James was officially miserable. Thomas was out, presumably hunting for their next meal. Honestly, James was terrified to question what species that meat would come from. Any person would urge him to run, saying that now was his chance and that he should get away and seek help. But that was the last thing on James's mind. The cottage had no windows and Thomas had barricaded the only door. James, being the weak little thing that he was, would never be able to push the door open. Even if he managed, Thomas would be back by the time that he succeeded.

So, there he was, sitting and staring at the wall. Not that he was particularly excited for Thomas to return, but boredom was the real killer. He sighed and stood. He went to the other side of the main room, pausing outside of the one room he had never been in. Thomas's private bedroom. His curiosity took over, and he set his hand on the cold doorknob. He hesitated for a moment, biting his lip as he made up his mind. With one last deep breath, he opened the door. He stepped inside and looked around.

The room was certainly nothing special. A simple bed, a decrepit dresser holding just a few outfits, along with a crummy desk holding a few books. James picked up the one off of the top and opened it, reading only a few lines before he closed it again. It was a log of Thomas's victims. He put it back down on the desk and picked up the next books. This one was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if it hadn't been touched in a long time. James wiped it off on his forearm and opened the cover. There he saw, written in neat cursive:

Thomas Jefferson, age 12

James furrowed his eyebrows and began to read. What was inside that book shocked him. He began to shake as he quickly came to the end of the journal, not being able to stop once he had started. He couldn't believe it. He was reading the journal of the serial killer that had been terrorizing his town for years, and he was discovering his life story!

James had to admit, it was a pretty dark story. Starting at age twelve, Thomas had had to live with his older brother after the death of his parents. His brother was definitely quite the sicko. The physical abuse started only six months after Thomas had moved in… The sexual abuse came not too long after. Every day it got worse and worse. At age seventeen, Thomas had finally snapped. That night, as the sick bastard slept, he killed him. That was his first murder. After that incident, Thomas had disappeared. Left his town and retreated into the woods.

Thomas had built the cabin himself, as well as stolen or made everything in it. With such a messed up mind, James almost couldn't blame him for being the way he was. After all, he had been through a lot. Nothing excused his senseless murdering, of course, but it was understandable to a degree. Who is to say James wouldn't have turned out the same way had he been forced to bear such a burden?

One thing that really caught James's attention was Thomas's constant mention of the 'voices in his head'. Throughout the whole journal, these voices were thrown onto almost every page. They talked to him, told him to kill, told him that that was all he was good for. Causing pain and destruction. James thought about such a thing happening to himself. He knew it would be enough to drive a man crazy, even without the trauma Thomas had had to endure.

James snapped out of his daze as he heard a dragging sound from outside. That meant that Thomas was back. He shut the book, set it back on the desk, and put the other book back on top of it. He hurried out of the room, making sure to shut the door behind him. He ran back to his own bedroom and plopped on his bed, then listened to Thomas enter the cottage. He listened to the sound of the other man cooking. He only went back to the main room as he heard Thomas rap his knuckles on the hard wooden counter, something that James had learned to understand as a summons.

James took in the aroma of the food, thankful that he didn't find any traces of rotting human flesh in the air. He barely managed to refrain from wolfing it down in one big gulp. Thomas only watched James and he slowly ate from his own bowl, as if he found the smaller man amusing on some level. He absentmindedly stirred as James finished his bowl, after which Thomas grabbed the ladle and refilled James's bowl. James only looked at him, sending a silent Thank you as he began to chow down again.

Thomas threw his bowl onto the counter and left James to eat alone. He made his way to his room and changed into a lighter shirt, as it was rather stuffy in the cottage. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary as he threw the dirty shirt into his basket. He started to make his way to bed, casually glancing at his desk. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly walked over to his desk, picking up the small chuck on dust resting on the edge on the hardwood. He sighed softly as he let it fall on the floor, then knocked his victim log out of the way. He picked up his old journal, not failing to notice the lack of dust on the counter. He growled softly, throwing the journal back down on the desk and causing a small thump.

He pulled open his top drawer and began to swiftly dig through it.

A/N: Okay, this chapter came more easily than the last one did. Hope you enjoyed, mes cygnes.