jab, I ask instead, “Does it hurt?”

  His brow lifts as he laughs. “Why? Want to come and kiss it better?” I shake my head, and he adds, “Maybe you can distract me enough and then stab me again. That’s an option too.”

  “I won’t feel guilty about this. And when an opportunity arises again, I will take it.” No need to hide my intentions.

  “You need to eat.” He points at the plate on the nearby coffee table, right next to him. “And before you open that mouth of yours, this is an order.”

  Funny, I wasn’t about to argue anyway. I have to be strong to escape, so I won’t refuse food or hydrating my body ever again. Plus, my mouth is watering at the possibility, so I stroll to him, and my hands are on the plate when his frustrated groan fills the space.

  He is trying to attach the bandage to his side, but the thing keeps slipping and he can’t angle his body as it probably brings more pain.

  Snatching it out of his fingers, I press it to his wound, and he grunts because I’m not gentle. Plastering it firmly on his chest, I make sure it doesn’t slip and secure it across his side as well.

  A hot breath fans my cheek, and my eyes rise to clash with his as he leans forward. “Thank you.” I scoot back, but he fists his hand in my hair, slightly tugging on it and bringing us closer. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  A humorless chuckle slips through my lips. “Or what?” He doesn’t answer but lets me go, and I begin to eat, shoveling bites without tasting much, because it doesn’t matter. Eating has only one purpose after all, nutrition. “Why am I here?”

  He stays silent for a bit and then slides lower on the couch, resting his head on the back of it, his eyes closed. “I have different plans for the basement.”

  “Like?”

  “Why, you miss it already? Be my guest and sleep there, then.”

  Gritting my teeth, I bite my tongue, because antagonizing him doesn’t play well for me. “So you sent me the book?”

  He laughs. “I thought you might like it. Granted, I didn’t expect you to become obsessed with it, but it was fun to watch. It’s a great masterpiece.”

  “Noah, Preston, and you all have the tattoos.”

  “Yeah, and we all read it. Noah likes Hector, which fits him, always the protector. And Preston is into Paris, God knows why.”

  “So I came to the team, and you chose me?” I don’t really know how his victimology works with women, considering I’ve never encountered a serial killer except Benjamin.

  If someone told me I’d breezily be discussing a psychopath’s motives, I would have laughed in their face.

  He drinks from his whiskey bottle. “You bumped into me on your morning run.” He chuckles. “I didn’t understand at first why you caught my attention. Women are never in short supply. But I couldn’t let go and needed to know everything about you.”

  I vaguely remember that day in January when some guy in a hoodie bumped into me and said nothing.

  So that’s when my destiny took a new turn?

  “But when I got to know your file, I knew what attracted me to you.” He sits closer and catches my chin, even though I try to evade his touch. “The grief flashing in your eyes hidden by indifference. But if one experiences it for years, it’s easy to recognize.”

  Slapping his hand away, I hiss. “What am I? Your toy?”

  “Hardly. If you were, I’d already be playing with you.” He gets up, wincing, and I concentrate on my food while trying to digest this information.

  Everything is a plan and a game. But his explanation doesn’t give me anything. Why does he want me?

  “Why me? Tell me.”

  “The more I got to know you, the more I wanted you. To hurt. To possess. To inflict bruises.” He clears his throat. “I’ve never felt this before, so only your past explained it.” What he described reminded me more of a guy who fell for a girl at first glance, but due to his fucked upbringing, transformed it into something else in his mind entirely to justify his attraction.

  “How many people did you kill?”

  “Lots.” Right. If he started in his teens, I could imagine what the number is now.

  “You worked alone?”

  “No. I’ve had sort of a friend who has taught me all there is to know about torture.”

  “So you like torture?”

  “I used to, in the beginning. It fed my desires. Not so much after that. I grew bored. There was no drive in it anymore, no interest. Until you,” he finishes.

  “Will you kill me?” He stays silent for a while, and the food I ate lies like a heavy rock inside my stomach. Although I want to smash the plate on the wall, my mind keeps chanting.

  Survivor. Survivor. Survivor.

  “Will you ever accept life with a serial killer?”

  “Never.”

  “Then you have your answer.” With that, he disappears behind the bedroom door while I sit there numbly, not allowing tears to spill from the unfairness of this situation or the desperation or the unbearable pain, not in my body, but my heart.

  Sounding and acting dramatic won’t help my situation.

  But how can I escape him? Or make him give me up?

  Without harming him in the process?

  Psychopath

  She falls asleep, shifting her neck to an uncomfortable position, and for sure, it will be sore tomorrow if I don’t take her to bed.

  Gulping two more painkillers, I shake my head and ignore the sting in my side.

  I smile at the idea that my beautiful Ella is a tigress when it comes to fighting. She won’t ever allow anything to hurt her without a fight.

