Morbid Fascination

Den här är såpass ny som från förra veckan. Skriven på engelska, för att jag ville så att säga "bryta isen" mellan mig och att lägga ut noveller på nätet igen. xD; Var lite nervös för att låta folk läsa vad jag hade skrivit. Men i slutändan fick jag mycket trevlig respons och användbar kritik från folket på deviantART, så det gick ju bra. :)

Om den här novellen;
Titel; The Face of a Killer
Antal ord; 1.719
Åldersgräns; 15+
Varningar; Blod, våld och död? Tja, vi är ju i en skräckblogg.  
Annat; Använder dubbla radbrytningar numera, då det är enklare att läsa på nätet så. Fick idén till denna när jag såg ett järnrör i vår källare.

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Innehållet i denna novell är helt ur mitt eget huvud. Eventuella likheter med riktiga personer eller händelser är sammanträffanden Använd ej utan min tillåtelse.
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I couldn't stop staring at it.

A long, rather thin but very solid iron pipe, about the same length as my arm, lying forgotten in a corner of the apartment building's backyard.

I wondered what it felt like. Holding it and taking a swing. And then swinging again. Bashing someone's head in with it.

Would there be blood? Of course there would. Lots of it? Would I have the strength to kill someone with it? Or the guts?

Before I knew it, I had picked up the cold object, holding it in my hands like a baseball bat. I swung it like one as well, aiming for and hitting nothing but air. I changed my grip and swung it downwards - towards the ground - a sharp, brutal movement. In my mind, someone - anyone - was lying there, taking my next hit and the next one and the next one. I wondered if that nameless one would be dead by now, if he or she would be unconscious at least, of if someone hit that many times could get up and strike back, or escape, or would just lie there, not sure what was going on as I hit again and I wondered and oh god I want to know what it's like.

I dropped the pipe, the loud clatter from the impact of it hitting the asphalt filling up the silence.

I wasn't sure where these thoughts came from. I had thought like that - felt like that - several times before these past years, but I couldn't figure them out. I had thought about several things that could cause them, but nothing seemed to be a valid enough reason - I had heard people debate about violent video games making people aggressive, but I wasn't that much of a gamer.

I took a look at my reflection, the vague image of my features a window on the first floor could provide a darkened evening. A bit shorter than most of the guys in my age, brown hair, green eyes, a grey hoodie and a pair of blue jeans. I could be just anyone.

But I didn't think I looked like a killer.

These thoughts, these fantasies, they had been returning more frequently lately. Just the other day I had found myself unable to listen to my mother's instructions during the making of dinner, because I had been to busy staring at the basic kitchen knife she was holding. Imagining what it was like; cutting someone open with it, through the skin, opening them up, exposing their insides. What it would look like, what it would feel like, what sort of sound the person would make.

I shuddered at the memory of the images my mind had produced, but from what I was not sure.

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In the group of students I liked to hang with it was rare to see new faces, but Michael Planstedt was definitely a new face. Both as someone I had never met before and as someone with a face very different from the rest of ours. If I ever were to call another boy pretty, Michael would be the one. With slightly reddish blonde hair in a trendy cut, slim features without being thin and clear green eyes and a playful smile, he stole a lot of glances. He was nineteen, had graduated from a different high school than ours and had somehow befriended David, my classmate and was now spending time every now and then with us. He had gained our respect, not just from being two years older and popular, but simply because there was something about him that just made it so. Something, so very different from the rest of us, something I couldn't quite figure out. It felt like there was way too many things about him that I couldn't quite figure out.

The fact that he invited me over one afternoon was one of those things.

He lived on his own in a small apartment at the edge of town, in an area mostly populated by young people with rather unstable budgets.

I stood in the door entrance to the small hallway, wondering what exactly I was doing there.

"John," he had said, his voice speaking my name made me tense for some reason. "Do you have something planned after this?"

The rest of our gang had left already, leaving me and him standing alone at the bus stop.

"Well... I'm going home I guess?" Meaning no, I hadn't planned anything in particular. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I live nearby and I have nothing to do either."

