{{EDIT: Grr...for some reason this keeps deleting! Prolly the third time I had to upload this :P}}
Okay guys, so here's a new story for all of you out there. I was inspired by another story - I can't remember the name - and this fiction was born! I really, really love blind/deaf!Blaine stories, and sometimes killer!Kurt stories, so that's why I wanted to do this so badly :) There is slight gore in this, possibly more in later chapters, and I do warn you, Kurt is a little...psychopathic. But it's all good in fanfiction, right?
I sincerely hope that you all leave a review and tell me your thoughts! This is my first mult-chapter story, after all, and I would really love to hear your opinions on it!
The blood washed out cleanly from between his fingers, slowly cascading down his nails and dripping into the pure white sink, and disappearing into the drain like tentacles outstretching from a squid. He flicked his hands as soon as the bubbles from the soap he was using popped, until the last one was harshly swallowed by the pressure of the running water from the nozzle. The water pelted the mirror above him, scattering into a half circle-like shape.
Fingers fumbling for the two sink knobs, he let out a contented sigh as it made a high pitched squeaking noise, the cold water stopping it's short rain abruptly afterwards. Grabbing a towel from the towel rack, he rubbed his hands down with the bright yellow throw towel, before neatly putting it in the hamper behind him, turning on his heel and walking calmly out the bathroom door.
The air around him was quite putrid, actually; the smell of ammonia travels fast through a one-story house, he mused. Walking down the hallway with ease, he almost turned the corner and into the living room and family room, but paused upon seeing the master bedroom's door cracked open about a quarter of the way.
Letting out a disdainful sigh, he peeked into the room for just a tiny moment, smiling softly as he observed the clean, almost hotel-room state of it, before slowly closing the door and walking back to the living room.
After a few steps though, he couldn't shake that sticky part on the heel of his shoe; where, after each time he lifted one of his shoes, it would stick for a moment to the floor. Lifting up his designer boots, he frowned in annoyance as a splash of scarlet liquid dribbled from his boots.
"I'm seriously going have to douse these in water," he sighed, stamping his heel on the ground and twisting it around, smirking as he left a faint smidge of the fluid on the wooden flooring.
As he passed by the kitchen, he quickly grabbed a bagel, halfway out of the microwave, frowning at it's slight crunch, but still eating it nonetheless. He was practically starving, anyway.
Leaning against the counter top and scanning the kitchen, he quickly pushed off as soon as his bagel was finished, hopping over the minor obstacle on the floor. "Goodness," he gasped, running a hand through his hair. "I can't get around in this house!" he growled exasperatedly, shaking his head.
After walking - well, dodging and slipping was more like it - out of the kitchen, he paused, his hand halfway on the handle, as he looked back over his shoulder at the house, the scent of ammonia and something iron-like was still evident in the air.
He sighed, narrowing his eyes and looking back to the door. "I hope that it clears that horrible post-death smell that people get," he hissed to himself, before opening the door, luckily, his scarf wrapped around his hand, and walking out onto the front porch.
"Nice neighborhood," he mocked as he looked at the abandoned, crappy block he was on. "I'm glad I only came for a little while."
About to walk down the porches steps and to the driveway, he cursed silently as he stumbled forward, very close to the steps, in fact. Looking down, he raised his eyebrows in interest at the plastic-wrapped newspaper laying on the concrete, glinting up at him invitingly.
Bending down and snatching it from the ground, he almost laughed out loud in a mocking-sort of way as he read the bold, capital words on the front page, just underneath the words 'The Lima Reporter': 'SHADOW KILLER STRIKES AGAIN: 23 YEAR-OLD WOMAN FOUND IN ALLEYWAY THIS MORNING' it read, as clear as it could ever be.
He shook his head, folding up the paper and putting underneath one arm. "I killed her four days ago, and just now someone was noticing?"
Kurt Hummel walked down the steps of the home, and down the dirt-gravel like driveway, getting into his nice and expensive car. Pulling away from the house, he looked in the rearview mirror for the last time at his latest killing.
Shadow Killer Strikes Again: 23 year-old Woman Found In Alleyway This Morning
The 'Shadow Killer', as they've now been dubbed by police, has done it again, but this time with 23 year-old Melissa Bentley! The young woman was found in the back of an alleyway last night by a homeless man who went down the alley to see what the horrible smell was.
