A.N. Alright. Plans went awry. My confidence in my uploading was ill placed. To not bore you, I will say nothing more. This chapter was supposed to be around 6,000 words, and I do believe it had almost tripled in size. It also took on its own form, much to my displeasure. I've said it many times when I've not been too happy with the sloppiness and jerky nature of my writing but I do believe if I went back and tried to improve it, I may not have submitted until 2018.

I do want to give a massive thank you to whitegardenia5, who let me rant about my own shortcomings and essentially gave me the help I needed (and *lots* of awesome plot points) to push forward. Readers of my stories tend to also follow her fics as well but if you don't already and you would love an incredible batch of dark Klaine tales then I insist you read her work. She's marvellous.

Okay, this chapter is lengthy enough so I'll stop rambling now and I hope you enjoy this chapter – Blaine's story! Took long enough, right?

Notes:

I am Scottish so I tend to use British spelling, not American - hopefully North American readers won't be bothered by the odd spelling here and there!

Italics are Blaine's own speech as he tells his story to Kurt – 1st person.

Normal text is typical 3rd person, but obviously only using the knowledge Blaine has (as it is his story) through personal experience or from what he has read in other people's diaries.

It's a Long Story…

First off, Kurt, I need to clear up something. When I told you all those stories before, I wasn't too kind about my parents. Most of the time I made them out to be cruel or uncaring, but in reality, I probably had the greatest start in life because of them.

No. Because of her.

I really was born the way that I am, only it would take me years to fully understand what was driving me. As a kid, I couldn't hide myself the way I do now. Yet through it all, my mother was committed. She devoted her life to keeping me safe.

The Anderson family moved to West Virginia the in the fall of their eldest son's first year of college. The timing could not have been more perfect: with Cooper graduating high school and moving out of state and young Blaine not yet in kindergarten, their parents didn't need to feel guilty about uprooting their sons and leaving friends behind. Pam, being a professional photographer, was ready to trade the busy town life for their own serene slice of rural beauty. When her husband, Johnny, first showed her the landscaper's shots of the empty fields, she had been reluctant. However, as Johnny worked on securing planning permission with more detailed outlines of their dream home in the country, she fell in love and gave her blessing for him to move out to West Virginia to begin laying the foundations. Their home would go on to be Johnny Anderson's best advertisement as he shifted his construction company to the new area.

Both the building project and summer neared their ends at the same time. Pam and Cooper worked hard to pack away all their belongings, shipping them off to either West Virginia or to Cooper's college in California. Blaine helped as best as he could as a young child, but his mother found herself too distracted to really let him pitch in. A week before their scheduled moving day, though, she decided to give her son a task which she hoped would keep him occupied as she and Cooper tackled the garage.

'Take these, honey,' Pam smiled, dropping six large cardboard boxes into the centre of Blaine's bedroom. 'Mommy wants you to start packing your things really carefully. I'll come and help you later, okay?'

'Yes, mommy,' Blaine nodded, his small hands fighting the cardboard flaps. His mother ruffled his thick unruly mess of hair before leaving. As she closed the door over, Blaine began to sing.

'It's raining, it's pouring,

My old man is boring.

On his way to bed

I'll chop off his head

And he won't get up in the morning.'

Pam paused. She had never taught him those words. She debated whether or not to go back in and ask her sweet son about it, but he had moved on to 'Three Blind Mice' and she had so much to do. No doubt Big Brother Cooper was responsible, though he denied it when they started working on the garage.

'Don't look at me, mom. He says creepy stuff like that all the time.'

About a half hour after starting, the garage looked like a bombsite. Already sweating, Pam left for the kitchen to get a bottle of water. To her surprise, on her way she found her baby boy sitting in front of the TV. 'Sweetie, I told you to pack up your things.' She wasn't actually annoyed – after all, she was certain she would have to re-pack Blaine's belongings later for safe transit - but keeping him busy on a task had seemed like a better parenting move than letting him watch cartoons all day.

'I finished, mommy,' Blaine replied, turning around on his knees to look up at her. 'I packed it all up.'

Pam smiled fondly, not believing that for a moment. 'All your toys?' Nod. 'And your clothes?' Nod-nod. 'Books and pictures?'

'Yes, mommy.'

Crossing her arms, Pam chuckled. 'Okay. But remember: you also had to pack all your things around the house, not just in your bedroom.'

Blaine didn't miss a beat. 'I did that too. Even our video tapes. I'm ready to move now, mommy.'

Something in her son's certainty caught Pam off-guard. Her eyes flitted around the living room. She couldn't see anything of Blaine's. 'Alright,' She said slowly, 'Why don't we go double check you have everything.'

'Okay.' Blaine stood up immediately and took her hand, leading her into the hallway, up the stairs and across the landing to his room. Along the way, Pam's eye scanned her home carefully but saw nothing of her son's. She gasped in surprise as she entered the bedroom. 'See?' Blaine flipped his finger across his lips over and over absentmindedly, gazing at his handiwork with boredom.

In less than thirty minutes, the four-year-old had removed all traces of himself. The bed was bare, as was the space underneath it. The dresser by the window was cleared of objects, and each drawer was empty. His play rug was gone, along with toys, his colouring books, night light, clock and hanging pictures. Now, the only things Pam could see, aside from the basic bed and furniture, were two closed up cardboard boxes (neither completely filled but arranged impeccably) in the middle of the room next to four empty ones. 'Honey, only two boxes?' Pam tried to hide her surprise. 'Where did you put the rest of your things?'

Blaine appeared confused. 'What other things, mommy?'

It was then Pam realised something that shocked her: Blaine owned very…very little. She felt like an awful mother: when Cooper was his age, she couldn't take a step without tripping over something of his, yet Blaine's whole material world didn't even fill a couple of boxes. If money was not an issue, what excuse did she have? Thankfully, her husband settled her nerves on their next phone call. 'He's a good kid and easily pleased. He doesn't want stuff. I say if we've raised a son who doesn't put importance on material possessions, we're doing something right. But if it makes you feel any better, we'll go all out when we help him put together his new room.'

Blaine voiced his appreciation of the offer a couple of weeks later after the move, but politely refused when they volunteered the whole toy catalogue.

That was another trait his parents began to take notice of once talk-back Cooper was off at college: Blaine was incredibly polite. He cleaned up without being asked, ended his sentences with a 'Sir' or 'Ma'am', displayed the patience of a saint, and – for a lack of a better word – was a textbook perfect child. It was a sign of good parenting, many said. Children are molded by what they are exposed to: if Blaine was a dream child, it must be down to him having a dream upbringing with incredible parents.

Johnny was more than willing to accept this as fact, and Pam eventually decided to not question her luck at having such a son. She just hoped his wonderfulness would not make him a target outside their home. Yet, according to his kindergarten and elementary school teachers in the years which followed, Blaine thrived in the educational environment:

'He soaks up everything like a sponge – he's a delight to have in class!'

'Blaine always gives 110%. Sometimes I think he knows more than me but is just too well-mannered to say it.'

'Have you considered taking up the school's offer of advanced classes?'

Each parent evening and report filled Pam with pride: Cooper had his strengths and was charismatic to boot, but Blaine seemed to excel in everything. Both his parents would offer countless rewards for all his good work, but all Blaine would ask for were books or an uninterrupted afternoon in the local library. At first, he would read about anything and everything, yet soon his interests honed in on science – more specifically, biology. By eight years old, Blaine could be found wrapped around the tyre swing in the back yard clutching on to a medical textbook he claimed to have found at school. His mother asked if he wanted to be a doctor when he was older, and Blaine laughed and continued reading.

As gifted as Blaine was, though, there was one aspect of his life which had Pam severely concerned: Blaine did not seem capable of making friends. This fact bamboozled both his mother and his teachers: someone as polite and happy as Blaine should not struggle to establish and maintain relationships. It would remain a mystery for some time.

It's funny how rarely adults listen to kids. If my teachers had only listened to my classmates, or took an interest in what I was doing during recess, they would have known. If my parents had only followed me out into the fields and forests surrounding our house even once… Like I said, Kurt, I wasn't great at concealing the darker areas of myself. My classmates saw me for what I was. Kids see everything.

I didn't quite understand the double standard at the time: if you kill a fly in the classroom, you get a high five. If you kill a butterfly in the playground, all the girls cry. They'll all circle around you to hear you explain what veins are and how the heart works, but show them first hand on a dead hamster and they run away screaming to their parents. I admit, I liked making their faces pale and their hands shake. I scared the shit out of all of them on purpose but they kept coming back for more. I eventually made myself stop when one kid's mom threatened to speak to mine about what I did. Thankfully it never happened, but I learned then to be more private. I didn't really want friends to begin with. I spent recess reading about anatomy, then I would go home and practice on whatever lived on our land. No one bothered me because I was doing the healthy thing of 'getting fresh air and exercise'.

I spent an entire year of my free time chasing squirrels, taking them apart and piecing them back together again. I spent another summer by the lake testing out killing methods under the pier in the shadows where only I was small enough to crawl into. I soon got frustrated, though. You see, I was wasting so much time in elementary school. I was too advanced and no teacher could challenge me enough. I hated school because it kept me from my real passion. Every lesson I would imagine how many new specimens I could have had if I was out in the forest instead of in the boring classroom. It was around that time I learned about traps.

