I wouldn't call myself a night owl, but I do love the stars and how the moon reflects on the river by my apartment. Most nights I took walks out alone in the darkness. I wasn't afraid to be outside in the cool air where anyone could be hiding. I liked it, in fact. The shot of adrenalin whenever I heard a trashcan fall or when I notice fast footsteps behind me. I loved it. I probably loved it too much, ha ha.

Not that too much of anything is necessarily bad.

I've never been mugged or attacked—I had a way of making others see things my way. I can be very persuasive when it struck me. There was something about me people just trusted. I've been told many times before on dates or on the bus with fellow strangers that there was a compelling nature to me. Women I've taken to movies said I made them feel safe and warm in the cold crowd. Men I've slept with told me my eyes were soft and striking—how can it be both?—and my smile drove them wild.

I know, I sound pretty arrogant, but I'm only repeating what they've said! All my beautiful trophies have fallen for me in one way or another. I think, really, it's my accent. My skin. My hair. They don't like me for who I am—nobody does. They like me because I'm a beautiful Spanish man who can say the sweetest nothings they can't even understand through the accent.

And that's okay. They give me a rush like the thrill I give them. I love it. I don't love a lot of things, but their faces when I work my magic is the most delicious sight in the world. The way they scream my name, cry out to God, is divine.

"Did she ever call back?"

I blinked innocently and stared my good friend, Francis, in the eyes. I remembered to smile and let my cheeks move my eyes to sparkle. "Oh, Eliza? No. She left in a hurry after dinner. I haven't heard from her since."

My other friend, Gilbert, a loud albino man I met in school, tutted. "You couldn't even get into her pants?"

Francis gave him a look—I think it was disapproval. "There's more to romance than sex, Gil! It's about wooing a girl!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes and muttered something I couldn't understand through the thick German-accented words. I giggled and brushed a few hairs from my eyes. I really needed a haircut but my last barber went missing as well. It's a shame—I liked Feliks's work. He knew just how to trim curly hair without making me look like I had a fight with a weed-whacker.

"I have another date tonight," I mentioned, trying to keep up conversation. I made it my duty to lead the thoughts and words we exchanged. I usually spoke of dates, a habit I needed to break but had no substitute topic just yet. I'll have to remember to read a book on conversation-starters or finally learn to play the guitar I kept in my apartment next to the cooler and stack of untouched magazines.

There I go again, talking about myself! How rude of me!

Francis is an interesting man. I thought of making him a trophy—or an award of some sort for myself. My plans fell through when I saw him out with a man with short, shaggy hair and obscene eyebrows. Francis went on and on about Arthur and how great Arthur was and how Arthur couldn't cook and Arthur was so cute when he was flustered. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

I don't hate a lot but I fucking hate Arthur.

Gilbert is interesting, but mostly in how loud he was, inside and out. His hair was so shockingly white and his eyes were red like the blood in his veins. Those pupils struck me like a hammer and I found myself lost whenever I caught his eyes flickering, twitching, involuntarily moving in circles in his head. He was self-conscious whenever he caught me staring and would wear his special sunglasses even in the absence of light.

His eyesight was poor and it would work well for me should I need to use it against him. No, that's mean—it's not against him, it's for me. No, that's selfish, isn't it?

Gilbert looked at me again, his lips were moving but I didn't hear his words. I was caught in those crimson eyes again and excusing myself to the bathroom where I had a new problem to take care of. I think I need him. He's already such a beautiful trophy.

That night I took another walk around the area. I stopped by the river and watched the distorted reflections of the moon and city lights in the water, swishing around and crashing together. The images before were gone and replaced by a new mosaic that soon died as well. Die is too ugly. It was reborn. I liked that—reborn. I find myself reborn in a way, a new light shed on my life and making it worth something again.

The emptiness I constantly felt was draining. I did what I could to be normal again and fit in with the crowd. I learned when to smile, laugh, frown, cry. All those faces I had to memorize were lost in time and all those books I read on cooking or music were like music to the deaf. The person my friends knew was not me, but the person I am is not me. I only felt real, alive, when I meet my loves.

My trophies made me Antonio. When they were gone, so was I. When I was nothing, I was just me. I kicked a pebble—or was it a beer can?—into the river. I craved to be Antonio again.

