Don't fear it //Jim Moriarty//

[02]

Jim's Point Of View

I let y/n out of the house and go to my room, pulling the piece of paper out of my pocket one more time. I look at the word scrawled across it in red ink.

Murderer.

They think they're so clever with this, but really they're not. They think they can taunt me, hurt me, make me feel weak. But Carl did that, and look what happened to him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing. One day...

Clostridium botulinum. I used it to kill him and I don't even feel bad. I feel better about it than I ever have about anything. My parents hate me for what I did. No, they've hated me since long before that. I'm just a fuck up in their eyes. A mistake they made when they were fifteen. Oh well. They look at me with hate, and distrust. I don't care.

Y/n is the only person who has shown me kindness in years. Everyone else looks at me and treats me like shit. But I'm going to have the last laugh. I'm going to be the one that hurts them more than they've ever hurt me. I'm going to-

"James!" I hear a voice scream from downstairs. They're back early, and drunk, and spoiling for a fight by the sound of it. I don't want them to know I'm here. I want them to think I'm out, but I know they've noticed my shoes by the door. They might be drunk, but they're not blind or stupid. I have to go downstairs.

"What?" I shout back, pissed off that they even exist. If they'd never existed, then I wouldn't have to either. If they want a fight, I'll give them a fight.

"Get your lazy arse down here!" My mother screams. I take a deep breath before pushing my bedroom door open, knife hidden in the back of my trousers. It's for protection. I know my dad will try to hurt me, so I take this knife. I wouldn't kill him. I couldn't kill him. But I would like to protect myself as much as I can. I make my way down the stairs, to the kitchen where they're standing.

"What do you want?" I snap at them.

"Why did you ditch school again?" She hisses.

"Because I did!"

"Why? That's not a good enough reason!"

"Because I'm sick of everyone there. They're all so fucking stupid!"

She slaps me in the face. I grab her arm and twist it back, staring her in the eyes, cold and deadly. She stares back, but her gaze falters.

"I could break your fucking arm if I wanted to, whore." I growl, keeping her arm where I'm holding it. I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't actually break her arm, but I want her to think I will. I could, easily. I don't want to though. I just want her to be scared. I need her to be scared. I need the control.

I'm pulled away from her, onto the floor. My shoulder cracks, but it doesn't hurt. Why would it hurt? Sometimes I wish I was scared of the pain. Sometimes I wish I was normal. But I like being fucked up. I like being a psychopath. I love the idea of killing everyone and having the last laugh.

I smirk at my father, who puts his hand on my throat.

"I don't know what you're trying to do, but it's kinda creepy. Can you get off?"

"Don't threaten your mother like that!" He grabs me by the hair and pushes my head down onto the linoleum floor as hard as he can. I laugh in his face.

"Why can't you feel it?" He asks, then raises the volume of his voice. "Why can't you fucking feel it!?"

I don't really know what to say. Of course I can feel it, but I just choose to not feel it the same way as others. Others fear the pain, which makes it hurt. I don't fear it, so I can deal with it. Of course it hurts, but I can deal with it.