Keenan and his Kind

I.

I am a predator. I never thought of myself as the prey. I’ve always been the one who sniffed and stalked my meal out, using tempting words and beautiful magic to lure them to my trap.

Usually, I went for the young ones. They were the ones who hadn’t a clue about the world and what it was really about. They were the ones who were anxious for an escape; an easy gateway to obtain what they truly wanted. It was always easy obtaining the young ones, especially the males.

They were the most desperate.

I wasn’t ever cruel, Jack. You must believe that. I only gave them what they wanted; it was their choice to follow through with it or not. I led them through the fog and fire. I showed them their true potential. I granted their wishes of murder, greed, deceit, and even death.

I’m not cruel at all, Jack. I would even say that I’m quite generous.

 ~~~

I refuse to start off during the time I was a boy, but rather at the last moments of a teenage life. We were in a dingy motel that smelt of rat piss and human excretion. This client wanted revenge, like many others who accepted the deal. I met him at some park at the coast of god knows where, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands.

What’s wrong with you, boy? I had asked him. He kept his head lowered even when I sat beside him.

There’s a person I hate. I hate him so much that I’m actually thinking—

He stopped himself, remembering that I was just a stranger.

You want to get rid of him? Because if you do, I can help you.

His eyes grew curt. And how the hell would you do that?

I do this kind of thing for a living. I find people like you who desperately need to get rid of someone, but since they don’t know how, I help them.

Oh yeah? And what’s in it for you?

I leaned closer to him, smiling. Just your soul. Nothing more, nothing less.

One would think that if a strange man confronted you on a park bench, your first thought would be to get up and leave. But most of my young clients didn’t, particularly the men. They liked to attempt an aura of courage, which made them ten times easier to grab.

That very teen who looked at me with perplexed eyes on a bench was now standing in front of me in a grimy motel room. He had a gun to his head. Even so, he didn't shake or cry. He just stared at me as police sirens wailed in front of the building, the lights atop an ambulance dancing in the room. There was a kid dead on the street because of him, yet he behaved like I was the real monster. He also had this impatient look on his face, as if I was supposed to do something spontaneous to get the both of us out of there.

I grinned at the smell of his fear, since it is in my nature to do so, but to be honest I was getting quite impatient as well. I watched the grey and black shadows that swarmed around his body and stuck to his skin, parts of them dispelling into the air and taunting me with their smell of sweet cinnamon.

Cinnamon was for the bad. Thyme was for the evil.

“Put the gun on the ground and get on your knees, Kyle!” an officer was yelling outside of the door. “We won’t hurt you!”

Kyle’s hand gripped onto the gun, his false valour finally melting into puddles at his feet. The panic began to rear its ugly head in his eyes.

“Nobody will hurt you, Kyle! There’s still room for forgiveness!”