Sorry this took so long. It's the shortest one.
Enjoy!
&Happy New Year!
ps- the last one is gonna be longer, but I also go back to school on Tuesday, so it'll be a while till I get the last part up! Damn winter session classes.
A throat, a knife. He doesn't know what he's doing.
Her blood, the wall. He cowers back in horror.
His hands, they shake.
His voice catches in his throat, a wretched sob.
What have I done?
It's some sort of sick compulsion. He doesn't even enjoy it. Shouldn't serial killers enjoy their murders? Kimball Cho is a killer. By his own hand he's killed over thirty, mostly women. Every time, he's drawn to them. It's not something he plans, really. When people anger him, he will take revenge, yes. But only because they don't understand him.
He's not a typical murderer at all. He takes no pleasure in his work, would stop if he could.
But once he sees them, he has to get them alone. Once they're alone, he can't help but long for the release of blood from their flesh. It takes everything he has to even hesitate with the knife, but he always fails. The knife always rises in his hand and slits a throat before he can think again, or reason with himself.
He cries after every kill, is that normal? But still, he gets the hell out of there. He wants to stop, but not enough to lock himself up. If his team ever got wind of this…he doesn't think he could stand it. They would hate him, and he doesn't think he can handle it. It's not the jail, it's the judging faces of people who are supposed to be his friends. They would hate me. I hate me.
His emotions run rampant when he kills. He tries to keep a lockdown on his emotions, but they slip through sometimes. It's most important he keep them in check at work, with people he cares about. So he will always make sure he's indifferent at work. He is loyal to the Bureau and loyal to his team. He is an effective agent.
But when he goes home, he's someone else completely. He's Red John. Most of the time, he can lock himself in his basement and just rage at the world. He can take all of his pent up anger and fear at the world and bash chairs against solid concrete walls. He can shoot nail guns into the floor, and he can scream all he wants. Most nights, this is enough.
Some nights, it is not. Some nights, he finds his way out of his house, on the road, into someone's house. Or abducting someone. Or stalking someone. Some nights, he takes a knife with him. On these nights, it's blood he needs, and blood he will take.
The morning after a kill is never good for him. Sometimes, his colleagues get a little too close. Sometimes, Cho gets a little too close to telling them.
"Lisbon, I-" he starts, early one morning, over coffee in the bullpen. She stands at the fridge, and turns around non-chalantly.
"Yeah, Cho?" she asks, furrowing her brow. Her voice is light, but inquisitive, with a hint of worry.
"Never mind." He takes another sip of his coffee.