I will be Antonio again.

There was a laundromat a few blocks down from Francis's place. Francis lived in a better part of the city with an apartment that had buzzers and assigned parking spots for the tenants. I didn't live in a bad area but it was pretty dirty and surrounded by dumpsters and teen parents who dropped out of high school. They were always out on their balconies, smoking while the babies cried. I liked to watch them.

But they were too close.

The wind blew by and it brought me back to the street I was crossing. It was a still night and the moon was hiding behind the clouds. The light of the twenty-four/seven laundromat was blinding and cathartic. I could see the blonde mop of hair already.

Arthur was always doing his laundry after work, at eleven o'clock, every Thursday. He was like clockwork. It made sense, no one was ever there this late on Thursday. I studied him for weeks and he never wavered. He was always on schedule.

It was this same laundromat where he took Francis from me.

"Oh, we met at the dirty old laundry place down the street."

"You have a washer," I said. "Why were you there?"

"I have a few places I like to go to when my bed is feeling lonely," he laughed. "I thought I'd meet a desperate single mom or a hot college student. My little English muffin was a nice surprise."

What a hypocrite.

I cringed against the light of the building and ignored the bell that resounded when I pushed through the glass door. Arthur looked up and back down, finding his dirty socks more important than me.

There was a machine in the corner that exchanged dollars for quarters. I didn't think to bring clothes or think of any excuses why I was here alone with nothing. I usually did well without preparation. I approached the machine, feigning looking for money in my pocket.

I could feel the English man watching me behind my back. I hummed a happy tune I once heard a child on the subway singing.

"I must confess," I found myself purring as I turned suddenly to face him. His face was red and he seemed embarrassed to be caught staring. "I'm not here for laundry."

His eyes flickered and he stuttered, "Then w-why are you here?"

I smiled and took a step closer. "I was walking home from work and saw you through the window. I would have had to kick myself if I didn't speak to you," I lied. "It's hard to find true beauty in the city."

His cheeks turned red and I was sure his neck was hotter than the sun. He looked nervous.

"I'd like to ask you out," I smiled. "One date, so I can tell my friends angels truly exist."

He was suddenly so sheepish—not like the bold, angry man Francis was always ranting about. He shakily nodded his head and finished his laundry. "Tomorrow night," he whispered. I smiled again and nodded.

"I can't wait."

It was less of a date and more of dry-humping and kissing back at my apartment. Gay men in this city were so trusting. I had him pinned to my couch and he moaned into my every move. I kissed his neck and sucked until I heard him whining. I bit, he moaned again.

I bit harder and he tried to push me off.

"That hurts," he complained. I faked an apology and went back to taking all his walls down.

Every move and noise was another brick falling out and crashing at my feet. I wondered if Francis ever had him like this: a mess in need.

Soon we were intertwined on the floor, the couch not providing enough room. The noises he made were so disgusting. How could he do this to Francis? What kind of monster was he, cheating on my best friend like this? I knew he was a bad, bad man when I first heard his name drip from Francis's lips like poison.

Arthur's eyes were screwed shut. I had my chance. I reached my hand under the couch, brushing past a lost TV remote and dust bunnies. My fingers wrapped around the wooden handle and I dug it out into the world.

"F-fuck," he cried. I rose my hand and separated myself momentarily. His eyes opened, as if to question what I was doing. Then the drop. He didn't have time to pale or scream.

All there was time for was the hammer crashing into the floor and rewarding me with my newest achievement.

I finished my business and cleaned myself up. It was messy, yes, and loud, but the loud rap music my neighbors blared did a good job covering it up. With my pants back on, I took in the beautiful sight before me and grabbed Arthur's ankles to drag him to the bathtub.

I didn't like that carpet anyway. I'll replace it soon enough.

Francis was upset that Arthur stopped calling him. I assured him that he was probably busy but Francis was dramatic. We were at Gilbert's house, which he shared with his brother, just outside the city. We had planned to watch sports or get drunk but the tone changed when Francis tried to call his beloved and never got an answer.

I appreciated Gilbert's apathy to the situation. He never cared for love in romance and I never cared for romance in love. Wait, that doesn't make sense. Does that make it poetic? Or does it make me poetic?

