The Faded Star

"Today is a tragic day in the Kentish music scene as fans of the legendary Benson 10 mourned the death of it's famous frontman and lead guitarist, Dan "The Man" Flash. He was found with his own oesophagus wrapped around his neck, impaled on his own guitar and propped up, tripod-like outside local record store "Vinyl Fantasy".

Dan Flash first broke into the music biz in 1979, with a band called White Eyed Gimmick Trip. They failed spectacularly and although his bandmates mysteriously dissapeared, Flash bounced back with The Turkey Mambo Mamas. Again, the band flopped and it's members dissapearing into obscurity. Daniel Flash, however, was not a man to accept defeat easily and, with the help of his father Sissy Flash, owner of Dirty Bernard Records (now bankrupt), he formed a new rock act with an ailing cabaret outfit known as Hell Twaddle. The seminal Benson 10 was born, and with it, a rock legend.

With influence from Benson keyboardist Smitty Blastoff, the band honed a unique synthetic rock style which was applauded as "f*cking crap" by NME. There was no denying, however, that the South Eastern music scene would never have been the same were it not for those 4 men, the most famous quartet to have ever come out of Beckenham. They lasted for the entirety of the 1980's, their public performances sometimes taking a backseat to their private indescretions. They finally split in July 1990, with their last album "I Bloody Hate You" failing miserably. Dan moved to Viewville soon after to continue running Dirty Bernard Records after the passing of his father. Within three months it went bankrupt and he retired fully to Willoughby in 1997.

The passing of Dan Flash leaves Jed Topps as the only known surviving member of the quartet. Blastoff died due to an overdose and Northern drummer Diggsie mysteriously dissapeared one night. We spoke to Jed about his thoughts on this event;

"I never done it. I might've 'ated the bastard, but I never done it. It was that... y'know, that thing. Look, Benson 10 might've cost me my fingers, but I'm not a murderer. The past's behind me. I now run a successful chain of pornography stores in Soho, I have no reason to go digging up the past. I despised Dan Flash, but I didn't hold a grudge. The c*nt".

Once again, the sadistic yet skilled nature of this attack has been attributed by The Willoughby Ripper. Police are looking to question the owner of "Vinyl Fantasy", the record store outside which Flash was found by Mr. Anish Dhruvi, owner of "Dhruvi News". Dan was said to be very reclusive in his latter days, and was only ever seen heading to and from the record shop. Furthermore, the store has been closed and the owner missing since the day before the body was discovered."

***

Perhaps it will soothe your melancholy to know that he died crying like a child. Right up to the very end, he wept as a man who knew death was all that would come at the end of a tunnel of suffering. He was a strong man, this Dan character. He was an old man, but he put up a fight, or at least tried. I do like it when they try and fight back, it makes it all the sweeter when death claims them. Seeing everything that made them a person drain from their faces as one by one, vital functions fail them. I feel I've earned the joy of watching an animated, feeling human being slowly turn into an obsolete lump of meat. I am a thief of humanity itself, James, stealing people's very being just to use for my own personal satisfaction.

Getting into that man's house was all too easy. A simple smack to the lock with my hammer and the back door merely swayed open. I decided to give myself a little tour of the house while the man of the house was away. What a pathetic residence. Memorabilia of how own worthless career decorated every wall, ever surface, of the place. That a man wouldn't want to hide the fact he dedicated his life to a disaster is justification enough of ending such a meaningless existance. This entire house was one man's tribute to one man's failed ambition.

It was mounted to the wall in the main room. Dan Flash's prized guitar. Custom made in Germany, 1984, if my sources are correct. A beautiful model. If I were a musical man, it would be a possession to be proud off. Very angular, very stylised. I took it off the wall and headed upstairs calmly as I heard the lock go in the front door. It was only a matter of seconds before it happened. A few footsteps into the main room before he shouted "where the fuck is my guitar?"

