John The Ripper

Chapter 5- Just a Thought

John's red, veiny eyes snapped open as he felt his body hit the floor.

He saw George standing over him, a hand over his bloody tux. He was panting heavily and carried a kitchen knife in his hand.

"You don't belong here, yer a bloody murderer" George snarled at him like an angry dog.

John rubbed his bruised cheek with shock.

"Savior, are you?" He croaked. "Admirable, but ye shouldn't have fuckin' done that..."

"Yer nuts" George scoffed.

"Yer charming" John stood up, cracking his neck.

George took a step back, clear fear flashing across his face.

"Stay the fuck away.."

John watched as his eyes flashed to the side.

Son of a bitch-

George dashed down the kitchen, running into the living room, John quick on his heels, reached out and grabbed his tux on his neck, yanking his back.

"HEL-"

"Shut up" John tugged hard on him, grabbing his mouth hard. "You really should shut. The fuck. Up" He growled.

George glared at him with his dark eyes, then, John suddenly felt as though the wind was knocked out of him. George threw a punch at his crotch, and hard.

John let go of him and hissed, giving George enough time to run for it, he climbed up the stairs like a dog, panting loudly, heart pounding against his chest, and adrenaline pumping fiercely through his veins.

Paul..

Its felt as though there were hundreds of stairs when suddenly, George felt a cold hand wrap around his ankle, pulling it. His body flew and hit the ground, head pounding against the wood.

And suddenly, George's eyes weakly closed and he couldn't feel anything.

The sound of his heart pumping, and his own breath was replaced by shear silence.

~

Swoooosh

Swoooosh

Swoooosh

Swoooosh

The dark hair stuck up all directions as the head thumped softly on each step. His red eyes were wide open and now dry as a bone with dark, purple circles under. His lips pale and chapped, slightly opened and a horrified expression frozen on his face. A bloody bruise on the back of his head, smearing and spreading all over the wood.

"It was a good fight" John whispered and grunted when he gave the body another yank. "It jus' didn't know when to end..."

~

There was no doubt John loved murder. If you asked him how it ever started, he couldn't give you a straight answer.

It was in his blood to adore the sight of blood.

~

"John!!" A woman squealed.

"Mum, look at th' rabbit!" John squealed, standing up from his knees and pointing at the mangled animal next to his feet. There were smears of blood on his shorts and hands.

"What have you done?!" The red-headed woman stepped back in panic.

"Mummy?"

John would never forget the disgusted, horrified look on her face.

~

John loved a good fight as well, he loved a good challenge. And that's why he respected George. But he had very much pissed him off. Jealousy bubbled inside of him dangerously.

It would only be grotty to explain what exactly he did with that certain, boney body.

But in the end, John re-entered the large house with a wild grin.

He let out a laugh when he spotted a photo of Paul and George sitting on a table, arms around each other's shoulders. Then grabbed the painting and smashed it on the counter.

~

Thunder roared violently outside.

Paul's eyes blinked open.

For the second time that night, he had awoken.

There was a bad feeling deep inside his stomach. He didn't know what it was about, exactly, but it bothered him to all hell.

Paul wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. Then frowned, his ears slightly lifting..

He heard distant thumps downstairs. Now, this house was very, very large. These noises must've been really loud for him to hear it from his room..

Butterflies creeped into the detective's chest.

Maybe his staff was just tiding up a bit. Nothing to worry about..

Then Paul remembered that he had let that man stay the night in his home. For no true reason except the fact that he liked that man and he didn't want him sleeping in the streets. Poor lad. Paul felt Pitt for him.

He couldn't be awake this late, though. Then again, Paul had just met him..

The feeling inside him shook.
He stood up from the bed, opening the door, creaking slowly. A flash of lightning darted from inside the hallway, then disappeared the next second. Rain pounded mercilessly on the nearby windows.

"Christ.." Paul mumbled and rubbed his arms as chills racked his body.

He wandered into the hallway, stepping down the stairs with his cold, bare feet in the dark.

Paul then felt his foot step on something squishy, then gooey.

A sandwich was on the floor.
"Fuckin' George!" Paul growled to himself, wiping it off. "Who leaves food on the bloody floor??"

He then opened up a door, skipping down more stairs and found his dog, Martha, sitting on a cushion.

The large dog spotted her owner and began wagging her tail, greeting Paul.

"Hello, darling" He grinned, petting her long fur. "Sleeping well?"

Martha leaned into her owner's hand lovingly, making Pail grin.

Suddenly, a long creak echoed from above them and soft thumps across the floorboard.

Martha's ears moved up and she let out a yap.

"It's nothing, love. Just the cleaners" Paul cooed.

Martha began to growl, her black beads of eyes fixated on the door Paul came in through, making him feel very uneasy.

"Martha.." He chuckled nervously, holding her closer.

The normal, giddy dog was now still and concentrated on something. She could hear things Paul couldn't. And Paul was only wondering what exactly she was listening for...

Suddenly, a voice whispered directly into his ear. Paul froze, his blood running cold in every limb in his body as the hot breath flew right near his neck. His eyes suddenly felt dry as they widened.

"Awake, princess?"