Gilbert's brother returned from his office where he worked on his thesis for school. He reminded us that he needed to watch the news and we let him. It wasn't like we were using the TV just yet.

There was a thrill when I saw the faces of past dates appear on the screen as missing persons. I was lucky half my dates were spur-of-the-moment situations. The last thing I need is to be caught, ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

My friends took to speaking to Ludwig about all the recent crime and 'murders' they can't prove. I find it incredibly funny that they think this is all recent events. I've done this for years and the police are only now just noticing it.

The world deserves me. Without me, there would be innocent people out there being hurt. They're lucky I was there to save them from that! I saved them from pain and rape and abuse!

Arthur should be thanking me. Francis will thank me.

My carpet wasn't hard to replace. I was trained in carpentry and most home improvement techniques by my father before he died. I couldn't save my father, sadly. He lost a battle with cancer those idiot doctors didn't catch until he only had months left. I wanted to free him. I wanted to badly to free him.

He suffered so much in his life. He didn't deserve it and that was how it all ended. His last moments were pain-filled and agonizing for everyone. No one deserves that.

My new carpet was a deep blue and soft like Gilbert's new puppy. He claimed he wanted a dog but I saw the vest in the hall closet. A Seeing Eye dog in training. Gilbert should just let me save him, too.

I know this is all about me, and I sound a little hungry, but not all my dates turn into trophies. Eliza did, yes, and I still have a lock of her hair tucked away in my dresser. But Emma was just another girl and I plan to see her again one day. She's lovely and she's a good way to keep myself out of suspicion of my friends.

Arthur is a lucky one. He lives on through me and he keeps me pushing forward to my goal of Francis. He's taking up quite a bit of room in my refrigerator but that won't be a problem for too long; next week is my turn to bring in lunch for my team at work. I promised them authentic Spanish food and won't know it's altered at all. Bless them.

Mental note: remember to take out the trash soon. I'll have to find some roadkill soon, I need maggots to clean my trophy. Those melting eyes look too sad to handle much longer.

My hair was getting too long. I was starting to look like my brother and I don't want my friends teasing me again, calling me Henrique. I almost feel sick thinking of him.

Oh no, another panic attack. Deep breaths, in, out…

…

…

All better! Time to find a new barber!

I went back to my usual place, only now I had to take a random stylist since Feliks left. I waited in the row of plastic chairs until my name was called. I almost didn't hear it until I saw the angry man staring at me with his intense, hazel eyes. He showed me to his station and asked what I wanted; his deep voice was chilling.

"Just a trim," I said back in my higher-pitched voice. He rolled his eyes.

"How many inches do you want off?"

He got to work on my hair, wetting it and trimming it with those odd scissors. He wasn't at all like Feliks. Feliks loved to talk and tell me all about his life and this guy he had a crush on in his complex.

This man was silent. He was immersed in his work and all I could hear was the snipping of my hair. He finished and blow-dried the rest.

"How is it?"

"It's wonderful," I replied, catching his eye in the mirror. "You're very skilled."

He grunted instead of speaking. He took back the apron tied around my neck and led me to the register to pay. Finally I could see his nametag.

"Lovino. That's a nice name."

"Whatever." He waited for my card to go through. "Have a nice day."

What an interesting man. I'll have to see him again.

I was disappointed that Lovino didn't remember me when I came back the next month for a trim. He was the same as before, very bitter and quiet. He was right to the point. I liked that.

Lovino was much harder to woo than my other beauties. He was adamant he didn't want to see me outside of work but his blush said otherwise. His attitude changed pretty quickly when I offered to pay for dinner and wine.

Stubborn and mooching. Lovino was special indeed.

I picked him up later that night just outside the shop he worked in. He insisted he was only doing this for the free food but his flushed cheeks and stuttering were obvious signs he wanted this. I'd say a joke or something I'd known previous dates to enjoy and I'd catch him trying not to smile or covering his mouth to hide a laugh with a cough.

"You have beautiful eyes," I repeated like on most dates.

He glared at me—something I never received as a response. "Really? My eyes? How fucking gay are you?"

"Very?"

His hand rose to his mouth again. "I can't control my eyes, dipshit."

"Then you have a beautiful laugh."

His face was red again and he tried to be mad. It was adorable how frustrated I could make him. Maybe I could liberate him like the rest.