Presumably, he ran up the stairs in the vain hope that the thief might still be up there, robbing him of more sentimental trash. Oh, he was up there, but he had a different purpose in mind. Daniel's tear blurred eyes didn't even notice me at first as he tore up the steps, but at the last second he looked up, staring into the face of death incarnate. A sharp smack from his guitar sent the fool rolling down the stairs to the corridor below, myself already pacing down to follow him. The second his descent stopped I was upon him. He didn't have time to think before I grabbed him by the neck and flung him into the main room. Dan went careering into the wall, crashing into a mirror and falling flat on the bare white floor as shattered glass rained down on him. He coughed and spluttered as he tried to get up, slicing his hands in the glass as he did so. Eventually he got to his knees and turned to face me, framed as I was in the doorway, guitar clasped in my gloved hand. At once recognition shone in his face. After all, he'd lived in Willoughby a while now, everybody who does hears the story. The man in the gas mask. The man with the boot that clicks when he walks.

Occasionally I'll wear a boot with drawing pins arranged on the sole, so that when I walk on a solid surface, a sharp, light click is heard. Why? Fear. It blinds the soul. The Willoughby Ripper has become such an entity, that sometimes, mere fear of him is enough to drive people insane. The clicking boot was reported by someone who later died in hospital. It's good to leave one or two victims alive, it helps in spreading the good word about my work. She said everytime her attacker walked, his right boot clicked on the floor. It was that clicking, down the hospital corridor, that sent her into a blind state of panic, so hard were her screams, and so frantic did she try and escape, that her internal bleeding started again. Dead before I even reached the door.

Dan was tossed through the air again like a child's plaything, sliding over his dining table, sending his records and other assorted trash all over the place before landing on the floor once again with a thud. I hoisted him back up but he was a proud man, he didn't take kindly to such manhandling and decided to fight back. He landed a punch to the side of my head and I staggered back, shaken by the audacity more than anything, but credit where it is due, he could land a hard punch when he wanted. He didn't stick around to enjoy it though, as he bolted into the kitchen. I gave chase as dashed through the open door into the back garden. I chuckled to myself as I watched him struggle to open the garden gate. Would I leave an escape route unchained? Haha. I could take my time as he desperately pulled at the padlock, before trying to climb over the barred gate that walled him in. I bet he was regretting spiked metal fencing now.

However, I decided to really make him regret it, as I grabbed his right hand, wrenching it away from his frantic escape and dragged him to the spikes, before driving his appendage through one of the points. Not being particularly sharp, of course, the spike had some difficulty piercing all the way through Dan's hand. In fact, it took several hard attempted before it shot through, splintering bone and tearing flesh. The joints in his hand jutted out, accompanied by the screaming of it's owner.

I decided I better bring him back in, so I ripped his arm sideways, tearing the remains of the hand apart while I did so. He was feeling faint already after such things, but he wasn't ready to die yet. After a good while beating him black and blue throughout the house, I decided to put his guitar to use once more. It would've been impossible to drive the guitar through his body on it's own, which is why I had to pin him to the ground and gouge out a section of flesh in his belly with a combat knife. I drove the blade into a select place- to make sure I'd miss vital organs- before twisted it and digging with it, just to grind up the meat and reduce solid resistance, allowing the end of the guitar to get a good foothold and push it's way in. It was good that the guitar was not so sharp though. Such a sudden, driving agony would lead to him dying quickly of shock, far too quick to enjoy it.

I left him bleeding in the main room, too weak to resist by now, and helping myself to some vegetable oil, which I smeared generously on the guitar. It's an old trick used by Vlad Tepes, just to ease the ingress into him. I picked up my victim and dragged him to a window, so that I could have a solid surface supporting him, allowing me to lift him by the neck with one arm. I also needed something that would allow me to drive the instrument all the way through. So it was that I rammed the implement through his body, smashing it through the glass at the other end. Oh Dan may have been half-dazed at this point, but that sure woke him up.

I dropped him to the floor and he fell forward, propped up by his own guitar. He screamed with the power of a man in music. The volume was stupendous. In fact, I did remark to him as he was consumed with agony that it was the best music he'd made in his entire career. But I'd had enough of his voice. Twenty years of singing garbage was more than enough for any man. I decided to rip his very throat out, stabbing into the side of his neck, that I might poke my fingers in and claw it out. His screamed turned to pained gurgles and the blood poured out of his mouth like a carbonated drink being poured into a glass too fast and fizzing over the rim. Of course, he was dead long before I tore out his throat, but I am nothing if not a perfectionist.

