𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒 ↬ нѕ

27. ✧ meet madison.

▹ 𝐌𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐱𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢.

𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 | Bernadette Carroll
𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐞 | Patience & Prudence

The sky was dark, full of faded stars that slowly stopped shining as evil walked along the field. With the sound of sharp metal dragging along an old fence, the knife carved its way through the very soft wood as the ground filled with wet mud from the rain.

Sounds of loud screaming, panting, and heavy breaths that collapsed into pleads interrupted the crickets and birds which were chirping throughout the lonesome street—a vacant road where not many people drove on, especially long after midnight.

Today is the day it would all begin again. And he was in a surprisingly good sadistic mood for someone who was just slapped across the face, spit on, and clawed in the back by the sharp nails of the terrified young woman he lured into his charming trap.

He was an idiot, he fucked up, and he knew it too. At this moment he was beating himself up, screaming in his head, angered by the fact she was running away, and instead of finding pleasure in her fear, he felt nervous.

Meet Madison.

The girl who made Crossville's killer sweat.

"Total is ten ninety-three." She smiled behind the counter as the murderous man pulled out his wallet, handing her a twenty-dollar bill. "Thank you." She took it from his hands, gave him the change back, and slid him the red pack of cigarettes he purchased along with two cases of beer.

He placed his change back in his wallet, slid it into his back pocket, and begin grabbing his things but struggled with only two hands—that is when he takes the opportunity and purposely knocks the pack of his cigarettes off of the counter, groaning under his breath when they fall to the ground.

"God dammit." He muttered tiredly under his breath as if he didn't do it on purpose, attempting to place the beers back down on the counter to pick them up, but Madison's voice stopped him. "I'm sorry. I should've brought a friend to help me."

"No, no, I got it." She ran out from behind the counter, bent down, and grabbed the pack, trying to give it to him but his hands were already full. "Here, I can grab one of those for you." She kindly takes one of the cases from his hands, a smile on his face as he gave it to her with ease.

That's all it took, and for him, it felt good. All he had to do was bump his hand against an object, make it drop, and the next thing he knows they're walking outside toward his car, and the hardest part is now almost over.

His mind was all over the place during times like these. It could be from the alcohol he soaked himself in, possibly the drugs he snorted or rested on his tongue, or maybe he was just insane.

Some may even find it comical; the arguments that take place inside his psychotic excuse of a brain. He often asked himself why he enjoyed it, but the answer was evident, he just had to remind himself—it makes me feel good. It makes me feel better. Watching the blood drip and the last breath leave someone's lips, he breathes it in, steals it as his own and it brings him to life again.

Selfishness is the real reason but in his mind, he sees it much differently. He finds it therapeutic. He genuinely believes what he's doing is helping him overcome the past mistakes that led him to this point; chasing a barefoot woman around a field with a knife in his hand, a sadistic smirk on his face, and his raw back stinging from the wind.