I don't take my time with the harlot because the sound of someone dropping the toilet seat down clicks through the silence of the apartment and let's me know that at least one of my main targets is awake. Which annoys me because she is an adulterer, which I loathe nearly as much as I do liars, and as such she deserves the slow, painful death that befits her kind. Unfortunately, I just cannot take the chance that playing with her will alert the remaining two to my presence.
I hum contentedly as I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and survey the room in the light of the bedside lamp. Taking in the disaster of the room around me, I feel a seed of pride bloom bright in my chest.
I carefully set the glass down on the welcome mat and roll my eyes at how cheery it is. Welcome to our home! It never fails to surprise me just how brainless people can be. Reaching into my pocket I pull out my tools and get to work on the simple deadbolt. I lean heavily against the doorjam while I work, swaying on my feet every so often like I'm drunk and struggling to get my keys to cooperate. It's dark on the "porch" that runs the length of the building, my liars having turned off the light once everyone arrived home and went to bed for the night. So stupid, leaving themselves open like this with a welcome mat that invites anything in, let alone a humanoid monster.
It begins with an itch under my skin; an insistent need to destroy something, to rip into someone and hear them scream. And it always starts when someone lies to me. When that lie turns into something bigger and I end up being used, end up being made out to be a monster? That itch becomes a rash that spreads and spreads until I can no longer tell if I ever had clear skin.
We stand facing the street, feet sinking into the damp grass, toes curling around the blades, anchoring us within the well of wild magick threaded there, back to the small patch of forest in the neighborhood where our house sits.
Your body kind of sways to the sound of music heard in the distance as you clutch your gun closer hoping the twitters in the shadows heard down the alleys to each side of you aren’t monsters stalking you for dinner. I know what it is to fear those sounds that are echoes of memories from when you were little and hiding under the covers in mommy and daddy’s room because there were always skittering, twittering, scratching noises all around your room. Sounds that ignited into life the second the night light ran out of juice after your parents turned off the big lights for bedtime.