I left it in a public place where he might be discovered straight away. I wanted you to find out about this as soon as possible, James. I know how you like the latest news on your favourite musicians. Wait until you give the fanclub that massive scoop, eh?

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The Coward

What kind of a man leaves his wife to die? Only a despicable, weasely coward.

Ironically, he could've spared not only his own miserable life, but the lives of his female as well. If only he'd shown a little resolve. A little backbone. He, however, chose self preservation over self sacrifice for the good of a loved one, and because of that, he was destined to die. It matters not wether you know you're on trial, you should know right from wrong regardless. That he fled the moonlit carpark where his wife of three years was brutally slain that night is indicative that his own sorry existence was not worth living.

That night was a test. I knew this man. He was always a coward, always fearful and selfish. I'd known him since school, that day when we were walking home together, having to work on an assignment, and was accosted by that gang. He turned tail and ran that day, too. Left me to fend for myself against one of the sterner beatings I've sustained over the years. This, however, was no act of vengeance on my part. It was a chance for redemption on his. He and his female had finished drinking for the night and were on their way home, cutting through the carpark, when out of the shadows, he known as The Ripper made an appearance. I'd grabbed the wife, with my arm round her throat, a knife pressed against her face. In my free hand I held another knife, which was pointed at... him. Then I gave him his chance.

Had he picked up that knife I threw before his feet. Had he followed my taunting, beckoning hand and tried to save his woman, then yes, he would've been hurt. Nobody comes at The Ripper with a knife and hits his target. Both he and his wife, however, would have lived. He stared at the blade for a short moment, then at myself. And then he ran. He ran, while whimpering like a beaten dog. The knife danced across her throat, she feel to her knees, desperately trying to stem the ever increasing flow of blood. It poured from her in torrents, gushing down her chest, her thighs, the concrete. With a swift boot, I kicked her face down on the grown, watching the pool of crimson growing around her gurgling head. Aaaaw, she was trying to scream, bless her. She was still trying to formulate coherent calls for help when I got in their car, started the ignition, and then reversed over her skull.

BUMP.... BUMP.....

And forwards.

BUMP.... BUMP....

And then one nice swerving turn, just to grind that broken little face into the ground, to smear the contents of her crumpled head all over the carpark.

Now, according to the police, the husband had decided they were both too intoxicated to drive, and so he had suggested to his wife that they walk home, rather than take the car, and that they would collect it in the morning. The wife, thoroughly inebriated, berated him and sent him home, deciding to risk getting into the car. That was the last time he saw her. This, according to the police, is what the husband told them. I jest not, this... "man", decided to hide his own sorry fears with deceit, defaming his own dead wife in the proccess. All this, just to hide the fact that when it came down to it, he couldn't pick up a weapon and at least attempt to defend his wife from a vicious, agonising death. Now you tell me, a man that can do that to a woman he "loves", does he deserve to live? Knowing that his life is preserved through such disgusting virtues. Not by my standards. I may be a monster... yes... a monster... but I am not such a waste of skin as this ridiculous charade of a human. When I sleep at night... and yes, I can sleep, I sleep knowing what manner of beast I am, and knowing that I am honest in what I do. How this creature could sleep is beyond me. Chances are he couldn't. Chances are, the guilt tormented him the second he reached his home that dreadful night. But guilt alone does not wash away a man's sin, it merely provides the tools with which to cleanse. He did not take those tools.

This was supposed to be your chance to make amends, and you failed because deep down, nobody matters to you but you, yourself. You could have made things right that evening, a man is not defined by his mistake, but by the lessons he learns from them. And you learned nothing, worm. Thus the final lesson came five days later.

So... his telephone rings that night. I could hear the fear and the trauma in his voice as he answered. "Hello?"... he enquires... "Speaking?"....

He heard only a muffled voice, speaking as it did through the mask's filter. "Hello, Scott."