When we finished our dinner I offered him to come back to my place for coffee or a movie and, for the first time, I was turned down. He smirked at me, reiterating that he was only in this for the food.

"I have coffee at home," he teased me. Mocked me? "I only care if there's food."

I watched him turn on his heel and walk away from me, heading in an unknown direction. For some reason I wasn't compelled to follow him home and learn his schedule. There was something about him, something unusual. I wanted the mystery to remain for once. I didn't want to learn Lovino… I wanted to know him.

I found myself in my apartment again, feeling empty once more. My heart beat faster and I felt the thrill fade away before I even knew it was there. Why did I feel this way?

I let it go and went to my kitchen to have my leftover Arthur. Maybe that will make me feel like usual. Never normal.

The next time I saw Lovino was by chance. I was taking the bus back home from work and he was there, sitting alone. I hobbled to an empty seat and he found me as well.

His eyebrows raised and he looked concerned for the first time. He looked me up and down and eventually asked, "What happened?"

I smiled and rested the metal crutches against my knees, one foot propped out further to avoid pressure. "I had a minor accident."

"Minor accident?" he asked, voice skeptical.

"Some home repair. I was a little drunk, ha ha," I lied.

He continued eyeing my foot, wrapped all around in beige bandages and hidden in a black brace-like boot. "Is it broken?"

"It is," I admitted. "But now I get extra time off work to heal!"

He rolled his eyes and I caught him fighting a smile. "Where do you live?"

This wasn't Lovino. This wasn't the man I met before. This was another person in his skin, searching my kitchen for supplies and making dinner for me while insisting I stay on the couch and relax. He said I was an idiot and would surely hurt myself. This was his Catholic duty—his charity.

I think he likes me.

He still cursed at me and pretended to be mad while being genuine and nice. He found spare pillows in my closet and propped my foot up on a chair. He made me food and brought it to me on my only tray. He was even nice enough not to snoop through my boxes and disturb Arthur or Feliks.

When I ate, he sat with me and watched Netflix. When I was done, he took my plates and washed them. We were together on that couch, leaning closer into each other's personal space. I found myself able to talk freely. I spoke of the carpet, of cooking, of things my nameless friends told me.

A few times he forgot to fake disdain.

He didn't leave until midnight. After he was long down the metal steps and out the building, I finally noticed a piece of paper left on the cushion he had sat on. A phone number.

When would he be Lovino again?

I felt empty, wrong, aching. It was like my heart skipped a beat and never started again. I was breathing but suffocating on the stiff air. There was no release, no tension, no anxiety, no rush. It was empty and it was maddening and I needed to feel something now or I would lose his mind.

It was driving me insane. I felt like I was losing it, even the ability to form coherent thoughts became rushed and blurred. I needed gratification and I needed it now.

There, kicked back under the couch, I searched desperately for that old hammer. There was still blood and gunky bits dried onto it and a few bugs crawled all around it. I hurried to the kitchen to rinse it in the sink, scraping the brain and blood and hair off with a butter knife.

It's coming, it's coming, it's happening! I need this, I need this, I need to feel—

And I threw the metal down as hard as I could and felt the explosion of warmth and shock breaking through my foot. I shrieked after a moment of pleasure before I dropped down to the kitchen floor, now with blood oozing onto it.

I panted and panted and gasped. I could finally breathe again.

It was Francis who took me to the hospital. The ride back to his place—he insisted I spend that night—was hazy… but I remember him trying to ask me what really happened. He didn't buy my story that I got dizzy when putting my tools away. He was surprised I even had tools when I lived alone on the second story of an apartment.

I'm fantastic at convincing people to see things my way. When we were back at his apartment, myself placed in his lavish bed, I looked away from him.

"It was an accident," I whispered. "I wasn't trying to hurt myself."

Then a few stray tears fell.

"Oh Toni," he had whimpered, placing his arms around me. "I thought we were past this."

And I smiled.

We met in college when I was first exploring ways to feel like myself. The first time I truly felt like Antonio was when I discovered masochism in all its forms. Burning, cutting, scratching. I never did it like those kids I knew in high school. I had friends before who would confide in me that they were depressed and cut themselves and I know Francis's own sister used to hurt herself and was caught when a teacher made her take her arm-warmers off.

