Warning: AU, homicide, suicide, implied sex, general oddity. I would not read this if I believed in sunshine and rainbows and cute puppies who shat butterflies. I just wouldn't, even if the style is straight to the point and not gag-y (where the murder is so detailed you have nightmares). About the style – it's short, slightly choppy. This is not the type of story with long paragraphs, in fact, most of the paragraphs are one liners, to add to the effect that I tried to portray. And failed.
Disclaimer: I disclaim.
Enjoy. Or don't. Whatever floats your boat.
Names
He finds her in a café, sipping from a mug of hot chocolate, a half eaten piece of cake sitting idly in front of her. She's alluring, leaning against the window, her caramel colored hair clinging to the condensation, and he feels a tugging at his heartstrings.
A tugging he hasn't felt since she died.
He knows he shouldn't – it's not healthy – but he stalks in her general direction anyway, plopping down on the seat across her with a witty smirk.
She eyes him wearily before responding to his grin with her own.
They were strangers.
He asks her out because it's the only thing he's thought of as a way to keep her in his arms. She's befuddled by his confession - "I like you" - but accepts readily either way.
He smiles softly.
Though his eyes show a completely different story all together.
"This is Natsume."
He meets Hotaru Imai, an elegant, refined woman with a short chop of raven hair, amethyst hued eyes, a somewhat pale complexion, long legs and a lean body. She's cold and rather distant (cruel), and proceeds to raise one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him as the introduction comes to an end.
Imai recognizes that there is something off about him, but wisely keeps her mouth shut.
He is next acquainted with Ruka Nogi. Ruka is blond, with glistening blue eyes and a soft face. He is only slightly built, a little taller than average, and has perfected his smile over the years so much that it has become believable.
Much like Natsume's.
Ruka is generally kind and compassionate, but how he eyes people and how he sees animals differ greatly.
The look on his face changes.
She introduces him to a couple next: Tsubasa Andou and Misaki Harada. They're to be married in the spring. Tsubasa is tan and sporty, with dark, dark brown hair and a star tattoo plastered under one of his eyes, whereas Misaki is a fierce redhead with a kind but determined look and a fiery personality.
They seem happy together as they smile at Natsume.
Nonoko Ogasawara and Anna Umenomiya are next to be presented to him, one with straight navy blue hair and the other with pink curls. They are genuinely warm, but seem to prefer each other's company rather than dealing with the situation at hand.
They tolerate him enough to place smiles upon their faces, yet send worried glances in his girlfriend's direction every time they assume he's not looking.
It is amusing yet irritating to see...
He is bluntly introduced to Tobita Yuu, a smart young man with average features, Sumire Shouda, with a perm of green hair and a knack for eying guys dreamily, Youchi Hijiri, who seems like a ghost, Kokoro Yome, who enjoys joking consistently, Nobara Ibaragi, who views him suspiciously and shyly, and Akira Tonouchi, a womanizer with too much time on his hands.
He hates these people.
She mumbles something incoherent in his ear as they fall onto the cold mattress. The silk crumples under their bodies and passion basks in the air. The covers dampen with their perspiration; fervent heat accumulates.
He loves this woman, here before him, and he knows it's too, too late.
They make love under the full moon of November.
Akira, Natsume decides, should be the first to go. He rarely associates himself with social circles, preferring the company of women he will never meet again. Akira neither works nor handles business outside of home, rarely leaves the premises of his three story mansion – inherited from his grandparents – and he has no workers.
Natsume maneuvers into his residence a little after midnight, breaks his fragile neck, and then throws the body down the longest flight of stairs.
It lands, crippled and broken and absolutely pitiful, on the merciless, frigid wooden floor.
Natsume doesn't look back.
She is heartbroken when she hears of the freak accident, but is comforted by his support. His arms.
The arms of a killer.
Kokoro Yome is next to go.
He struggles vehemently when Natsume chokes him from the back, but isn't strong enough to fight the darkness eloping his hazy mind.
Yome drops into Natsume's awaiting arms, still breathing, quietly, so, so quietly.
Natsume slits his throat in one swift motion. The cut is smooth and blood flees in rivulets.
Blood blood blood.
How exciting.
He stuffs the rotting corpse into a black trash bag, along with the towels he used to clean the pool of spilled blood, and dumps the body in a trashcan several miles away.
They find the decapitated body sometime later.
He injects the needle into her pale, porcelain skin, and pushes the drug deep, deep into the running rivers of her veins. She falls inelegantly and he decides to drag her body into the bathroom. As the bathtub fills with water, he undresses her limp body, unflinching as he eyes her in all her naked glory. The faucet is turned off, and he slips her body in the clear dampness, placing her in the most comfortable position. He kicks the clothes away from him, places Sumire's forearms on the sides of the tub, and grabs a sharp razor. Natsume prods her inner arms for the largest veins, and cuts deep, vertical lines right on top of them, making sure they are convincing of a suicide.
