Roblox Flicker - Act Two

2 - Depart

Being woken up by the sound of the radio playing in the room across, John got up off of the uncomfortable surface which he slept on. He rose at a normal, average time, it was around 7AM, he assumed. The house had no clocks present, time was irrelevant to his family. In regards to his family, they still have not returned. The stains of the red fluid on the carpet darkened into a deep brown, making the pale surface look quite unkempt. Inhaling the air, he smelled the strong scent of smoke coming from outside, wafting through the open window. John went down the hall to check the house's rooms. His parents slept separately. He first checked his dad's room, eying the firearm collection he pridefully kept against one of the walls. The room had nothing changed, and when he checked his mother's room, it was no different to how it was the previous day. He was not concerned for the disappearance of his parents, he found peace from it, and found it amusing. They were certainly not his most favoured people, only yet another annoying obstacle in what his misery of life is. John went down the noisy flight of stairs, down into the lifeless dull kitchen. The kitchen had nothing special about it. It was so... plain. He would reach for the rusty knob of the pantry cupboard and twist it open with evident aggression. He grunted, grabbing a box of cereal from the second highest shelf, which he could reach with ease. He carried it to the counter and put it down. He crouched and grabbed a cracked bowl from the cupboard below him, putting it on the counter beside the cereal box. He pulled himself up and walked to the fridge, the taps of his heels echoed throughout the nearby rooms of the home. He pulled the door open, grabbing a carton of milk. He rotated it to check the expiry date, grimacing at what it said. It was on the verge of expiry, it would expire the next day. Careless, John put it with the bowl. He opened the cereal box and poured his portion of the grain, then poured a bit of milk with it, creating a perfect ratio between the two substances. He grabbed a clean spoon from the nearby drawer and sat on a stool at the other end of the counter. It was uncomfortable. He lifted the food with his spoon carefully and ate his morning meal. The food tasted bland. Once finished, he put his dishes in the sink. He'd reach for the tap and fill the bowl with water to get the remaining scraps off the sides of the bowl. He stopped running the water and grabbed his now-dry trench coat from the coathanger he left the previous day and took it upstairs to his room.
He approached his cracked, and near shattered, mirror, putting his arms through the slots of his coat, heaving it up to his shoulders. He fixed the collar of it, grunting lowly. John inhaled, satisfied with his generic appearance. He'd advance to his desk and gently grab ahold the sheet of information and fold it carefully and neatly, sliding it into the pocket to his right side. From his desk he picked up his phone and checked the time. 7:36 am. His time hypothesis from his awakening was close, he brightened up at this form of honour and glory. He grabbed an exercise book from his neat desk pile and tore out a page carefully. He would zip open his pencil case and take out a black pen. He'd click the end and the tip would spring out to be written with. He put the pen to the paper and began to write.
I'm out. Don't know how long I'll be. What I do know, however, is that I WILL be back.
Smirking, he wrote his name underneath the note, knowing he's writing about going to participate in an illegal killing game. No matter the thought that came across, he knew he would make it out alive, no matter the cost or the role assigned to him. He knew what he was doing. He had these scenarios planned in his head, with clever strategies implemented. It was all he could do when he was alone. For excessive amounts of time. He'd compose himself, his smirk fading away as he picked up the handwritten note and left it in his father's room, placing it on the astronomically ratty, unkempt bed. He would return to his bedroom to pack before he left. To begin packing, he took a grey backpack. It would be in tact and quite nice looking, despite an amount of his other belongings, which were damaged from the faults of his family members. Not once was it ever his fault. John was an orderly man. He'd unzip the bag, fortunately empty to save him some time. He'd place the following contents of a phone, a switchblade, a box of matches, a candle, a notepad, two pens and spare clothing to prepare for an emergency. He zipped the bag securely and swung one strap over his right shoulder.
John would parry himself down the staircase and lock the house with the single key he had, going into the garage and opening it. He unlocked his car and would hop in to start the engine. He put his bag onto the seat beside him. The soft whirring of the starting engine filled what was once the silence of the garage. John took the information sheet from his pocket and unfolded it only to see the address, which he would begin to depart to. As he took off, he'd turn on the radio, however shift the settings to listen to his own music. John preferred listening to heavy metal as he would drive. The drive would be long and far. With his eyes ahead, he watched the endless road reveal itself. As he drove, he'd dodge obstacles on the neglected roads. People on the road failed to drive correctly, this angering him and causing him to slightly exceed the speed limit. He would ponder how far the house would be. It was beginning to make him wonder if the place still stood after the previous killing ended. It would be no surprise to know the house had been demolished. He still had faith that it was there. And that faith he had lead him to the truth. He stopped in front of the infamous house and parked along the verge. Shivering with anticipation, he got out of his car, grabbing his bag on his exit. He'd lock the car and approach the front door, muttering words of hope under his breath. A sign on the door read 'Come in, no need to knock'. Reading this, he'd twist the cold steel doorknob clockwise and step forward, being subjected to the sudden temperature change of the home. The murder home. A sweet smell filled the air, making the home almost inviting. Multiple signs with arrows were displayed in the corridor, which he assumed he had to follow. The sound of conversing people would grow closer the further he followed the signs. Following accordingly, he reached a door. Aggressively gripping on the knob, becoming impatient, he'd twist and walk in. He was lead to the dark, ominous solitary room. Before him was a chair, with a folded up note, secured with a red ribbon. Putting his bag down, he'd go toward it. He'd tug at the ribbon, it gracefully and elegantly falling out of its neat bow and falling slowly, in the manner of a feather, onto the hard ground of the solitary room. John unfolded the note, and what was written was a great, great surprise for him.
Murderer.
He grinned widely at this, enlightened. Finally having the ability to act upon his impulses, technically legally, enthralled the miserable man. He'd fold the note back up and keep it in his pocket. He'd go toward his bag, unzipping it and lifting his average-sized blade out and putting it inside his coat, facing toward him. He listened to the sound of the people. Some were just arriving like him. It sounded as though there were at least... perhaps 20 people inside the house. Nodding with ambition, he decided to exit the solitary room to confront his enemies... and, of course, his hidden teammates.