Man, did that cut down on wasted time.

Legholds. Camouflaged pits. Snares. Deadfall traps. I got so good – so fast – at setting them up. I would get up early to prepare them and by the time I got home from school I had more toys than ever before. No, not toys: learning tools. You see, Kurt, I recognised something very important about myself in those days. I learned that animals could teach me a hell of a lot about anatomy, pain responders, limitations and lethal actions, but I didn't get the rush that my gut told me was out there. I didn't actually like hurting animals. I wanted to play. And animals don't know how to play.

You'd think when I told my parents about my ideas, they would have been horrified. But I was a cute kid, Kurt, and I got away with murder even back then.

'You want to what?' Pam looked at her youngest son, shocked. Beside her, Cooper snorted into his glass of water and grabbed a napkin to dry his chin and help conceal his laughter.

Blaine blinked up at his mother, fork in hand and a roasted potato on the prongs. 'I want to hunt down Philip like a deer.'

'Cousin Philip?' His mother clarified, and Blaine nodded. 'Honey, you don't hunt people. You hunt animals, and in this household we don't do that either.'

'And who's decision was that?' Johnny murmured so quietly that he almost went unnoticed. His words earned a stern look from his wife. It was a disagreement they usually had away from their sons' ears, but both boys had seen their father's abandoned rifle fall into disrepair and rust in recent years inside the garage. He cleared his throat and addressed his youngest. 'Blaine, if you want to learn to hunt then I'll take you out to look for rabbits, maybe find a deer or two.'

'No, you won't.' Pam snapped, furious that such a thing was even suggested.

Johnny appeared to want to argue, but Blaine cut in. 'No, I don't want to hunt animals, dad. I want to hunt people. Can we invite Philip over this weekend?'

'I'm sure we can have him over to play with you,' Pam replied.

'He doesn't want to play with Philip, mom,' Cooper scrunched his brows together and lifted his knife, bringing it close to Blaine's face. 'He wants to hunt him, chase him! He wants to slice him apart-' He mimicked a slicing motion over his brother's stomach, 'and dig out his bloody innards!'

When any other seven year old would draw back with fear, Blaine lit up and cackled with glee as his brother brandished his knife against his shirt.

'Stop that!' Pam slapped Cooper's hand away, afraid someone might get cut by accident. Cooper grinned and went back to eating as Blaine bit on his lip in an attempt to hold in his laughter. 'No more dangerous nonsense, and no more graphic descriptions thank you! Blaine, I am not inviting your cousin over for you to scare him. Someone could get hurt.'

'It's just a game, mom,' Cooper moaned, rolling his eyes at his mother's seriousness. 'It's all make believe at his age. Pretend. Cowboys and Indians, you know? Kid games.'

Pam wrinkled her nose. 'Sounds like funny games if you ask me.'

Blaine paused cutting up his food and gazed up at his mother with sparkling eyes. 'Funny…games?' He repeated. Then giggled himself into an all-out laugh. 'That's great, mom!' Pam arched a brow, but at seeing her baby boy laugh so happily she could not help but chuckle herself. Blaine was the light of her life, and everything about him was wonderful. Even his quirky lines about going after people in the woods.

Philip was two years older than Blaine but followed after his younger cousin like a quiet, obedient dog. Tall and red haired, he could be spotted in the green thicket a mile off. Blaine cheerfully led him off the backyard land and into the trees, whistling as he did so. For several minutes, their singing and laughing could still be heard by Cooper, who turned up the television in his bedroom to drown them out. No kids were going to get in the way of his well-deserved summer of sitcom catch-up.

It was not until Blaine shouted upstairs to him from the back door that Cooper even knew they were back. His parents left him in charge of watching the boys: an easy gig, or so he thought. But when he saw his cousin, he knew he had messed up.

'Oh my God, what the hell happened?' He cried, running towards Philip, who was kneeling on the back porch.

The boy merely shook, his hands, both slashed along the palms, holding his side where yet another gash could be seen through his sweater. Blaine nudged him. 'Tell Cooper what happened.' He encouraged.

'I…I fell.' Philip murmured, looking at the floor. 'From the tree. I fell down. I hit a lot of branches.'

Cooper stared in scared disbelief: the wounds did not look like the result of branches. However, his brother was nodding solemnly in agreement. 'Get inside,' Cooper ordered, frantically trying to remember what his mother would use on open wounds as he dashed to the medicine cabinet. 'We have to clean the cuts. Maybe see a doctor or something, I don't know…'

As it turned out, Philip would avoid a trip to the hospital. By the time their mothers returned from their shopping trip, Cooper had managed to stop the bleeding and sanitise the wounds. After making sure her son did not have any other injury such as broken ribs or head bumps, Philip's mom gave both young boys lectures on climbing trees. After their visitors left, Pam reiterated the point and made Blaine promise not to climb anything beyond his own height. It was a promise Blaine accepted easily, as he had no intention of wasting his time in such a manner.

Cooper watched from the kitchen counter, pensive. Then he slipped out into the evening air and headed to where Blaine said the incident took place. The tree in question did not have any residue of blood or appeared disturbed in any way. Something did not sit right with him. It was not until the setting sun's light hit the surface of the partially-hidden blade did Cooper discover the truth. Tucked underneath a rock with a sprinkling of leaves on top, the steak knife was almost invisible. He was careful picking it up. Dried red on the otherwise clean steel told more than he wanted it to.

The young man stood under the tree for several minutes simply staring down at the weapon. Then, at long last, he leaned his arm as far back as he could go before hurling the knife towards the sky in the direction opposite his home. It was gone. And to this day, no one has found it.

As Cooper walked back to the house, he did not know that someone was watching him.

I knew what my brother did. I saw his mind work and I recognised the choice he made. My parents never gave him much credit growing up: they put down a lot of his success to pure luck or a result of his charismatic nature. He was a pretty boy in their eyes, and not much more. I was the designated genius with a respectable future. It all seemed very black and white.

He was never like that to me. His lack of book smarts meant nothing: he was a real brother. He had love. Maybe it was dumb for him to cover my tracks, and I know he went on to regret it. But he unknowingly saved himself that day. Out of respect for him, I did not go searching for that knife. I found myself another.

Kurt, you are the only person I have ever loved. It may not seem like it with this story because I clearly had relationships within my family, but it was never loving. At least not from my end. However, I was always able to appreciate what love did for me. Cooper went back to college a month later and he did not come back to live in the house again. He moved into a place with his long-term girlfriend in California and I visited him whenever I could. Despite his cautious attitude towards me hidden underneath the surface, I enjoyed him. I missed him being around in the summer. If he had come home, though… Well, I can't promise that he would have made it. When I say he unknowingly saved himself by throwing that knife away, I meant it. It led to his decision to stay away from our home. He's my only blood relative still alive today.

Blaine was pleasantly surprised when Philip kept his mouth shut on what really happened in the forest. Apparently threatening to – as Cooper so colourfully put it at the dinner table – 'slice him apart and dig out his bloody innards' was enough to keep a nine-year-old quiet. Or perhaps it had something to do with his promise of gutting Philip's mother if he told the truth? Either way, Blaine learned the inspiring lesson that threats of further harm or going after loved ones was an excellent way to make someone do what you wanted. It had been the first time Blaine had ever played 'Try Not to Scream' with a human being, and it was a lot more fun than playing with squirrels.

True, Philip never did visit their home again, but Blaine didn't care: he was finally garnering the interest of a few kind-hearted classmates by the final years of elementary school, and he was ready to let them play his games.

The first to be taken in by him was a sweet girl named Laney, who wore two headbands simultaneously and wrinkled clothes often mocked by other students, but was otherwise a very pretty ten-year-old. Blaine could tell she had developed a crush on him and feigned ignorance whilst rewarding her loyalty with momentary touches and bordering-flirtatious teasing. Around the same time, another class reject tentatively joined their group. Craig was on a special program due to his learning difficulties, and teachers thought Blaine and Laney angels for spending time with him. Whilst Laney indeed had a heart of gold, Blaine had his own motives. Craig demonstrated a very high tolerance for pain – a challenge if Blaine ever saw it. He knew exactly how to test them.

Over the years, Blaine had been adding to his network of traps. His parents had no interest in exploring the fields or forests around them that were off the beaten track, so the land was essentially his to manipulate. Trap and trip wire locations were committed to memory so perfectly that he could have danced around his 'playground' blindfolded without becoming victim to them. The day before his new friends were set to visit his home, Blaine put the final touch on his game: a red ribbon leftover from Christmas wrapping was tied securely around the trunk of a thin tree just out of sight from the house. That night, Blaine could not sleep due to his excitement. The very next day, a new type of game was going to be played.

'Just stay where I can see you!' Pam called from the kitchen as the three children raced out the back door and into the field.

Blaine nodded, but had no intention of obeying her on this occasion. His classmates were not used to having such a large area to explore and were more than willing to follow him farther and farther out. 'I bet you guys can't complete the next game.' Blaine grinned. He took Laney's hand, feeling the girl tense up in excitement beside him, and swung his arm over Craig's broad shoulders.

'I will!' Craig announced confidently, before adding 'What game?'

