***Two hours earlier, Arrow Lane 45***
'Why have you brought me here?' Jim asked suspiciously. The other man just opened the door and let him enter.
'She'll be the next' he just answered and Jim looked around.
'And what will you do?' he asked and turned around to him, put his hands on the other man's waist.
'You know why I didn't tell you. I wanted to show you' the man in the dark clothes said and kissed his boyfriend on his mouth.
Jim smiled and softly touched the other one's cheek. He was so beautiful, blonde hair, no beard, perfectly shaven, his blue eyes sometimes without emotion, sometimes filled with full hatred although he could be that soft sometimes, and sometimes that dangerous and deadly. He just loved him, he was the perfect man for him.
'I'm gonna send him a message' the man whispered into Jim's ear. Jim himself was tall, not as tall as the other one, thin, the other one was thinner, muscular, not as muscular as the other one, blonde, green eyes.
'You tell him you're back' he guessed and kissed him again.
The other one nodded. 'I'll tell him some more truth…about us' he whispered and without that Jim noticed he pulled out his knife he had used so often, his faithful, trusty, reliable knife that had served him oh so many times.
He pushed Jim away from himself, showed him the knife, the blade blinking in the sun, he stepped forward, cut the knife through the air, through the body, several times it scratched the warm, fresh flesh. Blood was drowning out of the wounds, silently flowing and dripping toward the ground, this was caused by gravity, as Newton said, or the attraction of two objects, deforming space-time continuum, minimal effects, not great enough to be noticed or to play any interesting role in the occurring or in this story.
However, Jim stumbled backward, trying to grab hold off something, flailing wildly with his arms, not finding anything and falling to the ground. The other men stepped forward, coming down, more or less kneeing next to him, the bloody knife in this gloved hands.
'Jim, I am honest when I tell you that I didn't plan this from the beginning. But the developments of happenings just made it inevitable for us to end our relationship although I really enjoyed you having around' he said calmly.
'Bastard! Traitor!' Jim screamed under extreme pain that literally ate him up from inside.
He knew that he was wrong, but he was as wrong as him, he had loved him and he thought he had loved him, too. He had thought that he would have known him, he trusted him with his life, and this was what he had to pay for that trust.
'You know, Jim, there is only one man in my life and this is not you. Ironically, I needed a girl to see this. You are an evil man, but you are too good. You were a great partner, but I cannot afford a partner like you. Not someone I may have developed anything similar that could be described with feelings.'
'Betrayer! You never loved me!'
'This may be true.'
'You're a god damned psychopath!'
'I know that for long.'
Jim didn't know what to answer anymore.
'I'm not sorry when I'm doing this here, don't understand me wrong' the man finally said and started cruelly ripping of the skin of his ex-boyfriend who he had never loved.
It felt good to kill him, the first victim where he could finally experience how good it was to kill a person who had loved him. It was different because it was a man. He usually killed women.
But now he could finally show that for him, there but was a difference, although he could show that he was able to treat a man like a woman. So weak, he is, he thought when finally cutting of the last piece of life of his victim. So pitiable, he thought and then thought about the irony as he never felt any kind of pity for the deaths he caused.
He regarded his work and put out a plastic glove of his black leather coat pocket. He put off his usual black glove and out on the one-time-glove.
He dipped it into the biggest wound and the glove full of blood he pressed against the wall opposite the entrance door and painted a huge, oval, not closing circle, clockwise. He dipped into the wound again, drew two striped and finally the mouth of the bloody, smiling, crying, deep-red smiley that stared down on him.
He looked at his work, satisfied, changed his gloves again and without looking back to his partner, love and work and sex partner, he left the house and closed the door behind him. This time, as mentioned, it was different, he didn't need so much time to spend at the crime scene, he was glad that he had killed Jim, he was glad because in the car waiting in front of the house there sat a young woman, about twenty-two years old, although much younger than he himself, she understood him, better than Jim, better than anybody before, she knew what he thought, understood his acting and why he did so.
She did not share all of his preferring, she did not drink tea that often and she did not share his penchant for classical music, but she was interested in the same books, she loved William Blake and she interpreted it right, like he would have done.
She was like him, that psychopathic, sadistic, but also masochistic, evil and mean and had neither pity nor any kind of feelings in front of her victims.
That distance to emotions was what he liked and admired so much on her because, as she knew, he had someone he loved, he admired and someone he wanted to suffer, someone who he liked so much that he wanted him alone, by himself, he was obsessed with him, he just wanted him, he wanted to remind Jane that he was still outside.
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