He had accumulated knowledge.
Had taken his studies seriously, reading the texts and doing some additional research so he was succeeding at school. But he'd taken his other studies equally seriously. Had observed and analysed reactions, interactions; High School becoming a social microcosm with him as an ardent anthropologist. Had investigated further, reading everything from the Classics to Cosmopolitan, trashy novels to teen fiction in an attempt to gain some insight into hidden thoughts and dreams.
And slowly, cautiously he began to apply that knowledge.
At first, to himself; carefully adjusting his behaviour and speech until he was more in line with his peers. Until he could pass. Then, noting how differently they responded to him, he began to experiment; playing the fool or the hero, the jock or the nerd and was fascinated by the results. And gradually, with practise, he learned that he could provoke and control their responses, their reactions; that he had power over them.
Then the fun had really begun.
He gave up the Church, seeing no further value there. He performed the rituals of care at home with perfunctory diligence. He gave up his secret scribblings and his even more secret experiments, seeing a far greater potential. Instead he concentrated all his energy on this new thrill, this new way to fill the aching emptiness of his existence, to lessen the yawning chasm within, to feel.
In lessons, he would let a teacher lecture, expounding their theories, prompted and steered by his hesitant, stumbling displays of apparent ignorance. Until his sharp mind and even sharper words would lay bare their fallacies, the flaws in their logic. Watching their confidence crumble, their belief in themselves falter, he felt the delicious sensation of uncoiling in his belly, the beast stirring.
At break times, he would use sly insinuations, subtle hints, softly spoken to provoke, enrage. Until his target would flare up, full of anger and he would cut them down with cold, cruel words. Or they would explode, fists flying, and he would let loose his own violence in response. The perceived "victim" acting in self defence, he would revel in their hurt outrage and sense of injustice as they were the ones punished.
And then there were the girls.
He would stalk them through the library stacks, embarking on a campaign of coy glances, shy smiles, aided by long lashes, a mop of dark curls and a body now filled to man-sized proportions. Once he had captured their interest, he would orchestrate their seduction, their submission and the sex was more exciting the longer and harder he had to work to get it. Afterwards, he lost interest, the thrill of pursuit and capture over. He is not sure if he enjoys their bodies or their tears more.
But it is not enough.
It is a mere teaser, seeing apprehension or alarm in their eyes as he pins their bodies under his, as flesh meets flesh, in lust or violence. The heady sensation of dominance, power as they yield, cede, submit; the scent of weakness and fear strong in his nostrils. The fascination with the patterns of breathing, the rhythms of heartbeat and pulse and the exhilarating knowledge of how little it would take to make it stop. The longing, the need, the urge to make it stop: to be responsible for that last breath, the final beat...
Tonight is the Senior Prom and he has a very special date.
He has been planning this for months; doing his research, scouting locations, gathering the necessary tools and equipment. He has been dreaming, fantasising about every possible method; the thoughts taking on a life of their own, occupying his waking moments and filling his night time visions. He has considered all possible consequences and has concluded he just doesn't care; the need has become too great, the beast raging with hunger, appetite whetted by his manipulations, his cruelty, his violence and crying out for more...
So now he is waiting, watching in the shadows, all plans forgotten, acting out of primal instinct; the hunt beginning. Watching the homeless go about their wretched lives in the makeshift camp, assessing each one; too drunk, too stoned, too mad. He wants his prey to be alert, aware, to know. Selection complete, he waits; breath shallow, heart racing, mouth dry in exquisite anticipation. At last, his target separates from the pack and the predator strikes...
Oh God! If he had known sooner... the exaltation, the exhilaration. This was sex and violence and power and so much more. This was triumph, ascendancy; he wants to throw back his head and howl out his rapture. Finally sated, loose limbed and light headed, he disappears again into the night...
The Rite of Passage, the Coming of Age: the boy becomes ...a monster.