Chapter 2.
Blood, your crimson blood will soon taint this blade. It shall stream down your throat as I prick your skin, dig the tip further into the supple dermis and tear a beautiful, fatal gash from your jaw line to your collarbone. Have you ever witnessed the splendour of something dying, a body heaving its last breaths and clinging desperately onto the last fragments of energy to stay alive? Some say that killing contaminates you, infects your soul and brings you to an agonizing downfall. But such words define depraved beings, those who kill simply as a necessity or as a means to rid their life of unwanted presences. I am no such man, make no mistake.
Words echoed off the walls of Oliver's fragile mind. They rang back and forth, ghosting around, struggling to find sense in their entirety. "Dead, he's dead…", someone screamed in the distance.
It trickled down his hand, touched his lips and stained them. It soaked his shirt. It had an exquisite taste, a sharp smell. Blood.
Murmurs beneath him, asking for mercy; a kick to the knife buried in his stomach, gurgling and a final choking sound.
Disgusting mongrel, why would you ever beg to keep your life? Don't you understand how gorgeous you are with slashed veins? Once again, blood.
Insanity, cruelty, senseless violence, apathy and beastly hunger for gore. No, he wasn't talking about himself, he referred to the "victims", the mere animals he'd chosen to execute.
He could hear their cries, their appalled shrieks, the shallow pants moments before his hand would give a little jerk, and then the metal sank into skin, tore through muscle. Silence would replace all of that clamor. Silence is the loudest scream, though.
…
When had this all started? Why had this chain of brutal slaying started? Oliver didn't know, nor did he care. He didn't remember any of the homicides he'd committed either. Blurry half-recollections of the disputes were all he had; out of nowhere he'd find himself back home, unable to recall anything else.
When he attempted to reminisce, the most he would get was the sound of far-off, childlike wailing. Sometimes shreds of a conversation would rebound in his thoughts, so distressed and vulnerable on one end, detached and repetitive on the other.
"Please, no, it wasn't my fault! The knife… Poison… Not me!"
"Shut up. Your brother… You killed-"
"It's not bloody true! NO! Stop blaming me! Why would I-"
"Shut your trap, I said! Arthur's dead and you killed him! ...Only Hell for the likes of you, demon."
…No. Why..? Arthur, such a familiar name; it hurt his chest to pronounce it. Who killed him..? The demon? But its voice was young, even babyish.
As usual, these reflections were cast off to a forgotten corner of Oliver's mind, waiting for some kind of resolution.
Another shattered nook of his brain kept track of the current situation, the folly that held him captive almost reaching its peak.
Was his life an illusion? A beautiful lie that kept him from peering at the horrendous truth of his psychotic reactions?
He grinned and narrowed his eyes to slits.
Oh Olly, you're an extremely naïve one, aren't you?
Of course you aren't a murderer, now why would you think that? You're holding a switchblade to this lovely man's throat, you say? Preposterous- you'd never act so belligerently.
Now, now, keep quiet and cover your eyes, this won't hurt you as much as it hurts him, trust me.
"Are you by any chance going to say something coherent instead of grunting in my face? Or is that your habitual speech pattern, love?"
Faint, spellbound nods assented to his request. Come closer, yes…
With the press of a button, he was poised to strike- these "games" had become so easy once Oliver had realized his enchantment's true potential. Far too easy.
The act itself wasn't boring, yet the foreplay which led to it had become dreary and unexciting, compared to the erotic elation that characterized the first experiences.
Let's play with this vicious kitten, let's. I'll leave him to you, love. Have fun…
His eyes slipped shut: Oliver regained consciousness, stunned at the sight of a knife in his hand pressed flat against the American's neck; Al blinked aghast and basically lost his shit.
Trembling, on the verge of tears, the Englishman lost his hold on the blade and let it clatter to the floor.
"…What the fuck just happened?"
Al was petrified, he'd never been this close to death. Not when he and his stepbrother had almost beat each other senseless with hockey sticks and baseball bats, not when that sadistic, shit-faced Russian guy had punched him square in the jaw and he'd had to spit out a bloody, perfect tooth of his.
Apparently, there's a first time for everything, huh?
"I-I don't… Goodness, I- I just don't know what came over m—"
"Save it, you're psycho."
Tears spilled over the thin rim of Oliver's eyes and his lips crumpled into a heartrending grimace.
"Hey, whoa, don't give me that look! I didn't say psycho was a bad thing, right? C'mon, dude, you can't—"
"WAHHHHH"
Dealing with a sobbing, blubbering grown man was not going to be fun. Fuck.