Part 2: I Dance in the Night Leaving Pools of Crimson in my Wake
HE thought that regret, or guilt, would eventually kick in, but it never did. Not only did HE still not feel anything but contempt for his dead mother, but HE also felt happier than HE had in years. HE had everything he could want: a parent that wasn't out to get HIM, strong friendships in E class, and teachers that cared about HIM, and not only for HIS performance. 3-E was quick to notice the change in HIS behavior, many of them told him he seemed happier and looked a lot more relaxed then they had ever seen HIM. While the class didn't know exactly what happened, they did know that HIS mother had died, so no one was very surprised when HE walked in the class room with much shorter hair.
For a short while, life went on as normal, or about as normal as it could get in class 3-E. Weeks passed before HE felt anything. HE would not describe the feeling as regret, or guilt, more like a constant itch under HIS skin. It was centered in his hands, as if there was something they needed to do, but HE didn't know what. The more time passed the worse the feeling got, and the more HIS body and mind were almost screaming at HIM. It only stopped when he held HIS knife in hand, not one of the fake knives 3-E used for class, but a real one. Every night HE caressed HIS knife, holding it close to HIS chest with HIS arms wrapped around, slowly moving his hands across the blade. The strange feeling festered for weeks, getting increasingly more intense whenever HE walked past someone he didn't know. A man, or a woman, would walk past HIM, or HE them, and the itch would intensify and his mind would race though every possible way he could kill the person without being caught. It didn't take very long before HE couldn't ignore it anymore and acted.
It was late at night, and HE had snuck out of HIS fathers house to do what HE needed. HE walked four miles to the more run down part of the city, under the cover of darkness. Once there HE waited, HE didn't have to wait long before a befitting victim showed themselves. The man must have been part of a gang. The man's appearance was a dead giveaway: ragged street clothes, unkempt scruffy hair, a myriad of scars, and tattoos on practically every inch of skin. The man walked casually, as if the man was just taking a stroll, but HE knows no one is just out for a walk this late at night in this part of the city.
This man was the perfect target for HIM, the police would not brother to look too far into a gang member's death. Anyone who would miss the man would not be better. HE shadowed the man for several minutes, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. HIS whole body felt like it was on fire, Adrenaline pulsed though HIS arms with every step, the itch under HIS hands bloomed into a tingling sensation in HIS fingers, the storm that had raged in HIS mind for weeks calmed. HE didn't make a sound as HE jumped down behind the man. HE let HIS bloodlust fill the narrow alleyway, marking the already small space feel smaller still. The man stopped mid step however, the man didn't have time to make a sound before HE was upon the man's neck with HIS knife and slit HIS target's throat.
As HE watched the man bleed out below HIM, HE thought that HE might finally feel something. But HE felt nothing, not guilt, not retreat, not remorse, not even disgust at the gore before HIM; instead HE felt elated, as if in the moment he killed the man, everything was right with the world. HE watched the corpse of the man for hours, mesmerized, before tearing his gaze away.
HIS hands started to itch again.