I, monster



The light was bright, colourful and warm, making the room look pleasant, almost inviting. At least at first glance, until you saw, or knew in advance, what it contained. What it was used for. Walking in he'd usually take a seat behind the desk in the only chair there. It was expensive, very comfortable, and, despite expert care, carried the signs of a lot of use. Today he altered the routine by walking over to the whiteboard covering most of one wall.

The board contained three groups of photographs and notes along the lower half, and one group of notes in the middle of the upper half; connected with the other three by lines in a variety of colours. Each of the lower groups contained within it the details of the last few hours of the life of a human being. Lives that had been terminated way before their time.

The main group was where he collected the bits and pieces connecting the victims, the crimes and the dumpsites. Notes describing clothes hang side by side with notes detailing similarities between the sites where the girls had been dumped. Descriptions of bruises and crushed bones pointed red arrows to pictures in the other three groups. Basically, anything that would, or even merely could, lead him to his prey was put in the main group.

He focused on the last group to enter the board. He'd begun the hunt after the second victim was found, almost six months ago, and was not pleased when, two months ago; he had to make room for yet another victim.

Looking at the photographs was unsettling, almost uncomfortably so. They weren't supposed to be. He'd done far worse to people in the past, and would do it again shortly, so why did it bother him to watch the leftovers of another monster?

He chuckled. Shook his head softly, almost inaudibly muttering: "Almost three thousand years old, and still you don't know yourself."

The once mortal woman had been young, barely in her teens when her brief existence was ended for the pleasure of another. The reports he'd procured indicated that she'd run away from home to escape the advances of her mother's new husband. She'd been too young, too inexperienced to realise that the nice man meeting her at the bus-station wasn't nice. There was a price attached to his help. She'd been working the street within a week of running away. Her life ended sixty-four days after running from what should have been home. Her body was found three days later by a group of children playing hide and seek. They had nightmares for months about what they found. He had copies of the files their psychologist kept.

He wished that he were more ruthless. It would certainly have made it easier. No meticulous gathering of evidence, slowly erasing any possibility of error. Quieting the voices of doubt, whispering that maybe his next victim was an innocent. Sam fit the profile he'd made, but then again, so did thousands of others.

Last month he'd been merely another possibility. Then the mistakes were spotted, the puzzle-pieces painstakingly gathered began to fit together. He was either the monster Michael was currently tracking, or he knew who it was. Given his solitary life-style, chances were he was it. But he had to be certain. No mistake. Not now, not ever. That mistake would make him as bad as his prey.

"I may be a monster, but at least I do not prey on the helpless." Not much of a comfort, but it kept him from cutting off his own head. The knowledge that, bad as he was, he was not inhuman enough to enjoy the killing of helpless children. Besides, his little hobby made the world a little bit better, did it not?

Maybe there was another explanation for the tire-mark so close to the dumpsite? The string the girls had been bound with. Sam Guilder was not the only one having that type of string in his trunk. A rational explanation for the fibres from his car he'd found on the clothes of the victims?

He'd paid sixteen visits to Sam's house and three to his workplace in the last month. Seven of the house calls Sam knew about, comfortable visits from his new friend who seemed to know him so well, and who knew how to treat bitches who didn't behave; the rest of them he had no clue about, seeing as how he'd either been asleep at the time, or off to work. The visits to his workplace had all been done at night. Cameras had been hidden both in his home and at work. Microphones were recording every sound he made. Evidence kept mounting up, until there were no doubts left.

Tomorrow Sam Guilder was going for a drive downtown. He'd pick up a prostitute. A young woman, preferably still in her teens. He would enjoy her services. Then he'd beat her unconscious; tie her up with pieces of the string he'd brought with him, and finally take pleasure in her pain, suffering and death.

He was an amateur. Clumsy and stupid. Three victims were all it took for Michael to track him down. If Michael allowed tomorrow to go according to Sam's plans, it would increase the likelihood of his arrest within a month almost to certainty. And that was unacceptable. He'd put too much time into the hunt to allow his prey to escape into police custody. And escape it would have been. Painless, and, due to the lack of the death penalty in this state, it would have allowed Sam to go on living for years. Not acceptable at all. And so tomorrow wouldn't go according to Sam's plans. In fact, his last few days on earth would be filled with pain and suffering. And Michael would enjoy every second of those days.



Author's note and disclaimers: This is the introduction to Michael, a rather nasty immortal. The chance of more chapters will increase with positive reviews, so don't hesitate to let me know if I'm doing this right.

And, just to make it clear, I do not own the concept of immortality or The Game as it appears in my stories.