by V. F. Mason
Adding myself to the football team and with time becoming the captain sure elevated my status in school. From the nerdy, weird kid who everyone felt sorry for, I became the guy everyone wanted to be friends with. Parties, games, dates.
Life is nothing but a dream it seems, at least on the surface.
“Hi, baby!” she squeals, jumping in my arms and latching onto my mouth, but I quickly end it, hating the whole kissing thing.
Fucking—yes, but intimate kissing while she murmurs some romantic shit in my ear? No fucking way.
Truth be told, she’s gotten too attached to me, but I can’t break up with her. The only reason we started dating was because she’s the daughter of our local sheriff. Being the boyfriend of his princess sure gives me a much-needed advantage and allows me to apply to the police academy, hoping his connections will help me to get there. With my family track record, it could be impossible, but I have a special plan.
And no one will stop me from accomplishing it.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, fisting her hair and inhaling her perfume that oddly always calms me down. I place her on the hood of the car, while stepping between her legs, digging my fingers in her sides, loving the soft curves.
Discovering sex could be an adrenaline rush where everything fades away was certainly a surprise. I was introduced to it by a girl from another town when we played a game there. She was a couple of years older than me, and she knew so fucking much. I thought I wouldn't be able to stop with all the blankness it brought to my mind, but also clarity.
After each fucking session, I knew exactly what to do and how, and more importantly, no conflicted emotions existed inside me.
But I had to be careful here, so the arrangement with Kathy worked.
Although she called it a relationship.
“I thought we could spend some time together,” she says, trailing her finger down my stomach. “Watch a movie or something.” Her voice sounds hopeful, but I shake my head.
“I can’t today.”
She huffs, annoyed. “You never have time for me unless it has to do with sex.” Before I can reply, my phone rings and I pick it up on the second beep while Kathy’s eyes narrow in suspicion.
“You’re late,” the voice on the other end of the line says, and I can hear a muffled groan in the background. A smile spreads on my mouth. “Had to start without you.”
“I’ll be there soon.” I hang up while Kathy practically screeches.
“Who was that?” Jealousy oozes through her every pore as she aims for my phone, but I quickly halt her by wrapping my hand around her neck, choking her for a brief moment, and she instantly calms down, while excitement shines in her green pools. “Shon,” she purrs, bringing herself closer to me.
I lift her down, while murmuring, “I’ll be back tomorrow and take you for a ride. How does that sound?”
She pouts but nods eagerly. She knows a ride in my car usually means hot sex by the lake. Her naivety has to be seen to be believed. “Daddy won’t let me.”
I barely restrain myself from snapping at her, but instead give her a harsh kiss while she moans into my mouth, but then I step back as she breathes heavily, her cheeks flushing as she touches her lips.
Guys my age would kill to have an opportunity to fuck a hot girl like her. Me though? I get hot by thinking about the torture Sociopath inflicts on his victims and learning from the best.
“I’ll handle your dad,” I reply, and walk to the driver seat.
With a last wave, I drive out of town while classical music is blasting from the speakers, calming me down and reminding me that these trips are the highlights of my life, allowing me to find comfort for the need to kill that’s settled deep inside me.
Finally, I reach his warehouse, park the car on the side, and move toward the house, sliding in the key card and entering soundlessly as cries of pain echo through the space. I close my eyes, savoring them for what they are.
Music created by a master.
“Please,” the man begs. He is chained on his chair to the wall. His face is bleeding, probably from a broken nose, as many cuts and bruises mar his body. A yellow pool is under him, and by the disgusting smell, it’s urine. He trembles all over while his gaze focuses on Sociopath.
Sociopath puts on gloves and grabs the knife from his table, clucking his tongue. “Mercy is a funny concept. I don’t remember you showing me any.” This strange comment raises my brow, as he rarely speaks with them.
I’m not stupid enough to question him about his victims, but I do have Google. All of them are important men of society who have respectable reputations.
But then, a reputation is just an illusion created for people to believe in, and in most cases, it means nothing.
I should know.
The man finally registers my presence, and he kicks on the chair, trying to get out, although it’s useless. “Help me.”
Yeah, right.
Whoever the fucker is… he deserves his punishment.
“You finally joined us. You know what to do.”
I nod even though he can’t see it and quickly put on my own gloves, grabbing a similar knife, just with a slightly longer blade.
He goes behind the fucker’s back and motions for me to come closer. He places the tip of his weapon on the shoulder, near the vein but not touching it. “You have to press it deep enough to give pain and draw blood, but light enough to scratch it with a name. This is different than just randomly stabbing someone. I’m showing you an art form.” He then proceeds to slide the knife on the skin as blood slowly comes to the surface. The man cries out in pain as Sociopath writes names I have no clue about.
Once he is done, he does something unexpected. He steps back and sits on the chair nearby, grabbing a bottle of water on the way.
“Continue. You know my ways by this point. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”
Excitement builds in me, transforming into a rush of adrenaline that spreads through my entire system as I take a deep breath and stab him several times and then proceed with other methods of torture I’ve learned.
