Confessions of a Skin Thief
You know, when you think about it, my downfall (and how it came about) is actually sort of funny. Not 'ha-ha' funny, though. More the 'ironic, isn't that a bitch, wish I could fucking rip somebody up over it' kind of funny.
See, I had a real sweet little set-up right before it all went south. I got to be somebody else for a while - somebody handsome. Somebody wanted. I got to make time with beautiful girls. I got to indulge in things that most people only dream of (in their most private, hidden dreams, of course). And the best part was, I'd never get caught. Like a ghost, I would disappear, leaving some poor bastard to take the blame for what I'd done, Hell, the police didn't even know I existed.
It was all so sweet. So perfect.
Until the brothers came along. Those two ruined everything.
In hindsight, I should have killed them when I had the chance. Well, not the one I copied, obviously. I needed him alive. But the other one. The younger one. I should have wrapped the rope around that pretty throat of his and squeezed with everything I had that night in the sewers.
I don't know why I didn't do it.
Not really.
But I guess, if I'm being honest with myself (and why not be honest?), there was something about that kid. Not that I'm gay. No. Never. I like girls. Women. Always have, always will.
But there was something about the kid - the way he was able to push his fear of me below the surface, the way he didn't cower like all the others. Instead, he was defiant. Strong.
Intriguing.
So, I didn't do it. I let him live when I should have killed him.
And then later, I took the form of that girl, knowing he'd come back for her. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I just wanted to mess with his head some more. Then kill him. That was the plan. And it was going well, too. I had him all tied up, essentially defenseless. I was going to fuck with him some more then stab the fuck out of him.
And then I had to go and get stupid. Because there was just something about him. The way he looked at me - eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. He hated me with a pure unadulterated hatred. This time there was no fear to cloud or confuse things for him. And I remember looking down at him and thinking how I just wanted to touch him.
And right after I ran my fingers down his cheek, I realized that I wanted to do more. I wanted to hurt him, like I hurt all the girls.
See, he looked, in that moment, beautiful to me.
And no, I am not gay.
It was a moment. You had to be there. And since I was there, I took advantage of that moment. I began playing the game; the one I played with the girls. And I took it further than I ever had. I can still remember touching that skin. His skin was soft, yet I could feel all that hard, unyielding muscle just under it. So different from the girls.
I remember his cries of pain - even now I can recall every little crescendo - and the half-stifled sobs. The fear had come back by then, of course, as he began to realize that nothing was going to stop what was happening. That no heros were going to burst through the door and save him.
And just as it was all coming to a head, just when I was experiencing the biggest acid trip, high of my life by sinking deeper and deeper into that warm, still-resisting body . . . the fucking hero comes bursting through the door.
See what I mean by how funny this all was?
Just when the fireworks were about to explode, big brother comes in and pulls me off of little brother and throws me across the room. Caught with my pants down. Literally.
Embarrassing. And very frustrating, if you know what I mean.
I was just about to pull myself together and rip big brother apart, when he pulls out the fucking gun and lets me have it.
I went down. Hard. And instantly I knew I was going to die. Don't ask me how I knew; I just did.
As I lay bleeding out, I remember watching Dean run past me without a second look. He didn't even spare me a sideways glance as he ran to and knelt down next to his brother. He held him and cradled him in his arms, just like a hero should. Sam was crying by this time. No more pretense of bravery. He was scared and hurt (which means that I'd accomplished my goal, by the way), and Dean was soothing him and calling him Sammy and telling him that everything was going to be ok.
And that sickening image was the last thing I ever saw in my life.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up here. In hell. The last place I ever imaged really existed. I mean, who knew?
But really, it's not so bad here, even though I'm facing an eternity of so-called torment. I've survived worse; I did survive high school, after all.
And you know, despite where I've ended up, there isn't anything I'd change about my life and the things I've done.
Except for how things went down with those boys.
You know, from down here, I can see them sometimes. Dead folk watch the living all the time; even those of us down here in the pits. I see what they're up to. The heros. Heros with nightmares - both of them. I like to think I'm responsible for at least some of those.
Yeah, it's not so bad here. And I have plenty of time to think about what I'm going to do differently the next time I see them. Oh yeah, I'm pretty sure there's going to be a next time. You see, hell isn't maximum security.
There are ways to get out.
And I do plan to get out. And visit those two boys again.
But this time, things are gonna go my way.