Who Is Peter England? (Pt. 3)

by Storm Harper 4 months ago in slasher

3: Honeymoon

Who Is Peter England? (Pt. 3)

We traveled, and he taught me many things over the next years. He was what you call… an avid teacher. My first lesson was in creating an identity. To be able to catch the type of prey we were after, we would need to seem… lost, for lack of a better word. This confidence, the aura of a child mature beyond their age, that was what we had to shed before we could start any real training. That was the easy part. Next came the target acquisition training, stealth training, knife skills, and an abundance of other seemingly redundant skills before finally it came time to find a real target. After countless lessons, visual aids, and dry runs, I was finally ready.

We had made our way across the border from Alberta, through the forest, into Washington. We spent the better part of the next two years slowly making our way south, towards California. Peter let me watch as he taught me first hand, the intricacies of the art, through Washington, Idaho and Oregan. We left a trail of bodies behind us, at least two per state, all the while avoiding detection. Granted, this was before forensic science really took off, so pesky things like DNA were never an issue for us.

As we finally approached California, we did a sort of... assessment. He quizzed me on everything, knife work, discretion, target acquisition as he called it. And I passed with flying colours. I pressed all night, until peter finally decided that we could go out and pick a real, live target together, just for me.

We went down to this street that prostitutes were known to frequent. Peter thought this was the best way to find a target and to get them alone in a short amount of time, specifically because of our age. Usually peter would be the one to set the trap, but since this was my turn, I walked out and pulled my pocket out of my pants, a sign that I was here for business. I stood up by a wall, waiting patiently, and sure enough, I was approached by a man who was at least 40 years my senior.

“You working?”

He looked nervous, understandably. He was a sick pervert, and if he was caught, well. You know how prison goes.

“Yup, $150 per hour.”

“150? That’s a little steep, you can’t bump that down a little? Maybe 100?”

“150. Or move along. You look sketchy.”

“Ok ok, 150. Do you have a place?”

“No, rent a room.”

Peter taught me it was best to keep them away from where you are going to be seen regularly.

“Fine. Come on, my cars over here.”

We walked over to his car, and as I was about to get into the car, Peter motioned to me. I turned back to the man, and thought quickly, pretending to trip over my foot, as Peter snuck into the back seat.

After about 10 minutes of driving, we pulled up to a little piece-of-shit motel, out of the way of everything. That’s why we chose these targets, they didn’t want to be seen, just like us. He checked in, and came back out to sneak me in through the back. He was silent the whole time, barely glancing in my direction. I felt something was… off, but I quickly dismissed the feeling, due to the unique situation. He unlocked the door, and told me to sit on the bed. As he went into the washroom, I went to the window and put my pen light out the window- the signal that meant we were to move ahead. The man started to run the shower, so I knew I had time.

“Let me in through the back, I’ll hide in the closet.”

Peter had finally arrived at the window.

“But he has the room key with him in the bathroom, how do we get back in?”

“Just wedge the door with something.”

“Ok, meet me at the back.”

I folded a brochure, wedged it in the door, and went out to the back. As we entered the room, he hid in the closet and I sat back down on the bed. About five minutes later, the man came back out of the washroom, still fully clothed, hands behind his back. I could sense the atmosphere had shifted. He was a different kind nervous now, more like anxious more than anything else, his eyes wide and sort of frantic, it almost didn't seem real. He started to walk towards me, hands still concealed, looking as though he didn’t even see me. Peter opened the closet slowly. He made a shushing motion, as he made his way out, trying to conceal any sound. He almost made it too, almost, as the closet door creaked as loud as I have ever heard a door creak in my entire life. The man spun around frantically. He saw peter, and I saw the long kitchen knife he had concealed behind his back.

At that moment it clicked, the irony of it all. A couple of murderers, both caught in the act. It was almost humorous. Peter froze as the man raised the knife, about to end peter and ultimately me. Without an ounce of fear, staring directly into this frightening mans eyes, he kicked him as hard as he could, right in the crotch. Falling right to the floor, completely unable to squeeze out even the slightest pained cry, the man crumpled up in front of us, completely forgoing his imposing stature.

I stood up off the bed, pulling my heavy pocket knife with the wolf design out of my moist pocket. Standing over him, blade in hand, I could hear the blood coursing through my veins. I could feel my heart beat in my chest and in my feet. Nothing else existed outside of this moment. I knelt, putting my knee in the mans chest, blade on his neck.

“Savour this moment. You’ll remember it forever.”

Peter took the mans socks off, and tied them together, before using them to gag him. He stood over me, watching intently, assumedly grading my performance.

