Thomas was now laying on the sofa, the room bright due to the daylight shining from outside the tall windows. I was sitting at a chair not far away, the television screen captivating the two of us. The local news stations would not stop discussing the murders in London and would even go out on the streets to talk to people who claimed to be witnesses. It was hilarious; they're so desperate for leads they'll talk to just about anyone, even though not a single person describes the killer quite the same. Some say he's tall with dark, curly brown hair. Others say he's young, short, with long blonde hair. Some even try to describe his face, oftentimes describing someone pretty generic. Not that I stand out, but I'm surely not identical to just any man.
"Do you think they will ever catch you?" Thomas mumbled into the sleeve of his blue jacket, huddling into it alongside the blanket across his body. "That would be interesting." I nodded in acknowledgement although not agreement, walking over to my computer and sitting down. I was keeping track of all articles on the case to stay up to date with information. Nothing new had come up yet. "What happens if they do?" Thomas asked softly, taking the remote and muting the TV. "Why worry about the uncertain? I thought we discussed how useless such a thing is." I snickered, turning in my office-like chair to look at him. "Will I e-ever be free again?" The conversation took a turn as Thomas sat up, curling the blanket around his shoulders. "We'll see how well you behave. We can end up relatively normal if I can trust you."
"Really?" Hope filled his eyes, naive and innocent. I must admit, he was overall rather accepting of his circumstances. "I-I feel like I trust you a lot." Thomas looked down at his lap submissively, his confidence shattering bit by bit underneath my cold stare, "How is that so?" I hummed casually, curious to learn his reasoning, which was still far beyond me. "You've never lied that I know of. I dunno, you're confusing..." He responded quietly, prompting me to laugh. "I know. I've confused proper psychologists before, so don't be too hard on yourself." I chuckled, turning back to my computer to work on my list. I'd collected the names of people I've killed based on the reports and articles given I don't typically know their names preemptively. I was compiling a solid database.
Thomas paused before speaking up again, "You've seen a psychologist?" He sounded almost hopeful when he asked, silently begging for clarification since the concept intrigued him so much. "Three. When I was younger, I didn't fit in the way society wanted me to." I explained shortly, much less interested in the matter. "Any diagnoses?" He quickly asked, as if any label he could associate with me would somehow help. I closed my eyes, contemplating how I would answer that question. "No. Why? As in, how would that help you?" I felt my jaw go stiff as I tried to distract myself with my spreadsheets. He tried to give an explanation, "Knowing what's wrong with you-" I cut him off, "Is this how you cope?" Turning in my chair, I lost my composure, frustrated with his emotionality, "You think that everything will be all sunshine lollipops because you'll 'fix' me once you figure out what's 'wrong with' me?" I stood up, but ominously headed toward the kitchen instead of in his direction.
"I j-just thought..." He attempted to explain himself once more, but his voice faltered shortly after. "Don't you remember your place?" I sighed facetiously, now walking over to him with a large, keen kitchen knife. "W-what do you mean? I-I was only trying t-to be kind..." He stuttered anxiously, his entire body on alert as he backed himself up against the arm of the couch. I approached him at a dangerously steady pace, standing before him. "I don't trust you." Coldly, I looked down at him while he reached for my shirt timidly, pulling me down on top of himself. I held him down by instinct, grasping one of his wrists and the knife with the same hand. "No, p-please, I promise you can trust me, Tord. I promise." Beginning to cry, his legs spread apart beneath me, as if trying to seduce me out of my suspicious conduct.
I played along and took off his shorts, gripping one of his thighs. I had completely forgotten during our normative conversations that I have control over him entirely, and that I don't need to put up with him, much less his attempts to manipulate me. A fire was building within me; a violent rage slowly rising. Thomas could clearly sense how furious I was internally, "Please, just... just fuck me. Please, I want it. I'm sorry. I'll be good." He begged, pleading as he kept himself exposed to me. He was continuing to try and console me by feigning sexual obedience. He had correctly identified my only weakness and had the audacity to use it against me. I kept playing along.