"No work?"

"Not tonight."

And so I was there, in his apartment, hanging my jacket over the back of a chair as he had instructed.

The plan was that we would play video games - we were currently engaged in an conversation about favourites and he was suggesting that I should come over another time and bring Tekken 4, a game I had and he wanted.

While he excused himself and went to the bathroom, I was struck with the idea that no one knew that I was here. No one other than me and Michael. I wondered if anyone would figure out that I was guilty if I were to kill him now.

I shook my head as if to clear it, but the train of thought had started and I was lacking things to distract me.

If I were to go to the kitchen now, find a pair of rubber gloves, grab a knife and lurk outside the bathroom door, waiting for it to open...

Would I be able to do it? Would I get caught? Would he scream? Curiosity filled me as I told myself that it didn't matter what could happen, because it wouldn't happen, because I wasn't going to do anything of the sort.

And yet the images continued, all the time until the click of a door handle was heard.

Michael exited the bathroom, the faint sound of a flushing toilet slipping through before he closed the door behind him.

"So, which one?" he asked while leading the way into the small living room combo kitchen. "Silent Hill three or Resident Evil four?"

"Silent Hill," I said without putting much thought into it, my eyes fixed on his face, imagining it twisted in agony, fear, pain - wondering if it would still be as pretty when lifeless. I wondered if he would cry.

"Huh?" Michael had said something, but I hadn't been listening.

"You sure like to stare at me a lot," he repeated, that seemingly everlasting smile on his face growing wider. I felt my cheeks go red. I knew he was making fun of me and that I was supposed to come up with a witty reply, but I could think of none.

I once again imagined using a knife on the older boy now crouching in front of the PS2 and realized that it no longer felt like a fantasy. It felt more like an urge, growing in the pit of my stomach.

I had fantasized about killing someone I knew before, but it had never made me feel like this.

Would it work? Would I get caught? Would it matter?

More images flooded my mind - images I now found exciting - and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself standing in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers frantically, searching. It was reckless, dumb, wrong, but I couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

But I had to when a strong hand grabbed my right arm and another hovered over my left hand about to open another drawer.

"What are you doing?" His voice was a low murmur right next to my ear.

"I-I was," I stammered, "looking for..."

The left hand shifted, moved towards the next drawer, pulling it open and taking out a large kitchen knife.  

"For this?" he asked.

I pulled a sharp breath.

He knew.

He couldn't possibly know and yet, somehow, he knew.

My body went rigid - I had no idea what to do now, what to say. And I most certainly didn't have the slightest clue as to what the boy standing behind me was thinking.

"John," he said, with a voice of someone talking to a child. Perhaps in his eyes, I was. "Were you looking for this?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

I honestly had no idea.

Desperate to find a way out of this situation, to explain it, I felt my mind go blank in panic. I ended up staring right in front of me, mesmerized by the cracks in the colour of the cupboard door.

A clean pain shot through me.

Michael was fed up with my silence and had taken action. The knife was now deeply bedded into my stomach. I had never been good with handling pain to begin with and this was something of an entirely new level of pain than I had ever felt - ever imagined. Michael tugged at the knife slightly upwards and the feeling multiplied in intensity. I felt a coppery fluid fill my mouth and sipper out between my lips. The knife was now pulled out, blood gushing out of the wound, soaking my clothes and dripping on the floor. My legs were no longer able to support me as I fell down on my knees. All that was needed was a small push and I was lying on my back on the floor.

I was crying, as he, him, the one who had taken the role I had longed for, sat down next to me. He leaned forward to place a light kiss on my forehead.

"It's too bad, you know," he said in a soft voice. "With all the things we have in common, I thought we could get along great." A sob escaped my lips. "Shh, don't cry." Stroking my hair back from my face in an affectionate manner, he spoke again; "You brought this on yourself, didn't you?" He smiled at me then, a smile softer and more beautiful than any other I had ever seen. The smile of a killer. The smile of my killer. The smile I had intended to kill.

Soft hands descended on my throat and my world ceased to exist.

/Lilo