I wasn’t sure where to start. I made a small slice on his cheek, feeling the rush go throughout my whole body. The smell of the blood was too much, I thought I might explode. It was warm and comforting, while at the same time, completely exhilarating. His pathetic whimpers made me tingle, becoming erect as soon as he started begging. It felt like a wave of electricity coursing through my body, touching every single nerve ending at once. I made another incision, deeper this time, from his mouth corner to his ear, exposing his teeth and his jaw. He attempted to scream, and I let him, reveling in every minute of it. His pained cries inspired some of the most intense feelings, emotions I thought were lost to someone like me. I was completely and immensely submersed, until peter kicked him in his head, effectively knocking him unconscious.

“He is drawing way too much attention. Finish it, so we can leave.”

I nodded my head in confirmation, and turned back to my new favorite person in the world. All I wanted was to taste it. To taste him, to taste the blood and the flesh, complete the experience. I looked at the blade, and my mouth started watering, as if I was staring at the most delicious piece of cake I had ever seen. There was something, like a calling inside of me, I couldn’t resist. I had to taste it. It felt as though I had no other choice. So I licked it off the blade, and let me tell you, it was orgasmic. It was the one piece that was missing from my ritual. Honestly, the first time I found an identity for myself outside of Peter’s teachings, was that moment. But little did I know, this was not acceptable, in the slightest.

“You pig.”

I wasn’t prepared for the sting of Peter’s hand berating the back of my head. My eyes began to water, and an image of myself standing over a dead Peter flashed in my mind. I quickly dispersed the thoughts, treating them as blasphemy, more than visions.

“What is wrong with you. Are you an animal? Where in my teachings is there any room for such deviant behaviour?”

“I was just curious. And honestly, it feels right. You should try it.”

“I will not. And neither will you. Or there will be severe consequences.”

I wanted to slice off a sample. I wanted so badly to continue what I started, but I was very wary of these consequences. I, better than most, knew how scary this boy could get.

“Finish up now. We’re leaving.”

I stared down on my new friend, painting as intricate a mental picture as i possibly could. It was almost a shame to have to end our relationship, but it was time. I put the blade on the right side of his throat, and slowly, steadily pulled it across, trying to memorize every single detail, every moment. This was the second time I had ever ejaculated.

We washed up, changed our clothes with the go bag, and left the motel through the back door. The whole journey, all throughout town, the cab ride, until we reached our accommodations, Peter remained silent. He was clearly upset, probably even disgusted, the look on his face was not pleasant. As we walked inside, he stopped and turned to me. A knot of dread began to form in the pit of my stomach.

“I'm very disappointed in you.”

That was the last thing he said to me all night, a dull silence engulfed the abode for the rest of it.

Morning came, and it seemed as though Peter had calmed down somewhat. By the time I woke up, he had gotten breakfast, and was reading the paper, sipping his red rose tea. You would never guess he was 14 years old.

“I hope we never have a repeat of last night. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I realized, you need guidance, more than discipline. So for now, you’re back on the sidelines.”

"What? That’s not fair—"


He held up a hand, as if to say that was enough.

"You will do as I say. Let’s not lose our place now.”

Of course my protest stopped immediately. I knew when he was fed up.

“We’re leaving California. We’re going south, to Mexico. First we’ll stop in Caborea, rest up and continue southeast, until we reach Durango. From there, we head east to Cuidad Victoria, where we can set up shop again.”

I didn’t want to leave. I really found myself in California, I wanted to stay, and continue soul searching, learning more about myself. I couldn’t stay silent about this issue.

“I don’t want to leave. I love it here.”

Peter didn’t say a word. He just looked at me with what felt like pure discontent. Slowly, he put down his tea and his paper, and started to walk towards me. The silence was almost ominous.

“Hold out your hand.”

I was reluctant. I wasn’t sure what he was planning to do. But I held it out anyway.

“I told you about passing your place, didn’t I. But my father taught me, those who don’t hear, must feel. He was an idiot but he was right occasionally.”

Peter pulled out his pocket knife, slowly opening it, never looking directly in my face. He grabbed my hand firmly, placing the cold blade on my palm. I winced, as he pulled back aggressively, although only very slightly. As if that was a test, to see if I'd make the mistake of pulling my hand away. The blade was so sharp, it was already slicing my skin. Slowly, he pulled the blade across my palm, making a clean deep cut. The pain was searing, but I dared not to make a sound. He let me go, my blood forming an ever-growing pool by my foot, as he walked back to his seat. Picking up his cup and his paper, now stained with blood, he continued reading as if nothing had happened.

“Go for the first aid kit in the washroom.”

I stood there staring at him, befuddled. I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with Peter, mentally. If he was even stable enough to be around.

“Quickly now, we need to treat that. It’s pretty deep.”

On my way to the washroom, silent as a mouse, I began to wonder if this was what I wanted. I began to wonder if I could make it on my own. I had all the tools. And on top of that, it was beginning to feel like Peter was stifling my identity, locking me into a box that was so specifically shaped like him, I had no room to even flinch. It was time to make some tough decisions.

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