His wavering voice was now filled with utter dread. Stuttering as he did, frightened like a lost child, he asked me "who is this?"

"This is the end, Scott."

True to type, he dropped the phone and ran. Headed out of the main room to the front door, but guess who stood in the hallway, mobile phone in hand? He ran right into me and landed on his back, staring up with mortal dread at the masked man, bearing down on his shivering, quaking little form. He scrabbled backwards, then turned to get up and run once more. I kicked him behind the knee and he fell face first, bashing his face on the hallway stairs. Good idea. I grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed and slammed and slammed again. Blood spilled from his mouth as pieces of broken tooth dribbled down his chin. He was crying, actually sobbing like a baby already. Such simpering, snivelling garbage. Lifting him up by his throat now, he was pinned against the wall, slowly rising off the ground, choking, trying to beg me to stop, attempting to reason with his sin personified. His feeble attempts at bargaining were answered by repeated punches to the stomach, hard and fast. I hit him so hard he actually threw up a little, threw up on my arm. Flinching in disgust, I let go and he fell to the ground.

He lay there, clutching his abdomen, coughing, spluttering and crying in pain and fear. I let the contents of his stomach drip down the arm of my leather coat and land on the floor with a spatter, before, utterly sickened by this pathetic child, I kicked him as hard as I possible could in his face. Dragging him by his head from the hallway into the kitchen, I hoisted the miserable maggot up onto the work surface before forcing him to headbutt the taps of the sink. He yelped like a dog, haha. I then crammed my gloved fingers into his mouth, forcing it open and pulling it over the cold tap, before bringing my forearm into the back of his skull, forcing the metal faucet into his throat. This caused him to vomite again, and while he we pulling his head up, screaming with the shock and agony of it all, I was opening the cutlery drawer, finding quite a selection of knives. He chose to ignore that one knife that could've stopped all this, let's see if he would ignore these.

Laughing to myself, I took each sharp kitchen knife, one by one, and threw them at him. No precision, no care, just the idle tossing of blades. Some scored glancing blows, slicing through his flesh, while the occasional one truly hit home, burying itself into him, his arms and his legs. The constant, feminine cries of the sorry animal were so amusing, yet ultimately irritating in its pitiful nature. All this... thing... could do was cry. Cry, cry, cry. It isn't like I'm not used to hearing my victims weep, but this was different. This was an utter farce. It was time to end the charade permanantly.

Dragging him back into the main room, I threw him to the ground. As he cowered and bled, I asked him why I was doing this. I asked him why he thought he was going to die.

The sad little insect didn't have an answer. He could only ask me the same question. So, while tightening my gloves, I explained how he was to be punished for what he did. How he could've saved his wife if he'd only taken the way out I'd offered. Any real man would've taken the risk... at least tried something instead of abandoning his woman to someone he knew would destroy her. And do you know what he said when I told him I wouldn't have killed him if he tried to do the right thing?

"I didn't know. Please, I didn't know."

I stood there in silence for a moment. I was astounded. Is that all the weasel had to say for himself? He justified cowardice by saying he had was unaware of having reason to fear for his own life. Then, in an instant, I was upon him. I placed my boot on his upper jaw, before grabbing his lower set of teeth with my hands and pulled. It took what seemed like an age, while he struggled, slapping feebly at my leg and trying to prize my hands away, but it was to no avail, of course. There was a popping sound, then a sickening tear, as I pulled his jaw off of his face. The final pull was so hard, I actually fell back into the sofa, my grisly trophy dripping in my hand, the beautiful crimson water running down my hand, down my sleeves. I could feel the warmth of his blood, the warmth of life, against the flesh of my arm. It tickled as it dribbled down to my elbow.

Haha, and as an amusing punchline, he wasn't dead yet. His wagging tongue thrashed madly like a snake, exposed at is was while he choked on his own blood that filled the hole in his face, bubbling like a Hell installed jacuzzi. I wondered how long a man could live in that state, but surmised he was losing blood at too rapid a rate to survive. Just in case, I pulled a knife out of his thigh and jammed it into his chest, puncturing his lung for sure. That way he could slowly lie there, his respitory system filling up on his own juice. He could lie there, as he faded into oblivion, and ponder what he'd learned this day. Well, the option was there, it's safe to assume he didn't take it. Feeling sorry for himself, that's all he knew how to do. He lived preserving nobody but himself, and that's who had for company at the end... Nobody but himself.