Blaine smiled and led them across the overgrown field – weeds and flowers doing an excellent job of keeping those traps hidden – until it came into sight. 'The Tree of Heroes!' Blaine cried out, pointing to the tree decorated with ribbon. The silence which followed displayed a sense of anti-climactic apprehension, but the boy was not deterred. 'The game is simple: get the ribbon. Whoever gets it first wins. And I bet neither of you will get it.'

Both Laney and Craig traded glances. 'Get the ribbon first? That's it?' Laney asked.

Scoffing, Craig laughed. 'Easy!'

Laney agreed, though appeared a little confused why Blaine seemed so excited by a simple racing competition. Both guests prepared to run. 'On your marks-' Blaine said. 'Get set…' At that moment, he subtly gripped onto Laney's wrist tight, and the girl jumped. 'Go!'

Craig set off running like a charging bull. Laney had attempted to follow but Blaine pulled her back. She turned back to stare at him questioningly, but his gaze was firmly fixed on Craig. The boy's pounding steps through the thicket were wild and resounding. Realising he was in the lead, he belly-laughed as he graced the shadows of looming oak trees and closed in on the prize. His hand reached out to grab at the ribbon twenty feet away…

'Blaine, is something wrong?' Laney had her back to the scene, noticing Blaine's eyes sparkle in delight as he watched what she did not. She turned to look at Craig and was surprised to find he was gone. 'Hey – where did he go?'

Blaine wrestled the grin off his face and shrugged. 'Don't know. Let's go look.'

Again, he took her hand and led her across the field. She did not appear to melt at his touch as she normally would have, her concern and confusion taking away much of her happiness it seemed, but Blaine was not worried. 'Is he hiding from us? I don't want him to jump out, I hate getting scared like that.'

'You're really pretty.' Blaine commented suddenly. The girl's head whipped around to face him in sheer surprise at the compliment. He swung her hand loosely. 'You're a really good person too. I like you a lot.'

Laney's cheeks reddened and she stammered out a thank you, a small smile finally returning to her lips. Blaine didn't glance at her even as he spoke: he was focusing on the spot up ahead where Craig had disappeared up into the thick leafy mass of a tree. He was pleased to see that no part of him could be seen from the ground. Now he just had to hope the boy would be quiet enough to not distract the girl.

'I want to kiss you.'

That admission made Laney trip over herself. 'What? You do?' She squeaked. Blaine nodded. They continued walking. Blaine guided her through his network of traps without her even noticing that they were not walking in a straight line. After several seconds, Laney asked 'When?'

Blaine shrugged. 'How about now?'

He could see her visibly shudder, likely from excitement but Blaine wasn't exactly familiar with how a crush worked, having never been interested in someone himself. He was confident, though, that in just a few words he made the girl's world turn on its head. His mind drifted to the unfortunate boy victim to his first trap.

With a steering tug of the hand, Blaine led his classmate out of the open field and beneath a canopy of leaves. The girl followed without question, appreciating that what was about to happen would be done away from the prying eyes of the Craig, wherever he was. The cool breeze whistled through the trees as she tucked herself behind a trunk and let her back press against it. Blaine stepped up to her, so close she could see each of his thick eyelashes and the strikes of light honey in his otherwise hazel eyes. Her heart pounded so hard it overwhelmed her hearing but she was determined to remain resolute: she was about to have her first kiss.

Blaine's face drew closer, and Laney closed her eyes. The quick intake of a breath was the last thing she heard before-

CRUNK!

Snap!

Laney's eyes bulged open as a scream ripped from her throat. A fierce hot white overtook her vision, and her clawing hands gripped Blaine's arms. The boy moved out of reach. She tried to look down at the metallic creature crushing her leg with its hundreds of razor sharp teeth and its snarling steel jaws that bit through the entirety of her lower thigh, but her whole world was spinning in agony.

Blaine stepped back further, in awe at how rapidly his trap had become drenched in blood. The girl's whole leg was just a mesh of tissue, bits of jagged bone and ribbons of muscle slipping onto the tall grass which had concealed his weapon so nicely.

A spark went off deep inside him. A twinge. A pull. A tickle. And it felt good. Blaine instinctively reached down and his toes curled up when his little squeeze caused an eruption of pleasure. He may have gasped or moaned, but he couldn't hear it over the piercing shrieks Laney was making. He didn't know she was capable of making such noises: he was very impressed. For such a petite girl, her lungs must have been huge.

In vain attempts to get away from her pain, Laney pulled herself sideways. She did not know that the trap was stronger than she was. A slurp and gentle pop – the metal teeth tore her away from her skirt. And her leg. She fell onto the dirt with one less limb than she started with. Blaine sunk to his knees, his own body reacting and making him want to get on all fours. He didn't question his instincts when they made him feel this incredible. Laney screamed and twisted to and fro. The small portion of thigh she had left shook violently; a stark contrast to the pieces of motionless leg encased in iron near her. Blaine himself started to shake, his own vision seeping away momentarily, and he thrust his crotch into the soft dirt. The release caught him by surprise, his breathless laughs sounding foreign but pure.

By the time he noticed the distant shouting, he had almost run out of time. Laney's screams had reached as far as the house and, as he writhed on the ground, her help was coming. He scrambled to his feet and forced himself out into the field again. His parents were running faster than Blaine had ever seen them move. His mother slowed as she laid eyes on him, a flash of relief on her face when she saw her baby safe, but her panic rose at the sight of the blood on his clothes. Blaine didn't say a word – a decision he had made beforehand to give the impression he was in horrified shock or something – but simply pointed in the direction of the girl. His father paused briefly when passing him to give his unharmed frame a once-over and make sure the blood was not his. He then lunged in to discover the scene Blaine had left. Moments later, Laney was in his father's arms, silent and no longer moving.

Blaine was deflated to discover later that she had merely passed out from the pain. The same had happened to Craig. The boy's ankle had caught the rope snare, hoisting him up like a whip into the trees the way Blaine planned. However, Blaine's dream that his spine might have snapped in the process was dashed: the boy's body did not suffer much more than some intense gashes, and they looked worse than they really were. Scar-worthy at best. At least, that was before they saw his face. The boy was found swinging slowly in the wind, with a short but stout branch end entering into the hole where his left eye used to be. The good tugging feeling hit Blaine again but he had to force himself not to react.

Emergency services took almost an hour to arrive for Craig. Blaine had held out hope that it would be enough time for death to take hold, but that evening he was irritated to discover the paramedics made it in time to keep him stable. His father had also managed to get Laney to the hospital before she bled out. That night, Blaine's mother clung to her son for dear life as she thanked God for his well-being, and she held his hands as she prayed for the other children. Blaine bit his tongue hard.

Behind them, Blaine's exhausted father spoke quietly to Cooper on the telephone. 'What?' Johnny asked, then sighed tiredly, 'Don't be ridiculous, Blaine didn't know anything about them. He wouldn't have brought his friends out somewhere dangerous. Just be happy your brother is safe, alright? He's a ten year old kid, for God's sake, not Ted Bundy!'

Blaine could not help but smile fondly.

Police flooded into the field. The traps were all discovered one by one. I'll admit, for an hour or so I thought I'd be found out. But children will always be innocent when there's someone else to blame it on, and in this case both my parents and police preferred to believe the traps were set by some strangers in the night. My work was complimented: apparently, they were put together and positioned by a skillful hand. Not that their flawlessness was of any comfort to my classmates or their parents.

I wasn't allowed to be involved in any of the legal stuff that followed, but you can imagine the hell my parents probably faced. Two kids were savagely maimed on their watch. The land surrounding their home was like a minefield. You don't just get a warning for that kind of thing, but the local police department were pretty grateful that my dad planned to clear the land of all the dangers himself. It was a decision he made which probably saved the family from serious legal repercussions, but he unknowingly earned my hatred.

It had taken me months of careful prepping, planning and plotting those traps. Hundreds of hours dedicated to perfecting every snare, every tripwire…and my father got rid of all of them in days. He called in his friends to help him. And I watched silently from my bedroom window as they burned them in a bonfire. I wasn't used to feeling anger back then because I didn't have very much to be angry about, but in that moment, I felt something ugly for my dad. I get it: he was doing what was 'right'. But, God, did I hate him for undoing all my hard work. I'll come back to that.

Anyway, with Laney and Craig's families trying to sue my parents, and teachers not able to handle the drama, it wasn't much of a surprise when my mom decided to home-school me for the rest of elementary. She was adamant that the traps were set by trespassers on their land, and wrote in her diary how relieved she was that her precious boy was not harmed. Don't look at me like that, Kurt, if someone wants to keep a diary private then they should hide it somewhere better than under their mattress.

After the field incident, my parents spoke to me about middle school. Obviously, they didn't want all the drama to start up again by letting me attend the same place my elementary class were going to. It would have taken less than a week for the whole student body to know who was responsible for Laney's missing leg and Craig's blind eye and countless scars. We talked about a school a little further away but in the end my parents decided that – as a naturally advanced learner who wasn't challenged enough at school to begin with – I'd be better off studying at my own pace from home with a tutor visiting a few times a week. I laid low for a few years, honing my cutting skills and using my unsupervised afternoons to get better acquainted with weapons. My dad's rifle stopped being forgotten around that time. He must have thought my mom threw it out when it went missing, but in reality it was locked away in my bedroom closet, along with a few other secret items and the few traps I had managed to save from the bonfire years before.

