Jacuzzi_Jackson wrote:

When does everyone write? How do you find the time?

Dark Soldier wrote:

Onwards we go:

Spoiler:

He was seven when his image of his father changed from an inspiration to a monster. It had been a typical night, his mother having her friends over, as she did once a week. On these nights, his father always took him out in the car. That night, they headed to his local, The White Bear. He kind enjoyed it in there, it was never busy. His dad sipping his bitter, and he with a quid in change on the pool table, a game he'd always loved. Even to him then, the cigarette smoke was acrid, horrible. Had always believed that starting down that road was a guaranteed death sentence. He couldn't remember how long they'd stayed there, but he did remember the chips his dad bought him on the way home. Little details had always been his thing, he had a great memory for them, and as his father's car turned into the farm that would become his home from home, he remembered the rain begin to fall. The kaleidoscope effect of the drops on the windscreen struck him, even then, as beautiful. His father told him to wait there, and naturally he did as so. Through the window, he watched his dad meet Mr Jenkins, a person he'd come to know very well, and they headed off to the nearest barn.

Whilst sat there, for what at his age seemed an eternity, he grew curious. Many times before this same situation had occurred, him in the car, obedient and patient, his father gone. Now, that itch to see what his father was doing was persistent, and he knew the only way to scratch it. The rain had ceased, and he slinked out of the car quietly, the door behind him shut slowly, no sound. It was dark, and he remembered being scared, but excited. His eyes darted around, wary of any potential danger that may have lurked in the night, but he got closer in no time at all. The barn was ramshackle, clearly old, and from inside he heard muffled voices, the occasional harsh laugh.

It was then he felt what seemed a thousand butterflies dance within his body. Never before had he been so nervous, but then he rarely ignored what his father asked. He fought internally with the idea of heading back to the car, to forgetting all of this. Bed was where he wanted to be, safe and comfortable, a glass of milk by his side. But he knew he had to see, his curiosity had peaked, and he approached the entrance tentatively. The door was open, barely enough to squeeze his head through. Inside, he saw the back of his father, smoke rising from in front of him, the smoke from the cigarette repulsing his senses, but there were other smells, alien to him, knocking him slightly sick. His father slowly walked to the right, and that was when he saw it. Mr Jenkins, removing his shirt, with a smile that haunted the dreams of his youth. So twisted and evil, the sight of him chewing on his bottom lip still burnt into his memory. On a table before him, a woman, dirty, bruised and beaten. Those soft, petrified cries a soundtrack to his life, so horrific to him at that age, so assuring to him now. He ran then, but he did not cry. Back at the car, he climbed inside, back to safety, and he locked his door, continuing to wait, a good, quiet boy. He never spoke a word of this to anyone, but it looped continuously in his mind for years to come.

It was later, with his first, Rachael, that Mr Jenkins had entered his life as a friend, a confidant. So soon after his own hands had pressed viciously around her throat, her eyes, so filled with fear and agony rolling back into her head, death sweeping over her, his panic had set in. There was no blood, not that time, but he was lost. How to deal with this, and once the adrenaline had abated, he thought back to that memory. If he was still there, surely he had hope? A friend of his father, their bond so dark and twisted. Loading the body into the boot of his car he set off. Of course, Mr Jenkins listened, and embraced him into the lifestyle. They took the body to the barn, and it was there where Andrew discovered the secret that was his father. The true extent of his evil, and from that night forth, he knew once and for all that he was truly his father's son. Now, as night seeped over the day, he stood at the entrance of the farm, ready and determined. His mind clear, he approached the barn...

Dark Soldier wrote:

And we're finished!

Spoiler:

His phone began to rang. Taking the call, he listened:

"Go inside, Andrew. I know you're eager to be back somewhere you belong."

He entered the barn, the doors weathered and beaten, creaking as they opened. Inside, the dust settled, the smell of decay and death as pungent as it was when he was a child. Stacks of hay piled high in every corner, the table still there, the centre point of the room. A shape upon it, covered by tarpaulin. By the window lay a cupboard, the door barely on its hinges. Inside, remnants of those who'd died here. Clothes, trinkets, echoes of former lives. The barn felt reassuring to Andrew, as if all this that had played out before was done, finished with. To be back somewhere you he belonged. Once it felt sacrilege, mutating his father into a monster of which he was now an equal. Today, right now, it felt like home.

