A Descent into Darkness

A Friend's Advice

"Wait, a girl?" Ronnie pretends to be aghast through the video chat. "You mean you've been gay this whole time and you never said anything? We could have been gay best friends instead of boring old gay and asexual best friends!"

"What do you mean, gay and asexual?" I ask, pretending I don't know what he means. "You thought I wasn't into anyone?" I of course can't blame him for thinking that. Until recently I thought I wasn't capable of love. If that is in fact what I'm feeling with Eve. The girl who killed a guy in front of me and left to clean the body.

It's almost funny. If any other person on the planet exercised such control over me, I wouldn't stop until I killed or destroyed them. But with Eve...I don't know. All this time I thought I could only be the dominant one in any pairing, even the ones that don't end with a body. But with her, I don't want it to stop. I would dump any dead body for her. Is this how Romeo and Juliet felt? I've always judged them, being two teenagers who killed themselves over a one-night stand. Maybe I was being a bit harsh. I blush at the thought of it.

"Ooh, that's a nice shade of red," Ronnie notes.

"Shut up," I cover my face with my arms and turn my chair away. Ronnie is the only one I can blush in front of and not want to kill. I called him on video chat when I got home because I had to talk to someone about the stress of going on a date for the first time. Mom's too touchy regarding the subject and Dad's too hands off. Then there's the fact that I want to kill most of my other friends whom I'm merely using for my own devices. Or at least I was. What the fuck am I supposed to do with them now? Kill them? I'd love to, especially Veronica. But it feels too early. I need to figure out exactly what's going to happen with Eve before I do anything else. I seem to have been making rash decisions lately, without any care for the consequences. It's a consequence of having no one to talk to about my hobbies.

Being an antisocial serial killer who hates therapists does not leave one with many confidants. Even my old "best friend" from middle school, Patricia Melrose, whose father I pushed down the stairs, had been the exact opposite of a genuine connection and I would never have shared anything real with her. I had only befriended her with the intention of ruining her social life after she threw an eraser shading at Ronnie in Social Studies class. You don't mess with someone under my protection. Killing her hadn't been on the table. I wasn't ready for cold blooded premeditated murder back in middle school. I was merely planning to get close to her, find something compromising and expose it to the school.

Before I was able to follow through on that plan, however, I had a rather unexpected encounter with Patricia's father, which perhaps made me a bit too confident in my ability to bluff my way out of anything.

I had gone over to her house after school, ostensibly to do our homework together. In reality, I was planning to search her room for her diary, which she had confided in me she kept in her room, in order to find something compromising on her I could make public. We lay in her room, just two middle school girls, working on square routes when Patricia had to suddenly rush to the bathroom. The laxatives I put in her drink had done their job well. I was now alone in her bedroom, free to search for the diary. Patricia would not be off the toilet anytime soon.

I started with her nightstand. There was nothing except her alarm clock and lamp. Next, I moved on to her desk, checking all the drawers. Plenty of books, but all academic related. I checked the inside of all of them, just in case one turned out to be merely a false cover hiding the diary. Finding nothing, I moved on to the bookshelf.

"What are you looking for?" a voice had asked while I searched the top bookshelf, causing me to freeze. Turning around, I saw Damian Melrose, Patricia's father, standing at the door. He didn't look like a perv, not that there's anything specific a perv does look like. A physique which suggested regular workouts with his well-groomed short greying hair, and navy blue business suit, made him resemble any father in our school. But his demeanour immediately signalled something was off.