The razor is dropped to the floor near the tub as his masterpiece is finished.
Three gone.
Eleven more to go.
They call it the Black Cat. The bad luck that grabs at the mentally healthy people and makes them commit either suicide or homicide.
That's what they decide when they find both Nonoko Ogasawara and Anna Umenomiya dead from a bath salt overdose in their shared apartment, when neither had ever experimented with drugs, alcohol, or cigarettes.
It's the Black Cat. The disease.
The killer.
And he's loving it.
Tsubasa and Misaki cry how much they love each other as he stabs them, again and again and again and again and there's so much blood and it's pouring and pouring and pouring from their flesh, their innards, their hearts and their souls.
Dead dead dead.
They're dead within the hour. He lets them say their goodbyes and hold each other as he licks their mixed blood off the tip of his dagger.
He bleeds.
It hurts.
Yuu is back in town, and as he strolls out of the train to the nearest public bathroom, the air turns cold. The lights flicker as a wire winds around his neck – twice – and squeezes.
Blood is drawn.
Blood blood blood.
His circulation freezes as his eyes roll back in his head; his hands are frigid as his body goes limp; his face pales as he falls dead.
They find his body in a stall.
No one ever suspected.
Her hair matches the hue of the lake in which he drowns her, and her body turns blue, too, as she slowly strays from life.
It's quiet, far too quiet as her body slowly sinks, down down down, and the icy sheets floating about her constantly scurry away.
She looks like a siren lurking in the waters, pleading for a man to come to her.
The sun beats down on her falling corpse weakly.
She's not suspicious at all as she sobs on his shoulder with the frailty only women seem capable of, and her body trembles against his.
He comforts her.
He loves her.
He's enough.
The ghost is caught, and he hangs from the ceiling, pale and so, so fragile.
Ruka is torn to pieces.
His lover cries, she cries so much these days, but it doesn't even seem to matter. Not to him. Not anymore.
Because he's planned it all along. Because it's a list of names, and he plucks them off, one by one, until she's the only one left.
Every other day seems to be a funeral, a day of remembrance, and the woman he loves can't shed enough tears to show how much she's lost.
Darkness wants to swallow her being whole.
Hotaru is a special case, he thinks. The last friend of his lover, the only one suspecting anything.
He does not trust her around, does not trust her to keep her mouth shut or wait for any evidence before convicting him.
Natsume is enough evidence for it all, and he knows.
Of course he killed them, slaughtered them all like the filthy, impure pigs they were, undeserving of his woman and all that she'd done for them.
But no one has to know.
Especially not his love.
He knocks on the door.
One, two...
Knock knock.
"Who's there?"
"Who's there!?"
"Who's there?"
"Natsume."
He keeps his mouth shut tight as she slowly unlocks the door.
Natsume lunges at her unexpectedly, and she begins struggling when they land on the carpet. But it's futile, every action she brings to life is useless, because he's too strong, too overpowering. He sees real emotion on her generally plastic face, real fear and fury and anxiousness, and he feels thrill running through his blood. A hand fishes for his knife as he grins wickedly at her.
"She'll never forgive you," she seethes, trying to spit in his face.
"She doesn't have to know," he replies without a second thought, a second glance, as he stabs Imai clean between the ribs.
Reticence follows, then a chocking sob, and his eyes flash to the source.
"Aoi..."
"Mikan," he breathes.
"Wha-?"
There is fear in her eyes, fear directed at him.
A soft mumble underneath him, an order to run, and Mikan bolts for the door.
But Natsume is quicker than his prey. He has always been quicker.
"Going somewhere, love?" he whispers down her back, pinning her to the wall with one hand and his upper body.
"Why, Nii-san?"
"W-why?" comes her stutter, weak and hesitant.
He forcefully pulls her to face him, then pins her again. "Why? Because I love you." These words are calm, passionless, and she wonders for a moment's worth if what they had was real.
Time is running short.
Instead of replying to his insane words, she struggles against his grip, frightened and sensitive.
He sighs as the clock ticks. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this." The other hand, holding the knife soaked in her best friend's blood, slowly rises as Natsume spares another heave. "I suppose now I'll have to kill you." His eyes flash with disdain, as if the act was too time consuming.
"Like you killed your own sister?!"
He snorts at her attempted chivalry. "On the contrary, my love, I never killed her. She killed herself."
And then the knife is close to her heart, so, so close, but before it has the time to plunge through her she has one more thing left to say.
"I loved you."
And then her body slides down the wall towards the floor, leaving a trail of crimson blood behind.
He scratches her name off the list.
There's only one to go...
The Hyuuga drops the dagger, only to search his jacket's inner pockets for a mini pistol.
He takes it out.
Points it to his temple.
Readies the gun.
Pulls the trigger.
It was the last day of December.
Anyone slightly confuzzled by the pinning: he grabbed both wrists with one hand, that's how.
Well, have a happy New Year, guys! And don't kill anyone, please.
Review! :)