By the time I was sixteen, I was higher skilled and more dangerous than most soldiers in the army. And I still managed to get perfect grades. After all, I needed to have my education to fall back on if my life of crime didn't work out.

Shortly after Blaine reached high school age, Francisco Jerome was hired as his tutor due to both his teaching credentials and his background in the medical field. Pam was eager to nurture her son's obsession in anatomy by exposing him to an expert. Lesson time was split between his AP classes and Francisco's custom made medical program which catered to Blaine's advancing interests.

'Haemophiliac…' Blaine read aloud from one of Francisco's books one Tuesday morning. 'I don't know this. What does that mean?'

His tutor, who was grading the history pop quiz he had his student do at the start of their session, looked up. 'Haemophilia is a blood disorder. If a person cuts themselves, their blood isn't able to clot the way ours does and it can take a long time to stop the flow.' The young man returned to the paper he was reading.

Blaine stared at him with wide eyes, then looked back to the book he was reading. How was it possible he did not know this fascinating condition before now? 'So…can they bleed to death if they can't stop the flow?'

Francisco scribbled down some positive notes at the bottom of the quiz – comments Mr and Mrs Anderson could read once they got home from work that evening - before considering the question. 'I would doubt a situation would get so far. You can have various levels of severity, and at the top level it can be very dangerous. With modern medical care, though, it isn't as frightening as it once was. Anyway, I've finished your quiz – excellent result, as usual. I'd just recommend you do a little more research on France's role in the American revolution to give you a more rounded view of-'

'I bet it would be pretty easy to kill a haemophiliac.' Blaine mused, talking more to himself than his tutor. On the scrap paper beside him, he began to doodle. 'Get them bleeding.'

Francisco paused, narrowing his eyes at the unsavoury tone their conversation had taken on. 'Like I said, it isn't that simple – applying pressure to wounds and seeking medical assistance is usually enough for people living with that condition. Now, back to France-'

Blaine scribbled more and then turned his paper around to show the man. 'Look. Just imagine it.' With his pen, he pointed to where he had drawn a haphazard picture of a stick figure inside a hole. 'If you were to fill a ditch with a thousand sharp things, like…nails or...' He hummed, then snapped his finger, 'barbed wire! Can you imagine the damage that could do to someone whose blood couldn't clot properly?' Francisco's frown deepened. 'And if you dig the ditch deep enough, they wouldn't be able to get out on their own without getting themselves cut up worse.'

'Blaine…'

Blaine looked up at his teacher with interest, 'How long would it take for a normal person to bleed to death in this situation?'

Feeling ill at the scenario Blaine had described, Francisco snapped, 'Why are you asking me these morbid questions? Give me that,' He snatched the drawing and scrunched it up. 'This is a serious medical condition which hundreds of thousands of people have to deal with every day, I am not going to chit chat about nonsense plans of ditches and barbed wires and how quickly a haemophiliac would die in one!' Blaine stared up at him, his expression unreadable. Francisco felt himself go red, having never been so strict with a pupil – especially the Anderson boy – and felt a little embarrassed. He smoothed down his collar. 'You normally ask much more interesting and thoughtful questions than that. I'm disappointed. Now, our time is up for today. I'm going to visit the bathroom and I'll be off. You can put your things away…'

His notion of embarrassment only worsening the longer Blaine's clouded eyes watched him, Francisco stood up and left the room trying not to appear uneasy. In the bathroom, he stood by the sink. Blaine's words describing the ditch setup circled his mind. What a horrible thing for someone to think up! Why on earth would he even contemplate that? This might be something his mother would want to know about in our end-of-week progress e mail.

After splashing some water on his face and giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts, he left to the dining room table to find Blaine gone. Their study materials were still spread out across the room. Perhaps he had reacted a little too harshly? He collected his things and made his way out to his car.

Blaine was waiting for him on the driveway. 'I'm sorry about what I said. I guess I've just been playing too many video games lately.' The teen shuffled his feet.

Francisco sighed, giving his student a pat on the back. He wasn't to know that Blaine had no interest in video games, nor did he own any consoles. 'Better to think of ways of helping people than dwell on fatalities. See you on Thursday.'

Blaine watched his tutor get into his car and pull out onto the road. That was the last time they saw each other.

I messed up: I got too comfortable with Francisco that I said too much. I freaked him out. I saw it written on his face. I knew that if he made it home then I could almost guarantee a message to my parents about what I had said. I escaped suspicion after Laney and Craig, but who knows what would have happened if ditch idea got back to my mom and dad?

Would my dad remember Cooper's accusations?

I couldn't take the chance. The snare trap I set in Francisco's car was on a timer, set to go off seventeen minutes after he left my home. It was almost invisible – a wire loop that would tighten around his foot on the gas pedal. I'd done my best to loosen the brakes in the short space of time I had. I had seen this done before online and it resulted in a high-speed collision that killed the driver instantly. I hoped for the best.

I found out about the accident hours later when the police stopped by our house in an effort to re-trace my tutor's steps before he ploughed into a bus just outside town. He was in a coma, they revealed with heavy hearts at our doorstep. It was a miracle no one died, they said. Well…Francisco Jerome was still teetering on the line.

I was questioned with my father beside me in the living room. I gave a story fairly similar to the truth, obviously editing out our last conversation. I also implied that he had left our home earlier than he did. I wanted to put the times of his leaving and his accident as far apart as possible. I wasn't under any suspicion by police: they were convinced he was distracted by his cell phone or something while driving. If they had simply left at that point, the rest of my story would be so different. My life would be different.

At the time, I panicked. Now I realise I needed it to happen this way.

'Thank you very much for your time. Sorry to have bothered you at dinner.'

Johnny Anderson waved their apologies away. 'Please. It's an awful thing to have happened. I can only hope the fella pulls through.' With his wife trying to rustle up a last-minute evening meal in the kitchen, it was only he and Blaine who walked the officers to the door.

'Here's hoping, Mr Anderson, and if it's alright with you, I'd like to return tomorrow morning and get a character reference from an employer's standpoint. Just something official we can have on record if this goes to trial.'

'Of course, tomorrow morning will be fine.'

The officers headed towards their car, only for one to suddenly turn. 'Oh, I almost forgot – Blaine, I don't suppose this looks familiar at all?' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed evidence bag. 'It was found in the car underneath the driver's seat. We're looking into the possibility that it might have interfered with Mr Jerome's driving, but it's not much to go on.'

Blaine's heart beat faster when he saw the faint line of a curved wire inside the bag. It was only a small portion of the loop he had set up, and thankfully not the portion including the knot. Just a wire piece. Blaine stepped forward and pretended to examine it. 'Sorry, sir. I've never seen that before.'

The officer nodded. 'It was a long shot. Goodnight, folks.'

'Hold on…' Johnny came closer, his eyes narrowing on the bag's contents and his expression becoming one of confusion. 'Is that wire?'

'Yes sir. Probably part of a longer piece. The guy kept a clean vehicle, otherwise we might have missed it altogether. Do you recognise it?'

Blaine kept his cool, watching his dad carefully. He could see the memory rushing back to the older man's mind: Craig's ankle had been snatched up by the same type of wire years before. 'I… I'm sure I've seen something similar before.' Both the police and Blaine stared at him. Johnny seemed to deliberately avoid even glancing at his son. 'I'll think about it tonight. Talk to you about it tomorrow.'

The men bid them a good evening before setting off down the long country road to town. Johnny turned on his heel and quickly went back inside. Blaine followed, finding his father sitting in his usual chair in the living room. His face was lined with concern. Blaine sat at the bottom of the stairs. Guarding.

'It's not much, but I've heated up some leftover casseroles - come eat!' Pam called through from the dining room.

Blaine waited for his father to leave first. He had never seen the man like this before. A strange mixture of emotions were sweeping across his face simultaneously: confusion, anger, doubt, worry, suspicion. None of this sat well for the youngest Anderson, and he took a seat opposite his father as Pam served them their dinner.

Blaine picked up his knife and fork and calmly started eating. His mom went on to talk about how horrible the news was, tossing questions out to no one in particular – 'Do you think we should visit him? Even when he's in a coma?' – and was in the middle of praising the police for their handling of the tragedy when it happened.

The sharp noise of Johnny Anderson's chair being shoved backwards, the thud as the man stood up and dropped his cutlery on the table, and the harsh footsteps as he swiftly strode out into the hallway. Blaine expected it all. Pam, startled, questioned her husband as she moved to go after him. 'Honey?' The man was halfway up the stairs by the time his wife caught up with him. He said nothing. He continued to say nothing as he crossed the upstairs hallway and entered his youngest child's bedroom. Blaine remained still, sitting at the dining table, listening as his dad began to ransack his bedroom. He closed his eyes, took a few steadying breaths, and silently moved to join his parents.

'Johnny, what on earth are you doing? Stop it!'

By the time Blaine reached his door frame, his mattress was up on its side against the wall. His belongings were scattered all over the floor, his drawers emptied and his furniture shifted around. Pam looked on with shock, turning to her son briefly as if to apologise for the mess that was made. Blaine let him continue. There was no stopping this doomed train now.

His father circled the room, positive he missed something. Finally, his eyes landed on the closet. Locked and with no key in sight, the door did not open when he tugged on the knob. He jerked it once – twice – three times before putting his foot up on the wall and hauling the door almost off its hinges. His wife yelped, unable to speak at his uncharacteristically frightening actions. Blaine waited as his father entered the closet. The sounds of objects being tossed around and moved proceeded. Then…quiet.

