Aid by Day...

Brighton beach buzzes in the summertime, with waves of funky youths and rapidly-growing sub-cultures, fish and chips on the pier with some scroungy pervert moping around. It’s a mixed jumble of chaps and chicks, and they range from the very very banal, to the disconcertingly abnormal.

Around late autumn, the city belched with worry about a horrifying murder that happened on the beach. The body of a teenage boy was found, his head smashed into rocks so brutally that his face was indiscernible. As the season shifted closer and closer towards a cool winter, the atmosphere of the city was cursed with a tangible dread. Attached to the body of the boy was a note. It said only: “Part One.” The handwriting itself was hardly human, though somehat oddly impressive and italic in style.

No more than forty-eight hours passed before a boy, throat slit, was found laying in the sand, his face more pale and lifeless than the moon, which even itself seemed nervous, shivering behind a stream of ashy clouds. The first to come across this body was seventeen-year-old Darcy, the next victim to be found laying dead on Brighton beach, only Darcy’s body suffered the most horrific of trauma.

Nobody was allowed on the beach - not that anyone even wanted to go. And nobody did. The clocks changed but the anxiety remained. Brighton City was nervous.

Darcy was an introvert yearning for extraversion. Growing up never offered him the kinds of pleasures he imaged it blessed other kids with. He was a virgin, somewhat sexually bi-curious, and just a little too confident in his judgements - other than his sexuality. One crispy night he left home, dressed in a leather jacket quite clearly not warm enough, and a black, low-neck vest. He headed for a bar, hair doused with fragrant pomade, slick and shimmery yet at the same time somewhat rough.

The police were never going to catch the killer by monitoring the beach because the victims were never on the beach when they were murdered. (This fact they were, of course, soon to discover.) Inside the bar as dusk grew blacker, Darcy sipped away at his drink, his drink of Gin and Cranberry. Then a man then sat beside him at the bar, tall, slender, obscure, pensive. Darcy studied his eyes during the moments he could. In some mens’ eyes there is an icy glare that one can usually notice; it’s rare, but it zaps one with a wave of electric so nauseous and chilling, so overt but yet indescribable. Did Darcy see past that layer of false humaneness? His fate tells us the answer, with little mercy.

However this man came across to Darcey is actually rather speculative, all that is known is he placed enough trust in him to follow him to his car; an urge within him had deactivated his wits. From then on Darcey became more and more inebriated. Alcohol was not the only component; the tall man had drugged the Gin and Cranberry, and now the sedative was taking effect. Darcy had had a lot to drink already, and the combination made him put up no fight against his killer. He drove the drowsy Darcy to a lifeless part of the city, each minute aroused him as he gnawed at the fantasies of everything he was to do very soon to the extremely unfortunate lad. He couldn’t fixate on what would be first, although he knew for sure, before anything, he would strip the boy naked and glare at his skin. The scent of Darcy’s hair pomade filled the car, along with the stench of lustful lunacy. The night was already dark; it had now turned black. This deranged figure drove so sinisterly calmly, until eventually reaching a lowkey location. Soon would begin the acts so gut-wrenching to describe. The engine stopped and the silence swelled. Darcy, half-conscious, groaned only barely aware. His killer was now totally consumed by demonic intentions. Nobody was around.

Blood gushed continuously from the freshly sliced flesh, after which came a spew of animalistic roars so revolting — too revolting! — for their echoes in the air of the night wreaked of possession, proudly evil possession which the average person cannot, would not comprehend. Such a twisted blend of stabbing and sodomy ensued, and enough hellish minutes passed before Darcy’s pale skin had been sliced and drenched in his own blood, the life in his eyes, which was apparent not so long ago, glistening with the reflections of reality and maybe even a tad optimism, had now disappeared at the hands of a soulless, abhorrent man - his horrific world, his vision of savagery, he had created, manifested — or destroyed! You will be so tediously waiting for this man to be announced as an unclean, psychopathic hermit. That would be… not so accurate. He’s a handsome married solicitor with a pregnant wife and a rather high IQ. People engage with him every day, he deals with and aids the citizens affairs, he kisses his wife before bed and holds a vast collection of premium suits: he’s a member of society, your society. He is the same creature as you and I. He is a human, and yet so capable of the inhumane; witty enough to hide with a facade strong enough to initiate marriage! His hands are neater than mine, more polished and prim - yet he lurks like a pure predator. Darcy Regal had those pretty hands choke and viciously abuse him - kill him. Two others were also slain by the man who may help you with your civil affairs or your house mortgage! Evil swims in the sea with the mermaids, just as the snake once resided in Paradise.