  A quality not everyone possesses, and although it makes me proud, I should be annoyed.

  Nothing is going according to my initial plan, but maybe I shouldn’t have started a relationship with her first.

  I wouldn’t have known her laughter. How her eyes sparkle when she is excited about something, how much she suffers without her family.

  What a loyal friend she can be, how dedicated she is to her work.

  There is so much about her to admire, and anyone would be lucky to have her. But all those qualities make her a curse for me, because I won’t ever let her go, and she won’t stay with me under such circumstances.

  She might love me, but she won’t stay.

  So I have two choices: either kill her or break her.

  But what do I do when my entire being protests this, not allowing anyone, even me, to harm her?

  Sliding my hands under her back and knees, I pick her up and go to the bedroom, where the warm bed is ready for her. I place her on it and tuck her in as she murmurs something, and then she squeezes my hand and brings it to her chest. “Kierian,” she murmurs this time, and my heart stills, because up until I met her, I thought the thing only fucking existed to pu
mp blood throughout my body.

  She moves restlessly, frowning in her sleep, so I get on the bed, and immediately she rests on my shoulder, sighing deeply.

  “Ella,” I whisper against her hair. “Why do you have to be so perfect?”

  Closing my eyes, I will myself to stop being Kierian to her and be only a serial killer who hunts his prey.

  But for the first time in my life, I can’t separate the two.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Psychopath, 12 years old

  I sit on the couch, waiting for Doctor Anna to finish her report. She sends me a reassuring smile as I study her office and find it boring.

  White walls, chairs, desk. A few photos of loved ones, but besides that, she has everything in order as if nothing can throw her for a loop. Her son is in art class with me, and he is as calm as she is.

  Always fucking friendly with everyone.

  “How are you?” she asks. When will they stop with their never-ending, stupid questions?

  I shrug, repeating the same thing all over again. “Good.”

  Her lips thin in displeasure as she bites on the pen. “The reports from your teachers show that you’ve upped your grades by sixty percent. That’s excellent. And you joined the football team,” she reads with surprise.

  After much consideration, I figured out that education was my only out, so I focused all my attention on my studies, which with the current situation was a piece of cake.

  Turns out Mom’s death brought more peace than expected. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, felt sorry for the kid whose mom committed suicide and he had to find her. Neighbors pitched in to bring clothes and food, making sure I was always fed. School didn't nag me about my grades, but instead gave me time to focus on my answers. Even the kids backed off; they didn't want to be friends with me, but at least no one touched me. It was as if I almost didn't exist.

  Dad still smacked me around on occasion, but other than that, it was almost bearable to live with him. He was waiting for the attention on us to die down; I just knew it. He couldn't give me long-lasting bruises, because people would see them. He spent a lot of time outside town, claiming it was work, but I didn't believe him. But as long as he didn't bother me, I was good. The neighborhood moms watched over me. After all, that’s what they are “supposed to do,” quoting the words right out of their mouths.

  I don’t appreciate their help or feel all that grateful. They should have helped when my mom suffered. Why were they so blind for so many years? Didn’t they hear the screams? Or is it easier to feel like a hero while taking care of an orphaned kid instead of helping an abused woman?

  Though their support means nothing to me, I use it well.

  “Sports are a good way to get a scholarship.”

  Her brows furrow, probably because I’m not supposed to think about college just yet, but I do. My dad will never pay for it, so being fast on the field is my only out.

  I think all sports are stupid, but if it provides me with a ticket to another state? I’ll do anything to stay on the team.

  And chemistry. It became my salvation, learning different chemicals that can be matched together to create the weirdest combinations. Teachers thought I was too damn smart for my age, but all this played to my advantage. I chose as many electives as possible.

  “Right. Today is the anniversary of…” She clears her throat, adjusting her collar. “Your mom’s death.”

  I know well what is expected from me, so even though I don’t want to do it, I manage to squeeze out one single tear from the corner of my eye that slides down beside my nose to my chin. She takes out a tissue and gives it to me. “I’m so sorry.”

  I just nod, hoping it will be enough and she’ll let me go. I have homework to do and she is interfering with my plans.

  If she only knew, I don’t feel anything; I’m a completely blank state. The only driving force for me is to get what I want. And with people so willing to accommodate my desires, I’ve learned to play with them.

  It is funny on good days, and tragic on bad ones.

  “It’s okay,” I manage to get out, as she walks around the table to me and pats me on the back.

  “That’s it for today. Just remember I’m always here to talk.”

  I get up quickly and get the hell out of the office while wondering what awaits me at home.

  I’m on my way to the bus when I halt, my eyes widening in shock as I see my father standing a few feet away with a woman around Mom’s age, who smiles at me brightly as he squeezes her hand.