[Proceed with caution: what you made read next could be disturbing] Melissa was found gagged, with her throat slit and impaled through her chest. The twenty-three year-olds' hands and legs were also bound together, and, like the Shadow Killer's usual killing style, her eyes taped shut with tape. The poor girl didn't stand a chance. According to the police who investigated the crime, her time of death was about four days ago.
"I noticed the smell last night, when I was searching thro' some dumpsters for used clothes. To me, I thought it smelt like a dead raccoon or something, but I was really only half right," says Patches, the homeless man who found the victim.
The police are now trying to…
Kurt hardly bothered to read on, rolling his eyes in annoyance and tossing the paper on the desk beside him. Tapping his pencil tip on the paper, very much annoyed, he growled, lowly.
"I take it you read the story on the Shadow Killer, huh?" Kurt looked up from his position, almost smiling when he saw his step mother and sort-of assistant, Carole, walk into his office, coffee tray in her hands.
Kurt exhaled deeply, nodding and murmuring a small thank you as she handed him over one of the many coffee's. "I thought I was supposed to be the expert on the killer, not the lazy guys from the Lima Reporter!" he hissed, sipping the lukewarm coffee with a quick breath intake.
Carole sighed, settling herself down on the chair across from him. "I know, I know, people won't want to buy our papers if we repeat the same stories over and over again. You've explained it to me," she said slowly, sighing once again.
Kurt grunted, sipping his coffee once again. After his mother died when he was a mere eight years old, his father, Burt, was completely and utterly depressed - not that anyone could blame him. When Kurt was seventeen, a year after Burt and Carole had begun dating, they got married.
"Thanks, Carole," he grumbled, grabbing his rival newspaper and reading through the front page once again. Carole gave him a slight nod, grabbing the coffee tray once again and heading out the door silently.
He sighed, pressing a forefinger to his temple and a thumb to the top of his cheek. Things were just so stressful lately; his boss was hounding him for another one of his infamous segments on the 'Shadow Killer' - he thought the name was one of the dumbest names anyone could give him, but, alias, how could he say anything without giving himself away? - and Kurt was little to none pleased with giving a fake background and criminal profiling himself; he didn't think anyone understood how strenuous that was.
"Hummel!" he rolled his eyes in annoyance once again, looking up as Noah Puckerman, one of the cops he worked for, peeking inside his office, a stoic expression on his face. "We got another scene." He informed him, nodding to the door.
Kurt nodded, grabbing his bag, camera and notepad, pushing the newspaper off of the desk and into the trashcan, where, in his mind, it belonged.
At the edge of the crime scene, standing a few feet away from the body of an older woman, no more than fifty, Kurt held the camera up to his face, taking another quick picture of her.
"There are three bodies; one out here, one in the master bedroom, and another in the kitchen. I think this one is Dianna Blackwell, according to the description that the girl who found them gave us," Quinn Fabray, one of the investigators, said in a stony voice as soon as she came from the master bedroom, looking up at her fellow investigators. She looked at the woman, Dianna, pity evident. "Trust me, the guy in the bedroom looks worse," she sighed, turning on her heel and walking away.
Kurt looked from his camera, surveying his handy work on this woman. He remembered it from this morning; the woman in the kitchen was the first to go. She was the wife, and her husband had still been asleep. Kurt didn't really know who this was - perhaps one of their mothers? - but it wasn't like he wouldn't find out soon enough. Working with the FBI on his own crimes was tough sometimes, and others, well, it just made him want to kill one of the people dissecting the crime.
In his own inner anger and annoyance, he let out a small growl, shaking his head. His eyes disappeared behind his camera once again as he took yet another picture of the body, watching as Puckerman - or Puck, as many referred to him as - got up, dusting his thighs off.
"Let's get them out to the crime lab," Quinn sighed, walking to the door to probably call someone to bring in some stretchers.
The 'Shadow Killer' as he has been dubbed, is one of America's most hidden and feared criminal. No one knows who he is, or even who he'll kill next; he strikes at random, in what we can only assume is in fits of rage or annoyance is when he'll attack next. His choice of weapon is a knife, using only a gun on dire circumstances.
He is cold, and usually kills within three to four stabs…
Kurt narrowed his eyes at his own profile, the one that Rachel Berry, another investigator and his step-brothers girlfriend - or fiancée…they were a very confusing couple - had written up. Crumbling it in his hands, he let out a disgruntled sigh, watching as his breath fogged in the air.
