Notes:
This chapter is from Richard's POV
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They say Brutus betrayed Caesar with a knife to the back, but at least Brutus had a reason, a cause. Me? I don't need a cause. I just need the thrill, the rush of knowing that I hold the ultimate power over life and death. And like Brutus, I watch the light fade from their eyes, but with a pleasure Brutus could never understand.
To you, the world is a place of rules, of right and wrong, of consequences. But to me? It's a playground. A canvas for my art. To you, an American solider who fought in Vietnam is a hero. But if a Latino ordinary guy killed white privileged Americans, he's a psycho.. a monster and an evil creature. But to me, killing is killing. We're both monsters, different kinds of monsters, perhaps
Pain, fear, despair, these are my tools, my colors. And oh, how I love to paint. Every scream, every tear, every desperate plea for mercy, they're all part of my masterpiece. People are so predictable, so easy to manipulate. They think they're strong, that they have control. But in the end, they all break. They all fall apart.
Do you want to know the best part? It's not the act of killing itself. It's the look in their eyes when they realize there's no escape. When they understand that every hope, every dream, and every plan they had means nothing. That they are nothing.
You see, I've always been this way. Even as a child, I saw the world differently. While others played games, I studied them. I watched how they moved, how they reacted. I learned their weaknesses. People are so fragile, so easily broken.
And the irony is, they think they're safe. They build their little walls, surround themselves with their comforts, and believe they're untouchable. But all it takes is a whisper, a touch, and they crumble. It's almost laughable, really.
What I do, it's not just for sexual pleasure. It's a calling, a destiny. I was meant to cleanse this world of its delusions. Strip away the facade and show people the truth. The raw, unfiltered truth. That they are nothing more than animals, driven by instinct and fear.
You know, I didn't choose to be this way. I was forged in the fires of a broken home, where love was a myth, and pain was the only constant. My mother, she was a ghost, a wraith lost in her own misery. My father, a tyrant, ruled with fists and fury. I learned earlier that trust was a weapon others used to destroy you.
I remember the nights huddled in corners, trying to become invisible, trying to escape the chaos.. the monsters. But there was no escape. There was only the cold, unfeeling reality that I was alone. Truly, utterly alone. And in that loneliness, I found my power. I found the strength to rise above the ashes of my childhood.
They say I'm a monster, sure, but what do they know of monsters? They don't know the darkness that shaped me, the shadows that whispered in my ear, teaching me, guiding me. They think they can understand with their textbooks and theories, but they can't. They can't fathom the abyss that is my soul.
So here we are. You, the unfortunate soul caught in my web, and me, the architect of your downfall. It's almost poetic, isn't it? The broken child is becoming the breaker. The victim turned into the victor.
As I stand there, staring down at her unconscious body, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't expect this, I thought this would end differently. I watch as her face goes slack and her eyes close, and I feel a pang of concern.
I bend down and put my hand on her forehead, feeling the coolness of her skin. Her hair is soft under my touch, and I find myself wanting to comfort her.
But I shake myself out of it, reminding myself of who and what I am. I'm not supposed to care about her. But as I watch her lying there, so vulnerable and defenseless, I feel a strange sense of responsibility washing over me.
