ext. play (brallon)

1_do_it_all_the_time

Now that I know you, and you know me, it lies with my deepest regret, to say that I must kill you. No particular reason why. I am only choosing to do this, simply because it is the way. Woefully. I do it all the time.

You people don't know it, but in reading these words, typed upon this page, you have signed your death warrant over to me. I have taken you all, and I have made you mine. Every single one of you. Now that you know of my ways, you are no longer innocent. Your minds have been adulterated. Your life, in my hands. You've been routing for me, haven't you?

Bad decision. You should never route for the bad guy, because the bad guy always loses. Not this time.

You remember Brendon, don't you? There is no need to cry for him now, children.

You have learned so, so much, and yet it seems you have learned nothing at all.

Success depends on conspicuity. A fire will eat up anything and everything in its path, and so could be an effective method, if you wish to destroy the evidence. But fire, and even the billowing smoke from the fire, can be seen for miles, day or night, so it will likely be spotted quickly, and therefore distinguished before it has the time to complete its job.

Thus digging up the body that is only halfway burned.

And the fingerprints on the parts of the body that haven't yet charred.

And the footprints sunken in the dirt, leading both toward and away from the shack.

Only a child could be so dumb. And us psychopaths, we are not children. Our hands are not our greatest weapons, but rather our tongues and our charm. We tell pretty, dirty, little lies, sell them to anyone willing to buy, and we look good when we do it. We go on until we grow bored, like anglers on the riverside fighting with a stubborn fish, and then it is on to the next. We set them free. They die. And we will die, too, just like anyone dies. Only difference is, we will die alive and kicking.

We are like vampires. People often mistake the creatures of the night as being immortal, but that is not the case. Immortality is a myth. Prolonged life, on the other hand, is entirely possible. As long as one can remain youthful and beautiful forever, one shall feel as though they will never die.

He said yes, by the way. I thought you might have liked to know.

As much as he detests himself (and me) for it, he'd jumped like a dog to a bone at the chance to stay with me, to be mine. There had been nothing and no one he could go back home to. He loved me, despite my indifferences, and above all else, he had been willing to give up the entirety of his pedestrian life to live another, much less sane one. He'd said to me that the only reason he agreed to go through with it is because maybe, he could finally commit to a long term relationship with someone who shared similar interests with his own. He could finally be happy, live the life of a dream, and not be loathed for his incredibly fussy curiosities.

We both knew the legitimate reason, however: He'd felt under pressure to satisfy me. He was scared I'd kill him if he failed to do as such.

I refuse to lie and make futile promises to him that I won't kill him. Because I will, if and when the appropriate situation arises. And he knows full well that I will, and as long as that fear remains consistent in his mind, it is the only way he will continue to do as he is told. Over time, as it becomes routine, he might even begin to enjoy himself.

Therein lies a complication with routine. You see, my formula does not require another person at my side. It only requires me, myself and my devious charisma. It had been nice, to be loved, I'd concluded; I know now, that I could quite comfortably allow a person to care about me, without having to worry about losing my own self control to them. But, when a madman has spent an entire decade getting used to working alone, he knows that he is better when he works alone. Not perfect. But better. Just because a psychopath works most effectively by himself, it does not mean that he has to. I am my own boss. Every choice that I make is optional, but it is my choice nonetheless.

My choice to kill Brendon. My choice not to kill Brendon.

We are taking over the world. One kiss at a time.

Is it wrong to say that I miss him?

Do not go gentle, now. You didn't hear those words from me.

Much as I wish not to, I must spare you. Only because he told me to. But don't you assume for a second that there might be a slither of good in me. There is no good. I am not good. My internal prison can become a little overcrowded sometimes. Perhaps tomorrow, there will be enough room for you. Just not today. I'll be sure to book a reservation.

"I won't ever leave you, Dallon."

"You shouldn't lie."

"You shouldn't keep your heart closed."

"I shouldn't listen to you."

"But you do."

"Yes. I do." I hiss the words through gritted teeth. I feel nothing for the individual, but my hands shake as the body falls. The authorities will uncover it tomorrow morning, and they will know that it was me who did it.

"Running is exhausting," I groan. I rest the back of my head against the manky bathroom tiles.

"Living isn't so easy, is it?" Brendon declares.

"Says the gorgeous man I heartlessly murdered."

Death is not absolute.

Insanity is final.