Hell's torturer: The Demon in Disguise

Part 10

We go upstairs, my body twitching from the demon of hatred possessing me. I touch the grip of my gun through my skirt to make sure it's still there, unsure of whether or not I would be able to withstand using it. His mere presence is revolting. I don't know if I could hear another word from him before I empty my magazine in his face.

"So, now that we're here," he says, resting against the wall. His chilling figure is hollowed by the moonlight as he leans in to finish his sentence. "What do you think my motive is? You've probably figured out already that it's not for an act of personal revenge on Charlie's behalf."

"There were others. You're a serial killer who punishes people based on their sins, isn't that right? It's not hard to figure. I can't say it's exactly original, but I assume your perverse sense of justice makes you feel like their deaths are justifiable. In your messed up mind, you probably believe it's all fair."

"Fairness? There is no such thing as fairness in this world." He loosens his tie, after which his fingers move to undo the top buttons of his shirt to reveal the embossed light-red skin. The scar covers the lower part of his neck, along with his collarbone. I can finally see what he was so insecure about. "Tell me, officer, does this seem fair? I was merely 8 when my father thought to teach me a lesson and scar me permanently for being a disobedient child. I can still feel the sizzling iron against my bare skin as he held me down and exacted his so-called punishment. He wouldn't stop no matter how hard I begged him."

He speaks as if he's retelling a movie. His voice is filled with apathy, similar to the way a person would talk about a fictional character rather than something tragic that happened to them. He waits for a second to hear my response, expecting a reaction of any sort, then laughs quietly when there isn't one.

"Wait, you didn't actually buy this, did you?" He says. "The whole cliche villain backstory? My father never abused me, this is just a chemical burn I got in my first year of university. Even I make mistakes sometimes. I know, shocking right?"

"Let me guess, evil step-mom?" I cross my arms trying to look for an answer to why he is doing all of this.

"I wouldn't call her evil."

"Bullying?"

"I got along with my classmates just fine."

"Your crush rejected you?" I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point.

"There's hardly any woman who would reject me," he smiles.

My fingers are itching to fill his face with holes and wipe away that confidence. I'm running out of guesses here. What does he possibly have to gain? It doesn't make sense for someone like him to be a serial killer and yet he doesn't deny the fact that he is. The ones who go down this path are usually social rejects, people who have nothing left to lose and take it upon themselves to get back at society for being treated unfairly. Damian on the other hand has everything. He is what every man strives to be nowadays: a successful, handsome egomaniac with an expressive car, who can get away with everything.

With an exasperated look, I raise an eyebrow, taking my final guess.

"Impotence?"

My response, as always is met with a titter.

"That's the best you've got?"

"Then what is it? What could have possibly got you so angry with the world that you're doing all of this?" I raise my voice filled with disdain.

"Nothing," he retorts, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm not angry at anyone, just bored. It's almost too scary to think about it, isn't it? How can someone simply wake up one day and choose to start murdering people out of the blue."