She was true, though, in some points.
He threw the paper on the sidewalk, not caring as it bounced off of the concrete and over to the apartment buildings' brick wall. It was true that his killing pattern was almost completely random; unless he had a problem that he needed to be 'taken care of' he really didn't care who he killed. Well, never children. He may display over ten of the psychopathic traits, but he didn't think he could handle killing a child.
The cold feeling of the knife in his pocket, pressing against the leg of his pants reminded him why he was out here on tonight, not in his apartment complex, reading a book and watching Criminal Minds reruns. Kurt's hand left his jacket pockets and slowly went down to his thigh, gripping around the knife, despite the small, muffled pinch that he felt as it's sharp edges pierced slightly through the fabric - something that he hated once he cleaned his clothes after a killing.
"Beautiful night," a crossing guard commented as Kurt paused, waiting at the street corner for a few cars to pass.
Kurt tilted his head up, where a streetlight was illuminating a small halo around it's bulb, and a few stars scattered in the dark blue sky. "It is," he agreed, picking up his pace as soon as the crossing guard walked a few feet down, and to the center of the street. Kurt gave him a slight nod as he passed, meeting where the street ended and the next sidewalk began.
A soft grin grew across his features as he walked into the grass, his boots crushing the small twigs and snowmelt from the snow that fell a few days ago. After crossing the small grass stretch and hopping onto the gravel trail that led into the park, Kurt began walking once again, his eyes scanning the trees and pathway in front of him for anyone else that could be a possible victim.
He walked up the trail with ease, pricking up his ears as soon as he heard the soft bubbling of the brook that was neatly tucked behind a few desolate trees. Smiling softly, Kurt walked from the pathway, cutting through the grass and over to the tree area, and moving between a few trees to get near it.
Almost as soon as he stepped from the trees, however, he paused as he saw someone else, looking about the same age but shorter, standing in front of the brook, just watching, nothing more.
Kurt flashed a small smile; he moved forward like a silent panther, stalking it's prey and moving in close for the final kill. His foot, however, had a different idea; it hit a huge splash of snowmelt, causing the reporter/serial killer to slide down the incline, hitting a few of the reeds as he came to a stop when his foot hit a rock.
The person - a male, as he noticed - looked startled, looking at where Kurt had fell with wide, frazzled hazel eyes. He moved down slowly, extending a hand to help Kurt up. With an embarrassed smile, Kurt took his hand, being lifted from the ground with a surprising strength.
"Sorry," Kurt apologized, dusting his pants off and frowning at the mud, water, and grass staining his black pants. Great, he hissed in his thoughts, I've just ruined a pair of expensive pants! Again!
The man nodded, and as he came to the light, Kurt got a better look at him. He had gelled down curly dark brown hair, and, by the look of it, he didn't look any younger than Kurt did.
Kurt was looking over him so intently - something that he never did with any of his victims; he never actually got a good look at them before making a kill - that he almost didn't notice the exotic movements that the other young adult was doing with his hands, something that he had only seen before a few times.
"Are you trying to tell me something…?" Kurt asked, raising an eyebrow.
The other male paused, nodding.
Kurt blinked. "Can you speak?" he asked, coming to a small realization. Mute people did sign language, right? Was that what the stranger was doing?
The smaller man shook his head, pointing to his ear and making a big 'X' mark with his hands, at least four times in similar repetitive movements.
"You're deaf than? You can't hear?" Kurt asked, pointing to his own ear as an emphasis. He watched as the stranger smiled, nodding.
Well that's…different. Kurt admitted to himself silently. He never had a disabled victim before. The news reporters and profilers all said he went at random, but that was a small misconception. He usually went after healthier victims; he liked setting himself up a challenge.
Realizing that this deaf stranger could probably read lips, which was why he could understand what Kurt was saying, he didn't know why, but he found himself introducing himself. "I'm Kurt," he told him, cursing at himself as he extended his hand. "Kurt Hummel."
The other man shook it, before making some strange signs with his hands again. Kurt shook his head, blinking.
"I'm sorry, I can't read sign language," he informed him, slightly guiltily. Wait - guilty? He was never guilty!
Pausing for a second, as if he was remembering, the man in front of him took a few moments before finally saying, "I'm Blaine Anderson," But his voice was too loud, too chopped up and his words sounded slurred in a way.