Once we are done, Sociopath pats my shoulder and brings me back from the heavenly place where nothing else exists. “You’re ready.”
Oh, I so fucking am.
But then he spins me around to face him, while he warns me, “But only those who deserve it, Shon. If you start killing for the hell of it, I will end you. Remember that.”
I agree, but then I don’t know what will happen in the future.
New York, New York
June 2018
Psychopath
“What’s this?” I ask while shaking a file in my hands, and Ella sits up on the bed, holding my stare but not saying anything. I throw it on the floor, screaming, “Fucking answer me!”
She doesn’t even flinch, but instead clears her throat. “The truth.”
“It’s not the fucking truth. How did you come up with this plan, huh? Discussed it with Noah? What the fuck is it?”
She gets up, stepping closer to me, but I don’t allow her to touch me. Her touch can destroy any ounce of control I have left, and then only God knows what I’d do to her.
“I’m sorry, Kierian. But it’s the truth.”
Of its own accord, before the action even registers in my mind, my hand wraps tightly around her neck, squeezing the breath out of her while she struggles and tries to hit my arm—not that it works. Her beautiful pale skin slowly becomes red while her eyes widen with fear, and then I snap out of my raging haze, letting go as she falls on the bed, breathing hard and gulping as much air as possible into her lungs.
“Do not try to manipulate me with your lies.”
She holds her throat. I see tears swirling on her lashes, but she doesn’t let them go farther.
Instead, she croaks, “Your mother was Annette Grace, kidnapped at the age of sixteen on the way from school.” She gulps one more time, but continues, “Your father raped her repeatedly for years until they found him d
ead. His wife finally told on him, and they scouted his location. But Annette was gone. No one could find her.”
Everything she says makes no sense, doesn’t match my memories. Doesn’t add up to the truth in my head, and I want to shut her up, but at the same time I long to finally have this door open.
“She probably ran away and met your stepfather. Who ended up being… well, him.” She finishes, but not before adding, “All this came to light after you killed him. Your mom never had a chance, Kierian, but she tried once, for you. You just blocked those memories out as too painful to remember.”
“Bastard.”
That’s why he always called me that. I was never his.
Instead, I was the evil spawn of someone else.
And with that, a flashback comes to me, penetrating every nerve in my body when I’m transported far away from my house.
Psychopath, 5 years old
“Mommy, can you tell me a fairy tale?” I whisper, and she smiles at me and places me on the mattress while lying next to me. I can’t wait for the adventurous stories of trolls in the forest.
The room we live in is very small, just our bed, and a toilet a few feet from us. The smell is really bad, because all the trash lying around is only taken away by him once a month. Mama scratches her dirty cheek, but it doesn’t make her less beautiful.
My mama is an angel with her golden locks that always sway softly while she dances with me to the tune she hums. Or when she plays around with me, teaching me to imagine stuff like we are in a different place filled with grass and trees. I’ve never seen them, but the way she talks about it, I can picture all of it in my head.
“Of course. Which one?” Before I can reply, heavy footsteps above us become louder and louder, and Mommy instantly tenses, throwing a blanket over me while she gets up. She winces at her bruised knees but quickly pats me on the back. “Darling, do not say a word while he is here,” she orders, while wiping away a tear.
The monster is back.
Sinking deeper into the covers, I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to pretend to sleep so he won’t touch me or Mama again.
Seconds later, the door opens as he comes down the stairs, his alcohol-smelling breath filling the space.
Peeking through the blanket, I notice a bag of food and a small bottle of water in one hand, while smoke rises from the cigar he holds in the other. His white tee is stained with some brown substance and his shorts are ripped in half at his knees.
He came alone without that awful woman who hits me while calling me an evil spawn. She also doesn’t like Mommy much either as she claims she is a sinner who deserves her punishment. I don’t know what that means, but I hope there comes a day me and Mommy stop being one, because I hurt when she cries.
“Food is here.” His voice is so scary, especially when he smiles and moves his gaze up and down, admiring Mom. “You know what to do,” he says, and she pulls the blanket tightly around me.
I hear her as she shuffles, but then suddenly, he speaks again. “This time I don’t want you. You are old. I need to get rid of you.” What? Does this mean he will let me and Mommy go?
“Get rid of me?” she asks with a trembling voice, and I peek again to see him nod, as he grunts in disgust.
“You are not interesting anymore. The boy can stay. I know people who like pretty boys like him.”
“No!” she shouts, and he hits her. She falls to the ground, but I don’t get out, because she instructed me not to.
I silently cry, very worried for what will happen next.
“Shut up. Who asks you what you want?” He throws the blanket away, and my shoulders sag, hoping he won’t touch me, but he grabs my hand and drags me out of the bed. “Have to get you out until Missy comes. She doesn’t like looking at you.” But Mom hugs me close, shaking while repeating, “No, no, no.”
And then before I understand what is going on, Mommy takes the metal bat she’s been hiding under the bed and hits him hard on the head, and he falls down with a loud grunt.