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The User

I knew two women once. Both very attractive young ladies. The only problem was, they both fell for the same man. One was fortunate, the man chose her. They got married in the spring and the poor, rejected one looked on as she watched the only man she ever loved give himself to another. We were quite close. She confessed everything to me and I couldn't help but feel for her. I know what it is like to be rejected, friends. It's not a nice feeling, knowing that somebody you lo... think you love has chosen another. Somebody they feel is superior to you. Especially when the woman you think you love has an affair with a married man.

Oh yes, she confessed that to me as well, while this... man celebrated his anniversary. The reject finally became accepted... accepted in sin, by this waste of life. It wasn't long before this woman, this foolish, lovely woman, confessed her disgusting affair to the wife. There was something quite stirring about seeing those women tear lumps out of each other in the Willoughby Arms. I was quite enjoying myself, until I saw that rat of a husband, that adulterer, looking on helpless, like a pathetic lost lamb. I saw the truth in his eyes. No remorse for what he'd done to his wife. No shame for what he'd reduced my beautiful Georgina to. Only embarrassment shone in his eyes, that these women should be fighting in public over his disgraceful activities.

He was vermin. And he'd destroyed the Worlds of these two women. In order to fix everything, I took it upon myself to cut the problem at the root.

He stayed in the bar that night, drinking himself into a stupor in the corner of the pub. Georgina had departed to God knows where. The wife went to her sisters, or so I heard her scream as she stormed out, tears streaming down her scratched face. I left early, headed for the vermin's house.

He was too drunk to notice the broken window as he staggered into the kitchen. He opened the larder, only to see me in their, my face covered by an ancient gas mask, a carving knife in my hand. He screamed and fell backwards, smashing into the sink as he did so. Laughing with retribution, I slashed upward and downward, hitting my mark with each blow, sending scarlet arcs of life-giving ichor through the air, turning his arms and face into a veritable sprinkler of carnage. It was a wonderous sight, watching that which once pumped through his male veins spatter against the clean, pure surfaces of the kitchen. The pretty patterns of red against the sterile white was a most delightful contrast. Most pleasing of all was a particularly brutal swipe of the blade that caught his cheek deeply, spraying a jet of liquid in a wide circle, almost covering the lightbulb fully in his blood, turning the kitchen a sickening shade of red as the glow of the bulb became tainted by this creature's viscera.

He tried to escape but I picked up the ironing board and flung it at the door, shutting it in front of him before the fool had the chance to reach it. He slammed, amusingly, into the closed escape-route and fell to the tiled floor, sliding in the blood that now flowed freely from his face, forearms and torso and continued to paint the floor a grim shade of red, a shade which barely showed in this room that was now illuminated through the very lifeblood that spilled from this parody of humanity.

As he scrabbled around and slid in his own plasma, desperately trying to escape like a stuck pig, I grabbed his by the collar and tore off his shirt, before picking up the iron that had been resting on the board before my impromptu throwing act. The iron which I had the presence of forethought to plug in before this sack of filth came home.

Oh, the way he screamed as the seering kiss of excruciatingly hot metal touched the flesh on his back. Electrically charged heat massaging his skin as I let the iron glide all over him as if he were little more than a pair of trousers. He thrashed around in such agony, yet no matter how much he kicked out, no matter which way he squirmed, he couldn't relieve the pain that did glide all over his agonised torso. It was hilarious, seeing the sheer frustration of it all, the fact that no matter how hard he tried to escape, that pain was still on him. Flopping about in his own blood with this burning instrument of torture blessing every inch of his naked flesh with it's gruesome sensations. He was so scared, and so hurt, and it just wouldn't stop for him. He passed out after what must've been around fifteen minutes of this burning retribution. The very air stank of his blistered, bubbling meat.