  It’s barely visible to anyone else, but I don’t miss the wince that mars her face and is quickly replaced with indifference. A small girl with pigtails is jumping around her, as if chasing someone and counting something under her breath.

  “Hey there, boy,” Dad greets me, his voice gentle. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.” He walks closer while continuing to talk. “This is Suzanne; she will be your stepmother. She’s agreed to marry me. And that’s her daughter, Kim.”

  The woman extends her free hand to me, but I step back. “Hi, darling.”

  I don’t reply or react as the little girl waves at me happily.

  The only things I can focus on are the faint bruises spread on Suzanne’s neck along with deep fear settled in her green eyes.

  With clarity, I understand that Dad has found a new victim and a perfect excuse for everyone to leave us alone.

  The monster is back.

  New York, New York

  June 2018

  Ella

  Fluttering my eyes open, I wince in pain as I shift my leg, and my brows furrow. “What in the world?” And then I glance down to see fresh bruises and everything from last night comes back.

  Sighing heavily, I rub my forehead while gazing at the ceiling and pondering what to do next.

  Yesterday’s experience was surreal to say the least, nothing I expected. Although I know he wants to hurt me, I can’t figure out why.

  He can’t do it, and that pisses him off; that much is clear. Not that it gives me an answer to what is really going on.

  Or how to handle this situation, for that matter.

  I get up and then notice a dip in the other pillow that tells me Kierian slept next to me. Placing my hand on it, I pat it softly and wince, because the truth doesn’t change my love for him.

  But it doesn’t mean I’m willing to die or to be destroyed for this love.

  Padding softly to the living room, I look around, but he is nowhere in sight.

  The kitchen table has breakfast ready for me with a note.

  “Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.” – Homer, The Iliad

  Well if this doesn’t send a message, I don’t know what else should.

  “Good boy. Catch!” Kierian’s voice is coming from outside through the wide-open door, so I go there, and the picture in front of me makes me blink.

  A Tamaskan dog runs around the field in the direction of the ball then snatches it into his mouth and brings it back to Kierian, wagging his tail. Kierian takes it from him and repeats the action, while his bare muscles flex with each movement.

  Standing on the grass barefoot in his sweatpants with his hair loose, his handsomeness shines brightly under the sun in all his masculine glory.

  Because that’s what you’re supposed to think when a serial killer kidnaps you.

  The dog notices me, stops midway, and raises one ear as he cocks his head.

  Keeping in mind that this dog bites human flesh, I don’t do anything when he slowly strolls to me, circling me and nuzzling my knees, until finally he sits down in front of me, whimpering.

  “He doesn’t bite.”

  I chuckle, although it lacks humor and is laced with nervousness instead. Easy for him to say. Gently, I pat the dog’s muzzle and he lifts it, his tongue out, clearly enjoying it. “That’s your wolf, huh?”

  “We are a team.”

 
; I can’t help but bite at him. “You even turned a poor animal to the darkness.”

  He comes closer; my hair prickles on the back of my neck as, next to me, he says, “His name is Rex. I found him in the ring for fight dogs. He was barely alive. Trust me. I didn’t introduce him to the fucked-up world. We just found each other.” He rubs the dog, the bond evident between them.

  Of course.

  After all, they have pain and a secret that binds them together.

  I flip the Post-it note up. “So that’s your plan? Kill people until you get caught?”

  He shakes his head and grabs a bottle of water from the grass. He gulps it greedily and then adds some to Rex’s dish. “There is always a greater purpose in life. I found mine. Yours is catching serial killers, or so you think.” He heads back inside and I trail after him, confused even more, if it’s possible in the current situation.

  “My purpose is to serve the people.”

  He munches on a pancake, nodding, and then points with his fork. “People, or your family?” I freeze, my mouth hanging open as he continues. “Tell me that each case doesn’t bring you back to your parents and sister that you failed… at least in your mind. You didn’t come in time. Or early enough. Or didn’t die with them. Just who are you saving each time? Aren’t all the cases surrogates for your family?” Since I have nothing to say, he cracks a smile. “Right. But because I have different thoughts about justice, I’m the bad guy.”

  “It’s incomparable. Just because you think justice failed you—”

  He leaves all pretense of eating and focuses his harsh stare on me, and I shut my mouth, stepping back, because the killer is clearly back.

  “I do not think justice failed me. I wouldn’t work for the FBI if I thought so. People always blame justice or the system, claiming it does nothing for kids, families, or others. But what can justice do if people allow it? How many people do you think ever asked my mom if she was okay? I’ll tell you. None!” he bellows, and I swallow, afraid of his next move. “Because it’s okay to tell on your neighbor if his fucking grass is too high and he doesn’t take care of his yard. But God forbid interfering in their private business, right?”