An alternate ending to Let the Right One In, written in Hakan's point of view. Some elements of the original plot were altered in order to fit my story.
One by one, the tiny droplets ran along the alabaster column of her neck, coming to a stop and pooling about her collarbone. He watched as the tinted water took its course and ran onto her forehead, separating into several different directions, two of which streamed around each eyelid and across the thin apples of her cheeks, gaining a darker hue as they went. Eyes, glazed and unfocused, stared back at him, unaware of the bloody pools that slowly drained on either side of her body; unaware of the sets of equally unseeing eyes that were clustered within her proximity.
Or perhaps she wasn't completely unaware. Oh well.
His mind remained unchanged. He peered carefully into the large canvas case beside him and quickly selected his instrument of choice, raising it to eyelevel in order to further examine its cleanliness. The thin blade glinted in the dim light of the moon and reflected into her eyes. It, admittedly, was not in the best condition, but would surely do. He lowered the blade onto her pale skin, lightly dragging it across and created a path for himself to follow. The scalpel dug into her flesh and softy caressed her unmoving tendons and bones, making a quick, deep incision across her throat.
Stepping back, he admired his work. 'This isn't so hard,' he thought to himself as he imagined their faces once he became legendary around the world. Oh, how shocked they – especially he – would be to find out what he had done. How envious they would be to know that they hadn't been able to devise such a foolproof plan, while he – whom they had always despised – had. How surprised they would be to find that – he stepped back once again, bumping against the pile of corpses behind him, a cold arm mechanically falling from beneath the large white cotton sheet and softly caressing his leg. Terror seized him; a scream became trapped in the pit of his stomach. An arm, an arm, oh God.
It was a regular arm, of course… only… dead. It had an elbow and a shoulder and a forearm, and attached to the forearm was a hand; a regular hand with four fingers and a thumb. Only dead. He laughed despite his hastily beating heart. Or perhaps it was because of it that he was laughing; it was hard to tell. He may well have been laughing at pile the decaying corpses beside him.
'Are you scared now, boy? Huh?' He hissed as he backed away from the corpses and towards the door. 'Huh? Who's scared now? That's right; I'm going to have the last word.' No one ever noticed the uncovered bodies or missing equipment. No one else knew of the periodically dripping faucet, the leftover pooling blood about her thighs. No one else cared until later that night. No one else cared until they found the bodies.
He walked into his bedroom and sat on the bed, nearly forgotten in a darkened corner, and looked out past the dim streetlights and across to the overpass. He undid his tie and slid off all his clothing, and as he did so, he thought about their bodies. Their lives had no true meaning for him, nor the deaths they could have, and would have suffered. A murder, a suicide, the result of an act of terrorism; it was all the same to him. They had all been alive at one point, they had all been killed, and they all remained hidden. But did they have to gawk at each other as if they were conversing at some dead man's convention? Was it really necessary for their eyes to follow him wherever he went, scrutinizing and undermining him, judging his every incision, stitch and slice? 'You're doing it wrong, Hakan,' they would say.
And as he arranged himself in bed that night he questioned what exactly he had done wrong, although he never came up with an answer; he was a perfect man, after all. He wondered, as flashes of blood-stained fingertips and matted hair wormed their way into his mind, about the children. He sometimes enjoyed maneuvering their deaths into an hour or two of amusement, manipulating their lives in whichever direction he pleased, fabricating an occupation or schooling programs and parents should he choose – although, often not a father, as he felt that he deserved the children more than any other man – which, in turn, directed his mind in the direction of the boy; of Oskar.
He had never officially met Oskar, of course, only watched him from afar, and waited for an opportunity to clutch between his meaty little hands. He liked him, though. He seemed like a nice enough boy. Oskar was a normal 12 year old in all ways but one. He went to school, he played outside, he explored. He had a best friend named Eli, whom he loved above everything and anyone else in his life. It just happened to be that Eli was a vampire, and belonged to him. Hakan looked forward to having her completely after tonight, when Oskar was gone.
He glanced to his left at the flickering neon clock on his side table in aggravation. 11:56. Oskar would be would be walking home right about now to his one love, to his Eli. As a matter of fact, as he looked out of his bedroom window, he could see him walking down the sidewalk towards the overpass, in the dark and pouring rain. He slipped back on his clothing, pulling his bloodied white jacket on over top. He felt along each of the two pockets to make sure the scalpel had remained safely hidden within it. Good, still there.
He walked at first, afraid his footsteps might have been too loud, but soon quickened his pace and lengthened his strides in order to reach Oskar before he crossed more of the overpass.
No one is positive about how it happened after that other than the police, his savior, and Oskar himself. Some say it was an accident; that Oskar, an innocent 12 year old, hadn't realized how close to the edge they had been. Some say murder, premeditated or otherwise, and some say self-defense. But no one ever considered Hakan to be a suspect; he seemed a good man – no one had really known him, of course, but being an outsider didn't make one evil. No one knew that it had been Hakan who carried a stolen weapon in his front pocket, that it had been him who had jumped onto Oskar's back in an attempt to strangle him.
Only one knew as they watched in a crowded cluster behind the bright yellow streaks of the crime scene tape, as the police assess the situation atop the overpass. No one knew, but they watched unsympathetically as Oskar was hauled off in an ambulance to be treated for symptoms unknown to them, yet watched on in tears as one of the coroners looked over Hakan's body for signs of previous violence and intoxication.
They didn't know, yet they watched as one by one, the tiny droplets ran along the pasty skin of his neck, absorbing into the collar of the white laboratory jacket he was wearing. They watched as the tinted water took course and ran onto his forehead, separating into several different directions, two of which streamed around each eyelid, gaining a darker hue they it went. Blank eyes stared back at them, unaware of the bloody pools that were slowly draining from his body; unaware of the sets of eyes that were staring down along the lines of his body, one pair in particular, dark and hardened, in which he had been killed trying to make his, and his alone.
Or perhaps he wasn't completely unaware. Oh well.