What was wrong with me?

I stared at the ceiling above me, tracing incomprehensible patterns on the bumpy surface. Beneath me, the couch was soft and warm, inviting. Almost enough to lull me to sleep. But I was terrified of sleeping. Terrified of what could happen the moment my eyes drift shut. Terrified of missing an opportunity to escape this place. Terrified of the war that had been raging in my head and being unable to stop it.

Since recovering from my near breakdown, and having reigned in my thoughts, everything had gone to hell, at least mentally.

It was subtle, like a table shifted a few centimeters to the left, but I noticed it. And the more I dwelt on it, the more apparent it had become. Before, I had seen everything in strictly black and white. Fang and everything he had done was black, black, black. The girls he had used and abused, myself included, were whiter than snow, though probably not as pure.

After he had shown the small portion of good he still had left, the line started to blur together and produced an ugly gray. Now, I wasn't so sure what the man was. Sometimes, he was purely Fang: cold, distant, constantly watching me, memorizing me. Other times, he appeared to be Felix: small, scared, a little boy lost and alone in a dark world.

Nothing had changed, at least not his facial expression, nor his posture. Only his eyes held the true change. Gateways to the soul and all that shit. But Fang had no soul, certainly not if he could commit all those atrocious acts to innocent young girls... Right?

Maybe I was going crazy (the possibility was very, very real). You have to be out of your mind to start to sympathize with a killer. Yet, I wasn't sympathizing with a killer. I was sympathizing with the long forgotten child locked away inside of him. The small vestige of humanity he possessed, if that even truly existed.

"Ah, fuck!" I hissed, jamming the heels of my palms into my eyes, rubbing away nothing in particular. Insanity, perhaps. "Keep it together, Max."

Easier said than done, when the man you were supposed to hate had tainted your view of him. It had to be a trick. Fang could catch me off guard if he could convince me to let my walls down. It was in my nature to help to downtrodden underdogs, and if he could make me believe that he was one of them... I didn't want to think about it.

I removed one hand and glanced at the man in question.

Yes, that had to be it. A game he expected to win. He'd play me like he played the others. So why wasn't I convinced?

God, there really was something screwed up with me.

I could make out almost every one of his features, illuminated now in the pale moonlight filtering through the windows. His face was scrunched tightly together. He almost looked tormented. I wondered what went on in his mind. Did he relive his murders with regret or satisfaction? I bit my tongue. Hard. Enough of those thoughts. I turned my attention to one feature in particular. His eyes were closed.

Was he sleeping?

I sat up slowly, careful not to let the couch frame creak underneath me. My feet touched the cool floor. A shiver ran down my spine, raising goosebumps along my skin. I stood with deliberate care, monitoring Fang's face for any sign of awareness. None. For once, he appeared to actually be sleeping.

My knees nearly gave out in relief. A chance. One small, dim ray of hope glimmering through a foggy gloom. I had a fighting chance, and I knew exactly what I had to do.

I crept across the floor, mindful to stay as far away from Fang as possible. Progress was agonizingly slow, as I didn't want any of the boards to squeak underfoot. The man was no doubt a light sleeper. The whole time, my heart was hammering away, a thousand miles a minute. Surely it was loud enough to wake the dead, never mind the living.

When I reached the kitchen, I took a moment to survey it. I searched through my memories, recalling which drawer Fang had gotten silverware from and headed straight towards it. I pulled it out at a rate of what felt like a centimeter an hour and peered inside. Forks, spoons and butter knives. Damn.

Crossing my fingers, I opened the one next to it. Empty. Completely empty. Okay, don't panic. I scanned the counter, hoping against hope that Fang had place far too much trust in me. He had. Tucked away in a corner, next to the stove, was a knife block. The asshole still had knives in it to boot.

I pulled out the longest one I could find. It gleamed softly in the light, a little piece of heaven for what it was worth. Possibly a ticket out of this God forsaken nightmare.

Insurance in hand, I was no less careful coming back, though I lost the slouch, and stood ramrod straight. I came to stand behind him, knife gripped tight enough to snap the handle in two. My hand was shaking, and every nerve felt electrified, tingling like a lightning storm ready to be unleashed. I tried to steel myself. It had to be done. Besides, he wasn't human. Not really.

A swift jab to his neck was all it would take. He would bleed out, choking and coughing on his own blood. Certainly not a painless way to go, but compared to what he had done to others, this was a humane way for him to die. It was practically lethal injection.

"Do it."

I nearly dropped the knife. Though quiet by all means, his voice was like a gunshot in the silence. I wanted to plunge the knife right into his neck, but my muscles froze, hands locking up. Dammit! Move, move, move. Kill him before he kills you!

But he didn't move. Not to harm me anyway. He simply opened his eyes and leaned his head back, exposing his neck further for me and my beautiful knife. Something in his voice made me stop in my tracks, once the shock started to wear off and I seemed able to function. It was his in eyes and his voice. It was different, and a difference I was starting to know.

"End this."

This wasn't Fang speaking to me. No, this was Felix. I could tell by the pleading look in his eyes, the eagerness to finally be rid of everything that tormented him on deep level. To be killed, because he knew he could never do it himself, something else wouldn't allow it. This was a hurting child, desperately wanting to be rescued from the world he had created for himself.

"Please." He practically begged.

Fang never begged. Not to me or anyone for that matter.

"Max, you have to kill me."

I stared at him, eyes wide. This was not going as planned. Pull yourself together. This was a golden opportunity. No, that was a gross understatement. He was giving himself to me, no questions asked. A serial killer was begging me to kill him. Take advantage of it before he switches back! I shook my head, stepping back and dropping my hand. The weapon clattered to the ground, the sound deafening to me. "I... can't."

The reality that set in after that statement was a slap in the face. I couldn't kill him, because I would be killing the wrong person.

Jesus Christ, everything was wrong with me.

"I'm sorry." The words slipped out, a product of frayed nerves and crashing adrenaline. Words better kept to myself, though they weren't lies. I quickly clamped my mouth shut.

Fang, or rather, Felix, rubbed his neck in a slow, deliberate manor, as if he could feel the wound that might have been. He leaned forward, taking in a deep breath before speaking. "You're going to be."

X X X

Author's Note: Aw, Max, if you're going to hold a knife up to a serial killer with the intent to kill, at least go through with the plan.

But on a different note, wow, thirteen chapters. Who'd have thought it would go on this long?