His dad then gradually stepped out; a wire snare in one hand, an iron pressure trap in the other. His face was cherry-red with fury. He glared at his son with poisonous eyes, and Blaine merely stared back. 'What…what is that?' Pam asked, astonished.

'This,' Johnny's voice trembled in anger as he answered. His tone was low. Dangerous. 'This is what our son has been doing. The little shit did it all.'

Pam gasped at the language, then again as she realised his insinuation. 'What? No! Don't be ridiculous, Blaine didn't do anything – why would you even think th-'

'He has the fucking things in his closet, Pamela!' Johnny shouted, dumping the traps on the floor and yanking out more from the depths of the teen's belongings. 'Wires, tools, metal jaws – he has the whole lot hidden back here! He probably builds them all in this room!' He stormed out again, lunging at his son and shaking him by the front of his shirt. 'You made Francisco crash today! You were the one to set those death-traps out in the field! You did the whole fucking lot – didn't you?!'

Blaine did not deny it. It was obvious by now, and he wasn't going to bother insulting his father's intelligence by attempting to feed him a lie. He simply looked him in the eyes and offered a shrug. 'It's fun.' He murmured.

Johnny looked like he was moments off striking his son, his eyes almost burst with the rage inside him. His teeth clenched until he snarled. He saw no regret in those hazel eyes the boy stole from his innocent mother. The sixteen-year-old he knew all these years appeared to disintegrate in front of him, being replaced by the stone-cold stranger he had in front of him. In a madness he had never felt before, Johnny threw his son away from him and thundered out into the hall, making for the stairs.

Blaine caught himself on his bedpost. He stood up and smoothed out his shirt. His mother, somehow trying to process the information that was stuffed down her throat so carelessly, gazed at him with aching anguish pouring from her eyes. She shook her head as if to deny it, but Blaine's own demeanour only confirmed the truth. However, the woman was to be given credit: she realised that her husband had just left with a purpose, and she suspected the worst. Pushing away the revelation, she ran after him. 'Johnny! Johnny, stop! Please – what are you doing?'

'I'm calling the police, Pamela. You know that's what I'm doing.' The man snapped as he made for the kitchen telephone.

'Wait!' Pam cried, running at her husband and pulling futilely at his arm in an attempt to stop him. 'Johnny, listen, you can't! He'll go to jail and-'

'That's where he deserves to be!' Johnny shook her off, throwing a look of utter disgust back to his son, who simply strolled into the kitchen and stood still by the refrigerator. 'Those kids… He was the one to set those traps, he was the one to lead them out, he was the one who did it all! Those kids could've died. Everything he put them through – they might as well have! He's an evil son of a bitch!'

'Johnny!' Pam threw herself in front of her husband and shoved him away from the telephone he was reaching for. 'He's your son! He needs help, okay? I-I know this is all messed up and-and we j-just need to talk about it. He didn't know what he was doing!'

Johnny couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'Listen to yourself!' He bellowed back, 'You're defending him, you're trying to defend what he did-'

'No, I'm not!'

'-he's a monster!' Johnny pushed his wife to the side and picked up the phone. 'And he'll do more if we let him. Well, I'm not letting him. I'm not having more blood spilled because my son is a sick, twisted-'

'Dad?'

Johnny turned, and the fork punctured his neck from the side.

I won't bore you with the gore, Kurt. I know you still don't know how to enjoy those kind of details yet. All I'll say is that the feeling of his hot blood spurting onto my hand was one of the best sensations I've ever had. I got lost in it. He tried to stop it by fighting me off but even back then, as a teenager, I knew how to take down a bigger guy. I couldn't exactly expect people not to fight back when I tried to kill them, right? He was surprised that his son could hold him in place. He thrashed about a lot and the blood went everywhere. He slipped on it and dropped to the floor like a bowling ball, with my fork still in his throat. I knew he'd try to yank it out, so I reached down to give the handle a turn: he'd do more damage getting it out then.

You'll know this by now thanks to all the training, baby, but the movies that show the villain still active after being shot or stabbed are insanely out of touch. I got my dad once, and that's all that was needed. He just flopped around the kitchen floor like a fish out of water, gasping. And I just watched him. I'd hopped up onto the breakfast bar stool to be comfortable. It took him six and a half minutes, but I began to get bored after four when he lost consciousness. That was also when my mom's constant wailing got a little too much.

You see, my mom didn't like anything gory either. She refused to watch horror movies, she could be physically sick at the thought of hunting animals – as you knew – and I guess the sight of my dad must have been… Anyway, she had tried to help him right at the start but she shook bad. She practically vibrated, not able to do much but be hysterical. She threw up a couple of times. It was all over her. Eventually she seemed to just collapse over my dad's chest.

I got up and found some cereal. Don't look at me like that, Kurt, I hadn't finished dinner and I was a growing boy!

'Mom,' Blaine sighed, rubbing his temples with his clean hand when the bawling brought on a headache. 'Mom, stop. He's gone. Get up.'

The teen placed his cereal bowl in the sink to wash later and then stepped over his father's still body – careful not to slip in the mess – to take hold of his mother's shoulders. The woman threw herself at him, her balled up fists hitting his chest. An selection of bodily fluids, namely blood, tears and vomit, were transferred onto his clothes and he winced in disgust. The hits didn't amount to much thanks to Pam's shaking and grief stealing most of her physical energy. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out but blubbering.

Understanding his mother was in no fit state to communicate with, Blaine picked her up and carried her weakly resisting frame out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the spare bedroom which used to belong to Cooper. He forced her to lie down on his mattress and threw a blanket over her. 'I need to take care of things, mom,' He whispered. She moaned, her sounds not forming any words Blaine could make out, and swiped at the air. Blaine shut the door on her wet face and utilised the lock on the door. Admittedly, he didn't want to lock his mother away but the mess downstairs wasn't going to clean itself.

It took a good three hours to dig the hole in the field by moonlight alone, and although he would have preferred to have dug a full six feet, he stopped after three. He wasn't looking to impress anyone with this half-assed grave. He checked in on his mother: Pam was found spread-eagled on the bedroom floor, apparently having wailed herself into a blackout. She did not respond to his prodding, but she was breathing. Blaine then returned to his father. As deceptively strong as Blaine was, he could not simply carry the now-deceased Anderson man outside. It took another hour of lifting him limb-by-limb onto a bed of curtains and dragging him outside by the hem to the burial spot. Blaine's foot toyed with his dad's torso when it was dangerously close to the hole's edge. As his first real murder, he wanted to savour all the new things he was doing. These skills – the stabbing, the digging, the burying – he had read so much about it and practiced with animal carcases, but nothing compared to this. He was glad someone as significant as his dad could be his first. It made it all the more special. With a fond smile, he kicked his father into the hole. The landing thump was dull and quiet: soft earth did not make a fantastic echoing surface. Blaine then picked up his trusty shovel once more and began sprinkling soil up and down the slumped figure.

Heaving the ground back into the grave was a lot easier than digging it out. It did not take long for Blaine to reach the satisfying point of patting the dirt smooth. The cleaning of the kitchen took even less time than expected, and he decided to leave everything else until morning.

Exhausted but still buzzing with excitement, he fell back into his father's chair in the living room. The soft cushions cradled his fall. He was all too aware that he was covered in dirt and various other stains, but he didn't mind. It all felt very natural, like he had been dirty his whole life up until this night.

Satisfaction. That was it. It wasn't the same feeling he had felt before: he wasn't sexually aroused by what he had done. No, this was even better. Was this true happiness?

A couple of soft bumping sounds from above alerted Blaine to his mother's movements . She was awake.

No rest for the wicked, he thought. After thoroughly showering away all traces of murder, Blaine carefully opened the door to the spare bedroom. The sorrowful whimpering from the corner led him to Pam. She lay in the foetal position in the shadows. Blaine knelt down and placed a hand on her head. 'I'm sorry, mom.' He murmured softly. 'But he was going to have me locked away. He didn't understand. Not like you did. You tried to protect me. Mom?' The woman's large hazel eyes looked up at her son. They were raw, dazed, and fearful. Blaine shuffled down to lie with her. 'Momma,' He was now whispering. 'I know I can trust you. Trust me. Help me, momma…'

The knock at the door came shortly after ten the following morning. Mrs Anderson greeted the police with a tear-stricken expression of pain.

'May we speak to your husband, Mrs Anderson?'

'I-I'm afraid you can't…'

The officers shared concerned glances. 'Is everything alright, ma'am? Is something wro-'

'He left last night.'

Blaine sat in his father's chair, eyes closed. He may have appeared asleep, but he was listening. 'And when will he be returning home, ma'am? We can come back.'

Pam shook her head and sniffed against her hand. 'He won't be coming back. H-he said he was leaving for good. We've been having problems a-and after our fight last night he just…packed his things. My son,' She paused. Blaine opened his eyes and watched her cling to the door frame for dear life. 'he tried to call my husband's cell but he turned it off. I'm sorry, officers, I don't know what else to say.'

