Killer || muke

o n e

》Michael

I pulled the false paneling out of the back of my closet, grabbing the faded black bag. I put the paneling back and made sure it was secure before I put the bag on the bed. Opening it, I dumped the contents to do a routine mental inventory check.

Hunting knife- check.

Gloves- check.

Once I made sure everything was there, I put them back into the bag and threw it over my shoulder. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 11:38 p.m.

I sauntered out the front door of my apartment, taking my time since I'm on the first floor.

My fingers were shaking. My trembling hand pushed the exit of the building open and the cold England wind hit me. (A/N they're in England in this bc I said so) I zipped the black jacket I was wearing up, and put my hood on.

I focused my gaze on the ground and the ground only. If I draw attention to myself, someone might recognize me. They might know who I am. I looked at my surroundings, making sure I was alone before took my bag from my shoulder and opened it up. I slipped the black gloves and gripped the knife, before putting it in my right pocket. I put my bag back on my shoulders and continued walking.

My heart was racing. The thrill of the kill is always something that I've enjoyed; savored even. But the events leading up to the kill always worried me.

No one knows who you are. You're just a boy to the population. You're just Michael Clifford. No one knows that you've killed five people. No one knows that you're the serial killer that's been shadowing London. No one knows you're on the hunt for a new victim.

Actually, that's a lie. Ashton knows what I am. Ashton has known since my first kill.

You may be wondering why Ashton hasn't turned me in. A good samaritan would turn in a serial killer. But Ashton isn't a good samaritan.

I stumbled on a rock. I caught myself before I could fall, but I looked up when I heard a coughing. A middle aged man, short and stout, was sitting on the ground, his back against a brick wall. He took a drink from a flask. His tie was undone, thrown loosely around his neck, and his clothes were disheveled. His hair looked as if he hadn't slept in days, or maybe he had slept for days.

Him. That's him.

As I neared him, I heard his small sobs. I began to think of reasons as to why he was crying. Maybe he's a drunk with no escape. His wife could've left him, taken their kids and ran with some sober guy. He could've lost his job.

It's better that I put him out of his misery. Like a horse with a broken leg. I don't like when people suffer.

"Hey, mate," I offered my hand to him as I stood before him. He glanced up and looked at my hand, "You shouldn't be crying in the middle of the night in public. C'mon, lemme help you."

He blinked back a new set of tears and took my hand. It was sweaty and clammy, but I didn't drop it. I just helped pull him up. "T-thank you." He slurred. I could smell the liquor on his breath and decided that he was a drunk.

"Hey, I'll take you to this little café I always go to when I'm upset. They have great hot chocolate." I offered.

He looked at me doubtfully. "I s-should really be getting... home."

"No, no, I insist. It's not like I'm a sadist or anything." I chuckled. I'm really not a sadist. I'm just a killer.

"Alright." He stumbled so I let him lean on my shoulder for support. I lead him away from my apartment, going in the opposite direction.