ext. play (brallon)

4_social_climb

"Let's break hearts together," I propose.

"How can I, Dallon?"

"I'll teach you." We dance. The music is slow and haunting. I extend our clasped hands up toward the ceiling so he can twirl elegantly underneath them. He lets go, spinning freely, a gleeful smile spread across his face, but I capture his hips before he can stumble too far out of reach. "There's a certain thrill in doing terrible things," I mutter, swaying our suit clad bodies from side to side. "It's easy, you'll see. We could be partners in crime. Nobody could ever fight their way between us. There is no one else on this Earth that I care about more."

"You care about nobody," Brendon says. "Not even me."

"That is true," I admit. I am incapable of caring; it wastes valuable time and effort that I'd much rather archive for other activities. However, though I don't care about Brendon, I do care for him, in my own, strange way. He wouldn't still be here if I didn't. "But you have to understand. I don't wish to change who I am, and until I am dead I will not stop. But I don't want to be alone in this. My whole life, I've been in control, and I want to make the most of that. I've finally chosen how I want to live, and I want to live with you."

I never spoke these words to my previous partners. Actually, Brendon is the first to know about my homicidal tendencies on such a detailed level, but he has yet to run away. Is he frightened? Of course he is; he's absolutely terrified of me. But he's also besotted with me. When I want someone, there's no restitution until I get them. They fall for me; I pretend to fall for them. By week two I'm already fully satisfied, and days later I hear of the terrible news that they're being buried on a hill with a pretty view somewhere.

As for Brendon, I may have gotten him a little too good. Apparently, learning to love me is "exactly the same as not judging a book by its cover," only my cover is insanely attractive, and the thing I'm being judged for resides hidden in my character:

Good evening everyone, my name is Dallon Weekes, and I strive to better my own quality of life by regularly ripping people's hearts out of their chests. Important note: Do not mistake "better quality of life" for "fun." Endowing misery on people isn't fun. I do it because it pleases me; it makes me feel like I've accomplished something in my life.

Brendon massages my shoulders with his fingers, as though he can hear my unsettled, short-tempered thoughts. "How can I trust you won't fuck it up?"

"You can't," I state bluntly.

He huffs, quietly but irritably. "Then I don't know what to say."

He has morals. They all do. It's why they always end up leaving. Granted, it's my job to convince them to in the first place, but that's because it is simply my routine, and I can't have people running around like headless chickens screaming about falling in love with a madman. If Brendon were to leave, I know he would vow never to tell. And he wouldn't. But I'd still have to kill him, because again, it's part of my routine. So he stays.

"By all means, if you don't want to, you're free to go," I tell him. "I can't love, but you do, despite everything, and..." I hesitate. This is another reason why Brendon loves me: He thinks he can make me feel again. What he doesn't understand, is that there's a big difference between actually feeling, and being aware that feelings have vastly different impacts depending on whether they are positive or negative. Me saying this is an example of the latter: "I appreciate that."

Brendon frowns. His restless eyes won't stop darting around the ballroom, staring at the other slow dancing couples in disgust. "Why are we here again?" he asks boredly. Brendon has never been to a formal event whereby somebody isn't dead or getting married. He also never learned how to waltz before he met me.

Courtesy of a family friend, I get invited to these parties all the time. I say invited, but what I really mean is that my name is automatically and irreversibly printed on the VIP list. My family is rich, and they don't like me very much. Not because I'm a lunatic (they don't know that; at least I hope they don't), but rather because I was absent as a child, literally and emotionally. They haven't spotted me yet tonight.

Nevertheless, private social events like these embrace the perfect conditions for my work. Nobody interacts, we all scrub up beautifully in our tuxedos and ball gowns, and we're amazing in bed (just ask Brendon; he won't tell you any different). In other words, clubs and bars aren't the only places a person can go to to get laid.

"I want to show you," is my answer to Brendon's question.

"Show me what? What exactly are we doing?"

"Blending in with the crowd," I say, and to prove my point I take his hand from my shoulder and widen the proximity between our bodies, enabling us to stride in broader, more graceful circles as we dance; less like awkward teenagers at a high school disco, and slightly more professional. My eyes flit from couple to couple as the ballroom orbits around us. "Finding what amuses us."

All a prince charming ever wants in his life is a princess. A pretty face to look at. An exquisite body to fuck. If he has psychical proof that his life is perfect and brilliant, people will look up to him. Now, I'm no prince charming, and Brendon himself is far from royal, but my intentions are still the same.

"Let me teach you," I murmur into his ear.

We dance.