And her last statement was true. Blaine had given her only so much script and now she was out of lines. He stood up and walked to the door. 'Mom, go sit down,' He squeezed her shoulders gently and urged her away to the sofa. He then looked back to the men on his porch. 'She's really upset. Neither of us expected him to go. I can give you his cell and office numbers, maybe you'll have better luck reaching him than we did. If he comes back, I'll let you know straight away. I'm so sorry we can't be of more help.'

Cooper had always been called a natural charmer – and he was! – but Blaine learned through his example. He picked up on the subtle physical cues and tonal manipulations that can make you in charge of a situation. As the police officers drove off empty-handed of any real information, Blaine the door shut with an amused flick of his wrist.

That was one problem solved. Just two more to go.

You look confused, Kurt. Can't you guess what the other two problems were?

Yes, that was one. But I wasn't in a huge rush to get rid of it – I mean, her. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I never loved anyone before I loved you. I didn't love my mother. She did everything for me: she birthed me, she raised me, she loved me, and she lied about me murdering my dad. Fuck, even I'm surprised I didn't love her. But I did enjoy her. I appreciated her. The same way you appreciate the sun, or the cool breeze on a stiflingly hot day. She helped make my life better.

At least, my life up until that point.

That was my main problem at that time. You see, I had been slowly nudging the walls of my life to include more and more of what I wanted, but I was still restricted. I wanted to do so much more. Killing my father was like tearing a hole in my cage – and I was going to have to go through that tear much sooner than expected. I thought I'd have another few years of flying under the radar, not arousing any suspicion, but I had underestimated my dad. My days in that house were numbered. It made me sad: the home my parents built around me and the freedoms they unknowingly provided had seemed like blessings, and now I stood to lose it all. My father couldn't be AWOL for long. Sooner or later, someone was going to ask questions. Family would need his presence. His employees at the construction company needed their boss. The government would need his taxes. Letting him become a missing person might have worked, but my mom wasn't going to hold out long enough for that lie. I could tell.

Basically, I needed to decide what I was going to do. I was dumb: I didn't have a plan. I guess I figured I could go through life being Blaine Anderson, the sinless, normal guy in the public eye, quietly doing what I loved in the privacy of a basement or shadowed alleyway. I was young and naive to think I could do it. I'm just glad I learned that lesson when I was still young enough to change direction.

I still remember the moment I decided.

I had stayed awake all night sitting out on a deck chair in our back yard. I had seen the sun set and then rise again above the treetops in the morning. My mom had been there at the start, talking into the darkness about her regrets and why all of the blame was on her. She told me the story of when she had asked me to pack and my entire life didn't even fill two boxes. She claimed it was her poor parenting that must have done it. She apologised, and then cried. Then she apologised as she cried. I told her to go inside and sleep, and so she did. And as the first rays of sunshine broke out into the sky, I realised that I was still that boy who packed his life in twenty minutes. Not only did I not need anything, I didn't want anything. No 'thing' ever made me happy. Just experiences. I left my first home without so much as a backwards glance. And if I had gotten into my dad's car that minute with nothing more than the clothes I was wearing, I'd lose nothing important.

I could take care of myself because I was capable of doing what others couldn't: I could do the unthinkable. And I knew that, with practice, I could do it well. It felt like someone blew open a door I had been looking for my whole life. I knew then. This life I have now is exactly what I wanted when I sat in that deck chair watching a new day begin. The 'Games' developed later on, especially with Sebastian getting on-board a few years later. You were the unexpected pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Maybe if I had known you were out there, just waiting for me to come for you, I would have left that day. But I didn't know, Kurt. So, I stayed a little longer.

However, the decision I made that day to commit every ounce of power I had in me to this future also made my last decision very, very simple.

Pam watched her son at the stove. Steam from the pot of vegetables and smoke from the salmon sizzling in the pan mixed together to form a rather clouded kitchen. The humidity was affecting Blaine's hair. The dark thickness was curling in front of her eyes, doubling in size. It was almost comical. Perhaps if it hadn't been a physical trait passed directly from his father, she may have even smiled.

Blaine turned and spotted her at the doorway. 'Mom, I told you: I've got this. Go sit down. Relax.'

Pam jumped at suddenly being noticed, and backed away into the dining room where a classic candle sat in the middle of the dinner table. Blaine had ironed the napkins and arranged them in fancy shapes. She sat down and wondered who had taught him that. She certainly hadn't. There was a lot about her son she didn't know, she realised. When he entered with their meal on serving platters, she asked him.

'Cooper taught me. He used to work in that upscale restaurant, remember?'

Pam nodded slowly.

Blaine served their food before opening a bottle of white wine. She immediately waved her hand no as he went to place a glass of wine by her plate. 'I shouldn't. I've…not been well. It'll just make me sick.'

Blaine appeared confused by the assumption. 'But, mom…the internet said you need to have white wine with salmon. Nothing else works with it. Something about taste buds and complimenting flavours. Just one glass, mom. I wanted to make this all perfect for you.'

His voice almost cracked with emotion and Pam bit her lip to stop from tearing up. She nodded. 'One glass.'

Blaine busied himself tidying up around them before coming back and dimming the lights. The candle's strength seemed to rise to the occasion. He then fidgeted with the record player until soothing jazz played through the speakers. Finally, he sat opposite his mother and smiled. It took a couple of moments, but the smile was weakly returned. They ate.

Salmon was not Blaine's favourite food; in fact, he detested the taste. He made a show of cutting it up and moving it around his plate, but the only food that entered his mouth were the vegetables. It was the only food not tainted. He brought his own glass of wine to his lips but kept his mouth closed. Periodically, he poured some onto the rug at his feet when his mother's eyes were downwards.

Several minutes passed with only the music from the record player and the soft clinking of cutlery on plates disturbing the quiet. Blaine watched his mother eat. At first, she had been robotic, however now she appeared to be finding some solace in his cooking. Her glass was almost empty. He lifted the wine bottle and poured them another round. His mother didn't bother to argue this time.

'Mom,' He said as her movements slowed on the final few bites of her meal. Pam paused and looked up to meet his eyes hesitantly. He smiled. 'I want to thank you.' His mom blinked, resting her knife and fork on the table. 'I wanted to thank you for always being there for me. To thank you for your love. The loyalty. The effort. I know this week hasn't been easy for you.' The middle-aged woman's eyes filled up again, only this time she couldn't make them stop. Her lip trembled. Blaine rose from his seat and circled round to her side, offering his hand. 'Dance with me, mommy.'

Many more seconds passed with Pam trying, and failing, to stop her sobs starting again. To her credit, she kept quiet. Her shaking hand finally found Blaine's and he pulled her up into his arms. He cradled her tired form close to his chest. The jazz was slow; Blaine met the music in his drawn-out sways. 'Mom, you worked so hard.' He tenderly moved her hair away from her face. Her body grew heavier but he kept her up. He made her dance. 'I know you've been thinking it, but I promise you: there was nothing you could've done that would have stopped this. I don't want you to blame yourself. I'll take it all. And mommy…' He turned her head as she slumped against him. His grin grew as he whispered, 'I'd do it all again.'

Her wet eyes were closed now, her arms and legs limp. Blaine shifted her in his arms so he could pick her up properly before carrying her upstairs to the bed she and Blaine's father had shared. He rested her peacefully on the centre of the bed. She was a very pretty woman; his father had certainly been punching well above his weight. Blaine took a moment to take a mental picture of her small frame, and memorise the way her chest rose and fell as she took in small measured breaths.

Blaine sighed, his smile becoming fond and nostalgic. He then climbed onto the mattress and reached for the large pillow he had placed on the dresser. Straddling his mother's slim waist, he carefully placed it over her head. He used his hand to feel the vague outline of her face – after all, he did not want to accidently break her nose after all this effort to be gentle. Her chest rose again. As it fell, he applied the pressure. The chest made small movements: an attempt at rising again. More pressure. Careful not to snap her nose. Let's make this dignified.

The jazz music could be heard from downstairs and Blaine chuckled when one of his mother's favourites began. He hummed along as he closed his eyes. He hummed it all the way to the end and then just sat in place a few minutes more. Once he opened his eyes, he gently removed the pillow.

A lingering kiss on the still-warm forehead.

I'll dig the full six feet for you, mom.

You look sad, Kurt. What are you thinking about? Oh…

I'm sorry that was the last time you saw your mom, baby. I'm sorry when you kissed her forehead in the hospital that you were being forced to say goodbye. Please stop crying. Kurt…

Freedom was a word Blaine had only ever known in minutely or hourly bouts. Could it even be called freedom when you had to be ready to hide your handiwork at a moment's notice?

The days which followed Pam Anderson's burial were unlike any Blaine had experienced before. The house and the land was his. He shocked himself by doing nothing for two whole days, his waking moments squandered on fantasising about all the things he could be doing. Thanks to the few 'Don't tell your mother' driving lessons his father had given him, Blaine was able to spend his evenings test-driving the vehicles from the garage out on the roads when they were void of all traffic. Which car would he take with him when he left for good? Obviously, he couldn't get attached: he would need to trade off cars to shake off any police who may come after him. Eventually, he chose his dad's BMW 5 Series. It was flashy, comfortable and fast. It would be a sad day parting with it, but it would get his adventure started on the right foot.

It was during a night-time test drive that Blaine stumbled across him.

I won't tell you his name. Who am I kidding, I forgot his name long ago. He served a purpose, even just for one night. Many others followed him in the years after, and then I found you, Kurt.