After an hour of unconciousness, he came to a rude awakening as he partook of the unique experience known as 'having your testicular sac slowly and deliberatly cut into with a scalpel'. He awoke at the very instant the blade sank into his loose skin. He was tied, naked, to the marital bed, each limb fastened to a different post with rope, that he might lay spread eagled in a crude mockery of the sins this room had witnessed. How he struggled, but the bonds were tight, he could do nothing, nothing but wretchedly shake and shriek through the socks that I stuffed into his mouth. His face, what little of it remained, was bright red with the strain of reacting to this most exquisite pain. It only took one gloved hand to hold both of the exposed testicular orbs and give one, hard squeeze. Oh, I've seen some things you could only dream of.

I was not done. As this bleeding, burning, immasculated piece of faeces whimpered in his bed, I picked up my mallet. I climbed onto the bed and stood over him, my back turned to his shredded face. I held the mallet aloft and I could hear the muffled scream of "No". That only caused me to giggle with glee as I brought my implement of destruction down in a vicious arc that ended in between his legs, shattering his pelvis utterly in one blow.

Even gagged as he was, his reaction was almost deafening. I turned to face him, stood as I was with one foot planted firmly at each side of his chest and looked down. His eyes begged the question 'Why?' and I chuckled grimly, the sounds of my mirth echoing through my mask and filling the unfortunate pervert with dread. Then I filled his face. With my mallet. The frontal portion of his skull caved inside itself as the huge lump of dull metal crashed into it. From either side of this facial collapse, the former contents of his cranium sprayed, covering an impressive amount of the walls in the gore. I lifted my mallet, watching strings of sticky ex-head stretching from the end like chewing gum being pulled taught from in between somebody's teeth. My mallet thus slung over my shoulder, I left the grim scene to be discovered for a forgiving wife in the morning.

I forget his name. Now I just call him number 63. His wife was 64.

Naturally I had to put my beloved number 70 out of her misery, in time.

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An Introduction

I've never been one for introductions. Those who meet me rarely have time for such things. But I suppose this is all about me. My platform, so to speak, and thus an introduction is neccessary. So allow me to do so, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance...

I've lived in St. Willoughby's all my life. It's a picturesque little parish in the English county of Mor'Feen. Beautiful place. Perfect for my work...

See, I'm something of a celebrity in these parts, despite the parishioners never knowing my name. The fool Sullivan thinks he has the Ashcourt Terrace murders cracked, but they'll never know the true identity of he who has become known as "The Willoughby Ripper". I always find it amusing that dread becomes abated by giving some sort of... identity to fear.

It is an identity that I don't mind having, really. The Willoughby Ripper... It has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Although it can be a little misleading. There is just as much gouging as there is ripping.

It started small. I was fifteen... Not the most handsome of children. By no means ugly, but not attractive enough in the eyes of many for my displeasure in social norms to be overlooked. Her name was Emily. My darling, sweet Emily. My only friend at school. The only person in the whole World who... who made me feel anything. I was always a boy of very little feeling. I remember at school, during an attempt at art, I painted a canvas purest black and set fire to it, claiming that all creativity is death. If all creation is destined to die, I said, then why create at all? Why not destroy? It wouldn't have been so bad... but this was drama class. And I was halfway through playing Mercutio in the school production of Romeo And Juliet.

I was never a happy child, yet never a sad child. I saw no joy or misery in anything... until Emily came along. She was an outcast like myself. New at school, different from all the rest. I saw in her a kindred spirit, and in me she saw... I don't know what it was, but she cared enough to attempt to bring out of me whatever light she believed was buried deep within my unfeeling soul. Haha, and true to the magnificence that was her, she succeeded in doing just that. For the first time in my life, I felt... like a human.

That year was the happiest of my life. I studied art, I read books, I created, and it was all thanks to her. Together, we created so much beauty. And thus this wonderful, soul enriching partnership continued until that time. The last week before school was due to finish. The end of term dance.

Her refusal to go with me, I accepted. Her mother was ill, this I knew. This she told me. I felt like such a monster for even daring to ask her with such difficulty at home, to be insensitive of this fact. I felt like a bigger monster for so selfishly feeling sorry for myself that she couldn't go with me.