Kurt smiled. "Blaine. That's a nice name," he commented, watching as Blaine smiled brightly.
After a few moments of just acknowledging each others presence, Kurt silently cursed at himself, holding back a face palm. Why was he getting to know one of his victims? He didn't do the whole 'getting to be a part of their lives' thing that those other psychopaths did. He didn't want them to feel betrayed; he wanted his victims to be surprised, in a sense.
"Do you live near here?" Kurt asked, curious.
Blaine nodded, suddenly grabbing Kurt's hand and leading him from the brook. Kurt frowned, twisting awkwardly for a moment, but than just deciding to follow as Blaine took him to the pathway, and to one of the many large maps that were scattered along the trail.
The deaf boy glanced at the map, tapping his chin, before reaching up on his tiptoes and pressing his finger onto the red dot that said 'Westerville' on it.
Kurt raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Westerville isn't that close, you know," he informed him as soon as Blaine turned back around. "It's about…an hour or two away, I think?" He smiled.
Blaine shrugged, and, if Kurt knew any better, he could've sworn that he saw a blush gracing across Blaine's cheek, glowing underneath the streetlight.
"I'm a reporter," And a serial killer. "I write for the Lima Times."
Blaine's eyes widened, and he made a few signs with his hands, before pausing, probably remembering that Kurt couldn't understand it, before he just nodded enthusiastically.
"Are you trying to say that you know who I am? Or that you read the paper?" Kurt asked, unsure.
Blaine pointed to Kurt.
"You know who I am," he realized, a grin growing across his face.
Blaine suddenly pointed to himself, before making weird movements in the air, his hands gripping what would probably be a pencil.
"Are you writing in the air, or…?" Kurt asked curiously, shaking his head and cocking it to the side.
Blaine shook his had, and, with two fingers, dapping an invisible item with them, before making the same movements again.
Painting. He's painting. "Oh, you're a painter?" he asked.
Blaine nodded with a huge smile on his face, looking like he hadn't talked to anyone in months and Kurt was the first to speak with him. Maybe that was true.
Kurt looked around him. "Is that why you were out here? To paint something?" he asked Blaine, looking back at the other man.
Blaine sighed, rubbing his forehead for a second, before looking up and making a sort of gripping motion with his hand, while holding another hand above it and, once again, looking like he was gripping something while moving above it.
"A notebook? Something to write with?" Kurt asked slowly, watching as Blaine nodded at him.
Kurt fished through his other pocket - a reporter was always prepared - and grabbed a notepad and pen, handing it over to Blaine.
Blaine nodded gratefully, before clicking the pens top and starting to jot down a few sentences on the notepads lines. I was delivering a painting for a woman who requested it, Blaine showed him the paper, before taking it back to write something else. I came across the park, and I smelled the mud and reeds from the brook when I passed. I went back this morning to check it out, for inspiration for my own personal collection.
Kurt glanced at Blaine. "At night, though? Why not in the afternoon?" he joked, smiling as Blaine twisted sheepishly.
I came here at three o' clock, actually. I didn't know it was nighttime until you slipped, and than I suddenly saw how dark everything was. I guess I was in my inspirational zone. Kurt laughed.
"Well, it's almost ten," Kurt sighed. Suddenly, the cold press of the knife came back, but Kurt thoroughly ignored it, looking from his phone and to Blaine. "Do you have a phone?" he asked, suddenly.
Blaine nodded, grabbing his Blackberry from his pocket and flashing it to Kurt.
Kurt smiled softly. "Here, I'll give you my number so we can text. I'm not really sure how calling would work out," he laughed, pulling up the 'New Contact' section on his iPhone. Blaine jotted down his number on the notepad, handing it over to Kurt.
"954-291-3384," Kurt mused. Taking the pen, Kurt wrote down his own number, tearing it from the page and giving it to the deaf man.
Blaine nodded, putting it in his pocket along with his phone.
"I'll text you later," Kurt said, waving a goodbye to Blaine. Blaine nodded, walking off, probably to see the brook once again.
Walking a few feet ahead, Kurt paused once he reached the street, looking over to where Blaine disappeared, than back at the other side of the street.
"Did I just get close to one of my victims?" he asked himself quietly, blinking.
So there you have it! I really hope that you all enjoyed it, and let's all hope I don't have to upload this stupid thing again!