I don't need someone like him ever again.

What was his name? Ryder? Tyler?

'Hey, man – I'm Skylar,' The guy grinned through the car window which Blaine had just rolled down. The rain splattered off of the stranger's sports sweater, his dark hair clinging to his face. 'Any chance you're passing the next town? I'd sure appreciate the ride.'

Partially stunned at his late-night luck, Blaine nodded feverishly. 'Get in. I'll turn on the heat so you can dry off.'

The guy, Skylar, did indeed look very appreciative as he dashed around to the passenger door and hurled himself down next to Blaine. 'Man, you know how long I've been walking this road hoping for a car to come by and stop?'

Blaine laughed easily, hiding his giddiness well. 'You chose a pretty remote road to walk down. You're not from around here, are you?'

Skylar pushed his wet hair back and let the hot air from the car vents warm his face. 'My last ride took me as far as a gas station in Vincenton. The staion clerk made it seem like this road would take me to the next town in half a day. He was lying – I've been walking since dawn! And only three cars passed me the whole time. None of them stopped. God, I'm exhausted…'

Blaine glanced over at the stranger's frame. Seeming to clock in maybe a year or two older than Blaine himself, he was attractive enough. If anything, his physical characteristics were a little too much like his own and the thought put Blaine off a little. He was shorter – at least that was something – his face was pretty and his eyes kind. Blaine's grip on the steering wheel tightened in anticipation. 'You got somewhere to sleep tonight in town?'

Skylar leaned forward and put his hands to the heat. 'Yeah – the cheapest motel, wherever that is.' He laughed.

'A cheap motel isn't going to be easy.' That was a lie, but Blaine made a show of cringing at the thought. 'You've come in the wrong season. Places will be full of tourists.' That was also a lie. 'Gee, I'm not sure you'll find anywhere with vacancies.' Skylar looked to him, slightly concerned. Blaine bit his lip, as if thinking for a solution to this unfortunate circumstance. He then hummed. 'Well, I mean… I don't live far from town. My folks are away. You should crash at mine. I can take you to town first thing in the morning.'

Skylar turned to face him. 'Oh wow, that's really great of you, but I can't do that. You already picked me up, I can't ask to stay at your home.'

'You're not asking, I'm offering.' Blaine smiled the same smile that used to get him five extra minutes on his 'biology research'. 'I wouldn't want you to have to sleep rough when there are plenty of beds to choose from in my house. Besides, with my parents away, I'm getting bored being on my own. You'd be doing me a favour.'

Skylar looked torn. Apparently, he trusted strangers enough to accept rides, but not enough to accept their roof over his head. Blaine could practically feel the boy size him up with his eyes, deciding whether he could trust this fellow teen. Eventually, he shifted back into his seat. 'Well, thanks man. I am really grateful.'

Blaine smiled. 'No problem.'

I had a choice to make.

I had the advantage over him in height and muscle. It was likely that if I tried to take him down, I'd win. However, I was risking a lot: I didn't know this guy any more than he knew me. His skinny frame might have been hiding years of martial arts training that I hadn't a chance to take up yet. Yes, Kurt, I did go on to study some martial arts for that reason. He also could have had a weapon. I doubted it, but I wasn't going to throw away everything by tackling him and being undercut somehow.

That's why I went for the alcohol. He was a fan of rum, like my dad. I offered him the bottle I saw him eyeing when he clocked the drinks cabinet. We sat by the fire and I started the buddying process: I asked about his life, his plans, his whatever. And every so often, I filled up our glasses again. I was claiming to be drinking vodka, but in reality it was water. I needed to keep a clear head whilst making him believe I was keeping up with the rounds.

From memory, I think he was a nice guy. He laughed a little too much, but not the worst of habits I suppose. He liked dancing. He talked a lot about his show choir, which sounded like an obnoxious group of privileged assholes. I acted the part. It was close to midnight when he finally said something that caught my attention.

'My ex always promised to see one of our performances. It was like 'I'll be there next time, babe! Trust me!' And did he?' Skylar took a drink, 'No. No, he did not. Probably too busy watching his football team lose. Again. Seriously!'

Blaine froze, his water-slash-vodka glass halfway up to his lips. 'You're gay?'

In keeping with Skylar's assumption that Blaine must have been as drunk as he was by this point, the other boy let out a snigger of a laugh, 'Oh wow, yes, sorry! That sort of slipped out…'

Interested, Blaine shuffled up from the cushion he was sitting on. 'I didn't realise. I'm gay too.'

The truth was, Blaine hadn't really thought about his sexual orientation much before. It was like a non-interesting side of him he barely paid attention to. It wasn't like he didn't get aroused– he did. He orgasmed often just thinking about all the wonderfully horrific things he had seen in the past. However, he after acknowledging that he found guys more physically stimulating than girls, he moved on. He figured one day he would be bored and have sex, but until then he was happy going solo with his graphic thoughts. That was until he looked across the rug at the inebriated teen.

Not his type, true, but he was here. He was cute. He was vulnerable. The thought had only just occurred to him that he needed a moment to question whether he wanted to do this. Did he want to rape someone? No, he didn't have any moral objection to it – when you jam a fork into your dad's neck in front of your screaming mother, you don't really object to much – but it seemed a little tiring. It would be much easier just to kill him instead of trying to put his cock in his ass.

'Really?' Skylar's eyes widened and sparkled with intrigue. He leaned forward and licked his lips. Or this could be very easy.

'Your boyfriend sounds like a dick, if you ask me.' Blaine said softly, leaning in as well. 'Clearly didn't know what he had.' He let his eyes drift down towards Skylar's lips just long enough for a drunken teen to notice, then he stared deep into his eyes.

Skylar's lips parted but he didn't speak straight away. He placed his glass on the coffee table beside them and then put his hand on Blaine's knee. 'You're sweet. I bet no one would let you get away.'

Blaine couldn't stop a smirk. 'Sometimes they don't get the choice.'

Skylar wasn't sure whether to laugh or not, apparently taken by his odd and confident retort. 'Well, that seems unfair-' But the rest of his sentence was cut off. Blaine grabbed the back of his head and pulled him forward into a kiss. At first, Skylar pushed back after suffering from a loss of balance, but Blaine did not let him go. Not three seconds later, the house-guest was clumsily crawling into Blaine's lap.

You're looking jealous. Don't try to hide it, Kurt. I think it's cute. Do you want me to tell you what happened next?

Don't get snarky. You're hot as hell when you're jealous, but you're not too hot to avoid a spanking session. I will pull this car over. Good boy.

Anyway, you'll be happy to know that my first time did not feel as great as I guessed it would. Yeah, okay, it will always feel good when you fuck. And Skylar was eager to ride me as hard as he could. It felt good. My body was going through the motions. But my mind? In my mind, I wanted more. And I knew there was only one way this boy was going to satisfy me.

Cheer up, Kurt. You know I killed him.

'Oh god! Oh G-uh!'

Blaine stared up at the boy on top of him. Butt naked and back arching further than the teen thought possible, Skylar was well and truly in Pleasure City. Sweat covered portions of his skin and it was no surprise: the boy was slamming himself onto Blaine's shaft so hard that bruises were already forming on Skylar's bare ass. Blaine's cock appreciated the enthusiasm, and a warm swelling deep in Blaine's abdomen gave the hint that something was coming - him. It was just going to take a while. Would Skylar be able to keep it up long enough?

Blaine leaned back on the rug and squeezed his eyes shut. He was a virgin before tonight, right? Aren't virgin guys known for coming quick? Why was he not feeling it?

'Blaine, you're dick is so good-!' Skylar moaned, 'It's so big, it feels so big and full – it might just rip me apart!'

Now that's a thought…

Eyes opening, Blaine gripped onto the other's hips. Funny how a little phrase like that got him more excited than before. He took in Skylar's pinching eyebrows and tightened facial muscles. He imagined that, instead of pleasure, the boy was in pain. A moan escaped Blaine's mouth as a surge of pleasure ran the length of his cock and into his balls. This was new.

'Ah, yeah – you like my ass?' Skylar was cute, thinking he had done something to warrant Blaine's noise.

'Yeah.' Blaine sat up and hoisted his partner in the air, turning them and dropping him onto the floor. 'But I want to try this position. Turn around.' Skylar went to argue, clearly having been partial to riding Blaine up until this point. But Blaine was in no mood to dampen his arousal with needless talk; he smacked Skylar hard across the face. 'Turn. Now.'

Immediately, Skylar sobered up. He touched his cheek in pain. He glanced up at Blaine and saw something in his eyes. He turned to face the floor, reluctantly parting his legs and propping himself up for Blaine's entry. But Blaine wasn't ready for that yet. The sound of leather running against cloth caught the guest's attention. 'Wh-what are you doing?'

'You seem flexible.' Blaine murmured in his ear. 'I want to see how far you can bend backwards.' Without warning, Skylar's own belt looped around his neck, tightening as Blaine pulled. Not enough to fully choke him, but enough to have the male beneath him strain for breath. It was then Blaine thrust back into his ass. Despite the countless times Skylar's ass had been stretched by Blaine's cock before, this new position and Skylar's body-wide tension made the forced entry as tight as a fist. Blaine growled against Skylar's shoulder, pulling instinctively on the belt end. He drew back and lunged in again. He waited for the scream, but it didn't come. Just the rasping and gurgling of a boy whose throat was being crushed.