Something, I don't know what, made me go to the dance that night. Alone. Whether it be sheer sentimentality or the vain hope that somehow, Emily would be there, I went. And... haha... was my vain hope answered in abundance, as true to life, there was my beautiful Emily, in the arms of Robert West.

Robert West... She used to talk about him... Because they were "friends". That's all she said they were... "friends". Why did she lie? Why did she string me along and make me think that things were more important than they were? Just for her own selfish wants? Was that all I was to her? A stopgap for another person? Somebody to lavish attention on her until the true object of her attention became available?

Foolish teenage angst, really. This I know. But for me, the pain was real. I laugh about it now.

For some reason, I didn't go home that night. Alone and with a rent heart, I walked into that school hall, ignoring the looks of disgust and amusement on the faces of my peers, looks I'd recieved every day in my five years at that wretched establishment. That look was on the face of Robert's, too. Surprised that I would dare show my face among the beautiful people. Curiously, Emily's face betrayed nothing. Guilt? No. Shame? No. Amusement, even? Nothing. In all my time of knowing her, it was the first time she appeared inhuman... a disgusting reflection of my own inner self.

I did not stay. But I didn't go far. Alone in the car park I waited, by myself, for no reason other than to wait. Three hours flew by as if it were mere minutes, and I hid as the crawling vermin left their nest. People in each other's arms. Emily in Robert's. He walked her home... or at least, that was his intent.

I knew the way to Emily's house, I knew the shortcut, through the woods. I knew that's where they were going. I also knew how to head them off. Without even thinking, I did just that. In a blind fit of rage, I paced up and down in a shady clearing, clutching in my hands a... a log I think. I can scarcely remember, I can't even remember how I came to be holding it. It was heavy... the rain the night before soaking into it only made it weightier. I heard twigs snapping and leaves kicking in the distance. They were coming. They were mere feet away before they even realised somebody was in that clearing with them, and then it happened. A blow to the head and Robert was out of commision, struck unconcious by the blunt object I held in my hands. Emily's face contorted as she screamed in terror, and I hit her too. She fell to the ground, but continued to scream, the volume escalating with each blow I dealt her squirming body... before slowly decreasing over time.....

She stopped moving long before I did.

I dropped the piece of wood, now stained with blood, staggering backwards before falling on the wet grass. I stared at her broken body for what seemed like an age. Then I felt something strange. I felt... happy. As I looked at the lifeless remnant of my former friend I smiled, that smile turning into a laugh, a deliriously happy laugh. Killing her felt good. And it was so, so simple. Using nothing but my own will, I took another human life as if it were nothing. Emily was now part of me forever. It was... the most beautiful thing we'd done together, her demise. This was real art. Robert swiftly became my second triumph.

That is what you get, Emily. That is what happens when you give a man a heart just to tear it out. This is what happens when you fill a man with love and then refuse it somewhere to go. This... This is what happens when the only way to deal with an extreme passion is to turn it into an extreme rage, because that's the last recourse left for releasing your emotion. The emotion you gave me, the emotion you tore to pieces.

Emily really did awake something beautiful inside of me. She finally gave me that joy, that spark of life she was searching for. And although she merely became the first of many, throughout years of my work, she will always remain the greatest. But I won't stop. I'll never stop.

Have you ever seen life leave someone's body, my new friends? Life that wants to stay inside it's mortal shell but is being forced out by your hand? Eyes looking deeply into yours, begging for even a parody of mercy, before blankly staring at nothing... open wide yet not recieving any information... the last thing they ever surveyed being you.... tearing everything they worked to build about themselves... out.

I have... I see it almost every night. And I laugh while I do. It's the only thing that can make me laugh in this depressing, pathetic world. That, and watching, by day, the poor fools trying to crack this ongoing murder spree... sometimes even being asked to help solve my own crimes.... Hahaha, the stupid insects. Still, how are they supposed to know that such an upstanding member of the community would be capable of... would be willing to perform such heinous, brutal, disgusting atrocities?

This is me. My life. Begun by The Betrayer, Emily. Number One.

Ended by... Me and me alone, when I allow it.

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