It was different for me and only used as a substitute when I couldn't breathe.

And Francis fell for it. He fell for it every time.

Lovino started coming by my apartment more and more frequently. He helped me out, bringing me water and my pain medicine or preparing my food or just keeping me company. It was unusual. Most of my romantic relationships were quick dinners out and sex back home, every once in a while I got a new trophy from it.

This was different. There was no sex and barely any actual contact. We were just together, talking, keeping company. It was warm, and soft, and… normal.

I'm not used to normal.

I wanted him to be my next trophy more than anything, he was special, he was a treasure. I wanted this so bad… so why did the emptiness hurt when I thought about it? When he sat next to me, watching TV or speaking of his day, it felt like a dream. Surreal. Then when I progress my fantasy to that moment of freeing his spirit and keeping his skull for a keepsake, it was like my stomach filled with marbles and wouldn't stop. They crashed and grew and it ached.

What did he do to me?

My foot was slow to heal but it was getting better with each passing week. My visits with Lovino grew more frequent and my walks out into the night ceased. The crutches made it harder but Lovino made it unnecessary.

I found myself throwing out Eliza's hair before one of his visits.

When he entered my apartment he gave me a new look. We kissed for the first time that day, and that night we made it back to my bed with minimal limping on my part.

We fell to the bed and I insisted on being on top, which he allowed after a second of hesitation. Clothes flew off and we became a moving mass. The lights were dim and he had his head turned into the pillow.

This is my chance.

I can strangle him right now. It's so much easier to clean, so beautiful to watch the life leave their eyes…

And as my hands inches up his chest and to his neck I stopped. It was wrong. I didn't want to free him, I didn't want to lose him. I needed him beside me. I couldn't.

I had to be selfish.

We laid together in bed afterwards, silent looks and bashful head turns were the only conversation we needed. There was a rush in my veins different from Arthur and different from Emma.

I felt whole, warm, like my smiles weren't fake this time. Lovino's face lit up again and he shyly nudged his way closer to me, head resting on my chest. It was warm. It was soft. And now I realized something; the man I met before who glared and swore wasn't the same man on me, he wasn't the man I thought he was—this, this person listening to my heart—was Lovino. This was the real him without the bitter mask and forced stubbornness.

And I began to wonder, if this is the real Lovino… is this the real me? It's as if when I'm with Lovino, I'm finally Antonio. Then, one day, he'll stop being Lovino just like everyone else stopped being them. He won't be soft and mysterious and kind. Lovino will be the nameless man like I knew before and I can't let him live like that.

I can't stand to allow people to let themselves fade. One day I'll stop being Antonio for good—and that week will be my burial, my memory fading like everyone else's already had. Only then will I be free to enter Heaven like all my trophies who had been given early entrance, saved from this confusing world of identities and faces forgotten.

I'll save Lovino. I'll save myself. For now, I'll settle for being lost with him.

…

But I'm keeping Arthur.

A/N: Serial Killer Antonio! Yay...?

Explanation time (because this was kind of confusing):

I tried my best to make his thought process skewed like a killer's might be so he would have trouble with emotions and such. He's so far gone that he truly believes he's doing good... the cannibalism, however, is his own fucked up mind experimenting.

His "trophies" are remains he keeps of his victims, favoring skulls. Not every date ends in murder. Arthur was a special case that ended in cannibalism.

He feels close to Francis and Gilbert and he wants to "help" them as well, in his own twisted way. He feels selfish when he allows people he likes to live.

Henrique implies something bad happened in his past, which could have influenced him to become a murderer. His father's passing could explain why he thinks killing is okay if he concludes it's a mercy killing.

Serial killers tend to be excellent at deception, exhibited by Antonio's easy ability to lie and manipulate people into dates or to get Francis to pity him rather than question him. He makes the aftermath of his killing appear normal.

Gilbert's poor eyesight is because he's albino, which tends to result in eye problems. His eyes moving oddly is "Nystagmus."

He killed Arthur, Feliks, and Eliza (with other deaths not mentioned). He never killed Emma. He plans on eventually killing Lovino the himself. His new obsession with Lovino is erasing his desires to "free" Francis or Gilbert.

Bonus: I was heavily influenced by Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer.