Annual Purge || tøp

Chapter 4: In A Runaway's Home

The room that he stayed in, it was dark as night and cold as ice. There was only a small wooden desk in the middle, a rolling chair, a tiny bathroom and a mattress to sleep on. There was no bed, there was no closet either. Anything that was a necessity - from money and fake ID's to masks and jackets - he had in his backpack. He didn't even have a phone, the only thing technological was a laptop sitting on the desk.

He also had several bottles lying around on the floor, not many of them were empty, it was as if he went out every single night to get a fresh bottle. But it was often just cheap beer, very rare that he ever goes out and actually treat himself to a fine bottle of Scotch or Vodka. It wasn't like he was paid mounds of bucks for this.

The room smelled of cigarettes and burnt wood, tinted with a stench scent of perfume - the one he uses to disguise himself. Occasionally, only occasionally, it would smell of fresh new pillow cases and soft mattress, right after he'd come back from the laundromat. Still, shortly after, it would return to the old smell of the cigarettes he'd been smoking.

He was the kind of person to wake up early in the morning, despite going to sleep very late (not that insomnia was doing any good for him, though). He would treat himself to a nice cup of tea, made with the water he boiled and the teabags he bought from a kind senior lady. Then, he would sit there, on the computer, and decide whether or not he should skip breakfast. Often so, but sometimes if he had enough money to spare, he would buy himself some sort of beef jerky from the convenience store.

For the rest of the day, he would just sit in his room, chatting with his friend from miles away. They would talk a lot, sometimes video-calling. His friend would share with him the songs he'd been working on, and having brought a keyboard along, the friend would play a piece of music as well.

One of his favorites was this song called 'Friend, Please', as it spoke to him on a human level. His favorite part was the bridge and the last chorus, where his friend usually would sing with raw emotions and such a coarse, damaged voice. It was unhealthy for his friend, but it calmed him in a way.

They were good friends. Until night falls.

You ready for it?

Let's fucking go.

And he picks up his backpack, puts on a black hoodie and some sort of mask to cover his face, before sprinting out of his room. He runs for it. He goes to the motorcycle that he'd hid, somewhere in the apartment block or the parking lot, and drives it to that night's destination.

Once reached, he would take a weapon of choice - baseball bat, knife, or chainsaw, etc. But his all time favorite was still his own fists. He wasn't exactly as violent and/or brutal as his friend was, though. And he would never use or own a gun, ever, unlike his friend who does. He preferred fighting and combating over such weapons.

Usually, he breaks through the window first, but if his target was home alone, he might as well just go through the front door.

The most important thing is, though, it doesn't matter if his target was a racist, a homophobe, a rapist, a molester, a pedophile, or another fucking killer just like him, he beats the shit out of them every damn time.

-

He sat at his computer, once again, listening to music as he looked through Instagram pictures of his girlfriend and his dog, sighing because he missed them so much.

You still coming to Ohio?, a message from his friend popped up.

Yeah, but can I pay a visit to Debby first?

No need, she's coming over to Maddy's this weekend.

Oh okay that's great.

Remember our plan?

Yeah, see you at the airport.

Cool, I'll bring you tacos in case you're hungry

Thanks, bro.

No problem, bro.

He grinned to himself like a fool.