“Shh, Shon,” she tells me, wiping away my tears. “Don’t cry, okay? Mommy will get you out of this mess.” She picks me up and I wrap my arms around her, hiding my face and hoping she will escape from this bad place.
She goes up the stairs and then outside the house. When we hear loud sirens moving in our direction, Mommy runs and runs and runs until she probably has no strength left, as she sits by the side of the road, rocking me while water starts to pour on us from above.
“What is it, Mommy?”
Her body shakes hard as she kisses me on the forehead, and whispers, “Rain, that’s called rain, sweetheart.” Then she laughs, lifting her face to the sky. “And this is grass.” She points at the floor. I’ve never seen a grass-filled floor! “Everything is going to be all right now, baby. I promise,” she says, and that’s when a bright light flashes on us and I hear a man coming close to us, his heavy footsteps scaring me as I burrow deeper into Mom.
He is very tall. He looks clean, not like that awful man who kept us. “Hey, miss. You lost?” he asks, but Mom scoots back and he just raises his hands. “I have a few blankets and stuff. Let me help you.” They talk for a long while, and then Mommy gets us inside the car where it’s warm, and the man gives me a delicious drink that he calls juice.
In a while, I fall asleep and everything feels good.
Until a few weeks, when the first blow comes and nothing is ever the same.
Pulling my hair, I throw my head back and roar in agony while rushing out of there. I kick and smash everything that is in my way: the table, the blankets, the glasses.
Lies, I’ve lived fucking lies.
My mind goes crazy from the fucking truth that stayed hidden within me for so long.
Rushing outside, I don’t even bother to restrain her, because where the fuck would she go?
Like father like son, right?
The realization hits me hard as I sink to my knees on the grass, palming my head and shaking from side to side, trying to avoid other flashes that come.
Us starving. Him raping her while I grew up. How everything always hurt, because we didn’t have water to wash ourselves. How my clothes were usually too small and smelled like shit.
How he always grunted and laughed whenever my mother showed any resistance to him.
The sound of belt buckles hitting the spine.
Matt was supposed to be her salvation, but instead became an even bigger nightmare, punishing her for the mistakes of another sick fucker.
It’s a wonder she survived for so long in this fucking unfair life.
And what is my mother’s legacy?
A son who does exactly like all those men who hurt her.
The padding of feet draws my attention as Ella gently kneels next to me, placing her shaking hand on my shoulder, but I brush it off, not needing the comfort she so wants to provide.
Her developing Stockholm Syndrome will probably make everything okay, but it’s not.
What the fuck am I doing to her?
I have no remorse for all the men I’ve killed, because they deserved it. Maybe due to my help, fewer kids will grow up with the need for revenge like me. Fewer mothers will choose suicide or slowly dying inside while monsters continue doing whatever the fuck they pleased.
But then again, serial killers will always justify their actions. A kill is a kill. Right?
“Kierian, I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Are you?” She blinks in surprise at my question, and I turn to face her. The moonlight is shining brightly on us, highlighting every bruise I’ve inflicted on her. “Why do you feel sorry for me? For the man who kidnapped you and gave you this?” I point at all the wounds as she licks her cracked lips. “Or are you relieved, because my fucked-up past gives you an excuse to feel sorry for me and accept my darkness? Thinking that a little bit of love can fix all this,” I question, while she shakes her head, but I won’t let her run away from it.
“I made the bruises myself when I tried to
get free. You didn’t inflict them.”
I grab her by the nape and bring us closer, my breath fanning her cheeks as she trembles in my arms. She slides her hands to my face as she wipes away the wetness from my chin, not that it matters. “I’m not the good guy, Ella.” She closes her eyes at those words, breathing heavily while I continue to deliver my mental blows. “I will never be Prince Charming. This is me, Ella.”
“You don’t have to—”
“What? Kill you?”
She flutters her brown eyes at me and fists my shirt while determination settles on her face. “It’s your choice. You can choose something else.” With all her knowledge in psychology, does she truly believe a person like me can change?
Nothing and no one can stop me from killing.
A humorless chuckle slips between us. How has fucking simple torture turned so tragic? “I’ll always be a serial killer.”
Psychopath seems like a fitting term now.
I remove her hands from me and drag her back inside, where she stays silent, just watching me and expecting something.
I don’t know what love is and have no desire to find out. But in that single moment as I went out of the house, all I wanted was to set her free so she could escape from a monster like me who only adds to her sorrow.
And maybe for a fuck up like me, that’s love.
I have to give her a reason to hate me, because only then will she be able to survive.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Psychopath, 18 years old
Pulling the car into the secluded area of Sociopath’s warehouse, I turn the engine off while my hands grip the steering wheel tighter, my lips hurting as I bite them hard so no sound will escape them.
“Why did you bring me here, boy?” Matt asks, shifting uncomfortably yet curiously gazing through the window.
“Wanted to show you something.” I barely restrain myself from snapping his neck right there, and keep my voice even, so there won’t be even a hint of the emotion running through me.