No, no, no - I want to hear you.

The belt came off as quickly as it went on. Skylar's head was pushed down onto the floor as his body was treated like a ragdoll. Pathetically swiping at Blaine, somehow still under the illusion he could make it all stop if he just made his grievances known, Skylar cried to be let up. Red marks were glowing around his neck from where the belt dug in. Blaine stared at the deepening colour as he slammed harder and harder into the body that was now lying flat.

Skylar needed more marks like that, he decided. His mind was drifting off having finally reached Pleasure City. Sadly, his partner was no longer a resident. Blaine didn't care. He gripped the belt in his hand and managed to peel himself off Skylar's back. Still deep inside the hot, tight ass, Blaine brought the belt up high – only to then bring it down hard and fast on the exposed shoulder blades.

Skylar had not seen it coming and his scream pierced their ears. A thin gash suddenly appeared across his shoulder, blood instantly seeping out from it. Now, the boy panicked. Blaine just about managed to hold him down, but a frightened guy was still tricky to predict. When Skylar managed to scramble onto his elbows, Blaine whipped the belt across his skin again. Another shriek of pain, another gash. This time, the rip in his skin was thick and the blood seemed to pool for a few extra seconds before falling. Blaine watched with morbid fascination: the running blood going down the outline of Skylar's spine felt like fingers teasingly running up the length of Blaine's dick. Blaine groaned, rocking his crotch into Skylar as deep as possible inside.

Skylar made one more attempt to scramble free, but Blaine was done dishing out single blows. He lashed at the once perfectly flawless body until it was ribbons of torn flesh from his neck down to the small of his back. The teen sobbed and wailed in agony, unable to move without causing himself even more torture. Blaine lost all self-control: his hips slapped against the red-purple ass cheeks until droplets of Skylar's blood rained on his cock. His hands shook with excitement as they pressed against the gashes. It felt like he was touching a baking rock, it was so hot.

Then it all happened without Blaine expecting it: as the full impact of what he was seeing and feeling truly hit him, Blaine gasped and then cried out as bolt-like shocks took over his entire body, filling every inch of him with ecstasy. He felt his cock thicken against Skylar's insides, and then came the shooting feeling he had only ever achieved by himself, only this was a thousand times more powerful. Skylar must have felt it all happen, too: he let out a whimper and raised his arms to cover his face. Moments later, Blaine fell on top of him, exhausted.

They lay together, neither doing anything but breathing, for what seemed like hours. Blaine enjoyed basking in the rippling afterglow of his climax, made even better as he imagined Skylar's bloody back staining his stomach scarlet.

Eventually, Skylar felt the other boy pull out of him and slip off his body. He didn't dare look up as Blaine walked away. 'Wow…' he heard him say, and so he looked up. Blaine was examining – no, admiring – himself in the mirror, seemingly dazed by his reddened skin. Blaine then turned to look down at him. 'That was fun.' He murmured, slowly stalking back to stand over him. The hitchhiker stayed put, hoping that if he didn't move he might be forgotten. 'I wish we could do it again. But I'm sorry to say,' Blaine reached down and took firm hold of Skylar's head, twisting it in one swift jerk until a satisfying crack was heard. He dropped the head to the floor, smiling at the loud, dull thump it made upon contact. 'I get bored easy.'

I'm pulling over. Kurt, take your pants off. Come here. I know you're hard too, don't try to hide it. Your shy and coy act doesn't work on me; I can see you want it. Damn, Kurt, you want it bad, huh?

Don't worry. I want you too. I'll never get bored of you.

Blaine had to admit: cleaning up blood stains was getting old really fast and he refused to waste any more time digging graves. Skylar's body was wrapped up in the blood-soaked rug and locked inside Mr Anderson's study.

He had decided that he would not risk staying any longer than a week from his mother's death. After a week, the police might feel the need to return and ask questions regarding the still-missing Johnny Anderson. Family calls which Blaine had been deflecting – 'Sorry, Coop, mom and dad are out again. You just keep calling at the wrong time!' – would soon be investigated by those who lived not too far way. Cousin Philip's mom had the annoying habit of turning up uninvited.

In hindsight, Blaine would wish that he had spent his final days just enjoying the house he had grown up in. Instead, he took the BMW out onto the road and sought out other hitchhikers. When that plan failed, he frequented the gay bars of neighbouring towns in the hopes of sweet-talking a tipsy patron into his car. Blaine had thoroughly underestimated his own sexual appeal in the past: he never failed to hook a horny guy back home. His final kill inside the house was a realtor named Ted who rambled on and on about his difficulty accepting his own sexuality before Blaine cut out his vocal chords with his mother's gardening shears. That was a mess he was definitely not cleaning up. The day he decided to leave, he counted eight hook ups in the study. The smell was beginning to filter into the rest of the house, so he was happy in part to be leaving.

His final hours inside the house were quiet and reflective. He sat in every room and remembered. It was a shame Cooper wasn't going to be able to visit and do the same, Blaine thought as he doused the floors, walls and furniture with gasoline. Cooper didn't really live in the house other than a couple of summers, but he would have wanted some items to remind him of his family. It really was a shame.

Blaine made sure to drench his weeks' worth of victims thoroughly: he wanted them to burn fast, so there was less for the fire fighters to find. Giving the liquid time to seep into the wooden floorboards and upholstery, Blaine headed out to the field he had made his playground for years. He could see where his father was buried, and just a few feet away was his mother's unmarked plot. Chances were strong that they would be found, but he hoped not. He made a promise to himself that he would return to find out. This time next year.

Then, with his car packed with just a box of clothes, food and knick knacks – even less than I needed at four years old – there was not much else to wait around for. He struck the match, dropped it, and left. In his rear-view mirror, he watched the house his father built burst into flames almost as if an explosion had gone off inside. He slowed down to watch it for a moment.

It was beautiful.

It took a while to get into a routine. My reliable house visits that you know so well only started when I worried that my parent's money would run out. I had taken out every cent in their name -add fraud to my long list of offences – and I didn't have a hugely expensive taste, so the money still exists today. Throw on the money I find lying around the homes I targeted, and you'll discover I have a rather impressive wealth of my own.

I did, though, leave half of my parent's money in a separate account. I had no plans to kill my brother, so it only seemed fair to split our parents' money lawfully. You know, even after all these years, he's never touched that account.

You see, Cooper knew. He knew it was me. He said as much to the detectives in charge of the major investigation which followed. He got most of the facts right just by guessing. I told you he was smarter than people gave him credit for. But detectives couldn't find enough evidence to say what happened, and my parents were never found. What else could he do? He came back to manage the legal matters and memorial services for our missing parents, but after selling off the land and giving the money away to a bunch of charities he went straight back to California. Occasionally I check up on him, tail him for a few days to find out what he's doing. His dream of becoming a movie star vanished once reporters began hounding him about what happened. He went on to live the quiet life of a screenwriter. He's a pretty private guy. He has two kids. I don't know their names, but I saw them when I was last in Los Angeles. He didn't smile as much as he used to. I've toyed with the idea of getting in touch with him, but I don't want him to run somewhere I can't find him. He's probably terrified for his kids. I don't blame him. If my motives were all about ridding myself of family, those kids would be the first to go.

Stop pouting, Kurt. Those kids are fine. Remember I said that the day Cooper threw that knife away he saved his life? Well, those kids are an extension of that.

What happened to the field? I came back the following year, as I swore I would. The land had been sold off to some environment group, but I had scorched the ground so badly that it was abandoned by the time I returned. It was eerie. I looked at where my house had been and it was just blackness. Charred earth. The fire had been put out before the field got it bad, so I was relieved to see not everything had changed. I ended up camping out there for a couple of days. It had been a roller-coaster of a year: I had found my feet, gained a few friends who could get me some forged documents, honed my killing skills and was a whole lot closer to becoming the person I wanted to be. Stepping back in time was cleansing and emotional. I slept by my mom and talked to her a little. But by my last day, I knew what was missing. The next year, I came back in a truck. And in that truck were hundreds of traps I had made on my travels. They were placed exactly where my old ones had been before my dad had destroyed them. The map of where they had to be was as clear to me then as it was when I created it. Kurt – if I tell you not to step somewhere, listen to me. I don't want you getting hurt.

After that, I just naturally found myself gravitating back each year like an anniversary that needed celebrating. It got harder as the games got started, and a fucking pain in the ass to get Sebastian on the road once he joined me. But its tradition now. It's important to me. Just as important as the games I play. Almost as important as you.

Kurt, we have this plan to leave the States. I don't know when we'll next be back. Maybe never, if that's what you wanted. So, before we open this new chapter, I want you to see where I grew up. I want you to watch the sunrise and sunset the way I did. I want to show you the ribboned tree and make love to you under the stars.

This might be the only time you see it. After you do, I don't care if we ever go back again. That was my life, baby, and for so long I would go back to remind myself how far I've come. But the truth is, you are my life now. You're part of me and your journey has been more incredible than I ever thought possible. I want to give up any part of my life that you weren't in.

Sorry. That took a lot longer than expected to tell. Let's stop here for the night.

I know. I love you too, Kurt.

A.N. If you're still here – Congrats! Here's a medal for your perseverance. 🏅 Please leave a review before you leave.