14 September, 1876 - Andrew Lloyd, aged 22, blond hair, green eyes, crescent-shaped scar on the left shoulder blade, Thomas hummed softly as he wrote, taking in the sight in front of him. As his eyes came to the blood running down the floor, he tutted softly. He grabbed some pieces of clothing from his bin and threw them on the ground to soak up the mess. He watched with delight as the nice fabrics were dyed a deep shade of red. He had no use for the clothing anyway. He surely couldn't wear it. Andrew was much smaller than he was, as were all of his victims.
With the mess mostly cleaned, he picked up the smaller man's naked body. Andrew was limp in his arms as he carried him out of the backdoor of his small cottage. Thomas approached the river that roared only a kilometer or so from his home. With a familiar heave, he discarded the body into the river. He stared on in delight as the corpse disappeared down the river, being pulled under by the waves and marked only by the red surrounding it, which quickly began to spread.
He picked up the final shirt from his bin and used it to clean the blood off of his dagger, leaving it a gleaming silver colour. He began his usual routine, the one he had completed so many times before. He stripped his shirt, then picked up all of the clothes that littered his floor. He let the blood run down his bare chest. As he went outside, he dumped them all side by side to dry. Nobody would come this way; nobody ever did.
Thomas knew his little act was not going to last long. A killer that just disappears into thin air was not going to stump him forever. One day, they would find him. Maybe with the corpse of a young man on his floor or a pile of blood-drenched clothing in his arms. And they would kill him for his crimes. Which was perfectly fine.
Now, Thomas was not afraid of being caught. But he was not stupid. He knew what needed to be done. Living alone, secluded in the center of a forest away from the city, had taken its toll. He had a lot of free time. That meant time to think. And time to plot.
His system was a simple one. He would stick to the shadows of a nearby city until he found someone, a young man with a frail build. He would follow this young prey home and wait for him to fall asleep. As soon as he did, a window would be broken and Thomas would grab him by the throat, choking him until his world became black. Thomas would then throw him over his shoulder like he was nothing, grab an armful of the other's clothes, and head back to his hidden cottage.
As soon as his prey had woken up, he would be greeted warmly, given a portion of tea and stew, and offered a ride back to town. As soon as this offer was accepted… The young man's life would be tragically cut short. Thomas would strip his victim's corpse. Every one of them got a uniquely shaped and placed scar carved into them, which would be documented along with other traits.
He would use the victim's clothes to clean up their blood. After disposing of the body, he would dry the clothes, leaving the red stains. The clothes would then be burnt in a fire that Thomas would use for cooking the meat he hunted… Whether it was animal or human meat, who could tell?
Most of the bodies were never found. A few had, but not many. Rumors flew about the disappearances, everything from an angry spirit (courtesy of the religious and superstitious) to a serial killer (courtesy of the level headed). Religion, Thomas silently sneered, Ridiculous.
Thomas gasped as the voices started to creep back into his head. These evil voices… Thomas blamed them for what he had become. Yes, his rough past played a part, but these voices had turned him into a monster. These constant whispers, telling him to kill himself. Telling him to hurt others. Telling him to push others away, isolate himself.
Thomas fell against the wall, scooting down into a seated position on the floor. His hands flew to cover his ears, This only magnified him. They echoed, over and over again, and Thomas screamed. It wasn't very loud, though, as his voice was hoarse with unuse. He hadn't spoken a word in ten years. Before then, he had talked all the time. To himself, mostly. But, then his favorite hobby began. His voice was left behind with the old Thomas.
As the voices began to quiet, Thomas wiped the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He hugged his knees to chest, panting softly. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Still, he stood. He grabbed his knife and tucked it into his pants. Time for dinner.
He shakily caught a few roaming rabbits. As he skinned them and threw them into the pot lazily, he once again wiped the blood off of his knife. He had done that a lot.
He ate alone, with only his thoughts to accompany him. Thomas's head was a frightening place to be, especially on a day like this. He was planning. What should I look for in my next victim? He thought, desperately wishing for any other thought. But he couldn't have any other thoughts. He had plans for tomorrow. Go out and find the next one… But who could that be?
A/N: I hope that didn't suck too badly. If you read my last fic, you certainly noticed that this one is much darker. If that isn't your cup of tea, you have been warned. Reviews would be nice. Should I continue or just delete and forget this?