"Imagine those women, Andrew. This is what they saw, what they took in as their final resting place. Such a bleak outlook, don't you agree? To  have your life ended in a place barely fit for animal or waste. Do you believe we, as beings, have a soul, Andrew?"

"I...I don't know. Why have you brought me here?"

"We all have a soul, Andrew. How do we exist otherwise? We can't live without the way we feel. What do you feel in this place, Andrew? Happiness? Calm? Relief?"

"Wh-eh-Where are you? Fucking show yourself you pussy. My wife, my kid, are they safe?"

"They're safe, Andrew. I'm not like you, I don't take pleasure from the destruction of others. They're oblivious to all this, I can see that clearly. You did well for yourself, a family so happy and content. Why would you lie to them, Andrew?"

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

"Did you really think I'd be there? Do you still not understand, Andrew? The robbery, the vest? The police know about you now, they have your picture, your address. They have this address, Andrew."

"H-h-how do they know about here? Is that why you-"

"I told them Andrew. Will you do me one final favour? Just one more, please. Move to the table, remove the tarpaulin why don't you..."

Andrew's mind was furious now, raging and confused. He was here of course, his sanctuary, but he felt lost, almost alone. He moved slowly to the table, a picture of his wife, dead, slain already, his son cradled and lifeless in her arms. It was the one thing, the only thing he feared, the loss of his family. They kept him normal, outwardly at least, stable. With them, he fitted into society. His past, had it killed the only future he saw possible? He removed the cover, throwing it to the floor, and before him, it lay. The body of Mr Jenkins, a single bullet hole squarely between his eyes. The body looked rigid, and felt it to the touch. His eyes were open, completely life. Whatever soul he had possessed had now parted, and all that was left was a twisted, deceased old man. Andrew felt nothing. No empathy, no hurt, no regret.

"A pity, isn't it Andrew? Another to add to your list. That hole, Andrew, the one that dealt him the hand of death? The round will match your gun."

"I-I never pulled the trigger. Any trigger."

"You prefer to feel that moment, don't you, Andrew? When the soul that brings so much meaning to life, the souls that brought so much joy to those women, passes, you fave to feel that moment don't you? To feel that moment when the soul is released and death sweeps in. Is that what this is about to you? How man have there been, Andrew? Four? Five"

"S-S-Seven. I had no choice,  my life...I couldn't see it end, to be destroyed in any fleeting moment. I've tried normality, I tried to be stable. I-I have my wife, my son. I can't help my being, who I am. Its there, its always there, pounding in my head, these urges. They won't leave, no matter what I do. They need to be fed, to be satiated. I don't think, I don't feel, I just....do..."

In the distance, sirens began to echo.

"Can you hear them, Andrew? They're coming, for you. They know now what you are, a criminal, a man who doesn't belong. They'll find you, stood there. Your implication in Jenkins' murder is total and complete, Andrew. Would you like a way out, Andrew? A way to make all this right?"

"H-How?"

"Kneel, Andrew. Kneel before my voice. The gun, take it. Hold it and feel it. The weight is it comforting? I am your saviour, Andrew. Place it to your temple, feel the muzzle against your flesh. That cold, does it remind you of those you've killed, Andrew? When you feel ready, pull the trigger. Don't be afraid, this is the only way. Your wife and son, imagine their life without you. They will hurt, but their lives, their futures. So much happiness awaits without your corrupted input, without your control."

On his death bed, his father has whispered a single phrase. It was one that stuck with him throughout his life. "You're not like me, Andrew". How wrong he had been. Since that night as child, he'd always been the same as his father. At the time, it felt confusing, almost frightening, but as he grew older, he knew that the very same night, when he lay along in his bed, what he had felt was delight. He felt satisfied, whole, the switch had been flicked. He was destined to this life.

"Do it, Andrew. I have my own trigger here. As soon as you feel that bullet end you, I'll press it. Decimate you, and the barn. No trace of anything. Complete destruction. The cops, they'll put it down to a gas leak. Trust me, this, Andrew, is the only way..."

He began to weep now. It had led to this. He'd been so careful, the mask he put on to hide all his evil, his anger, his corrupted soul. He'd learnt to love as best he could, to care. A final image in his mind, one of simplicity, at home on the settee, his wife lay in his arms, his son soundly asleep upstairs. Never had he felt so whole, so complete. As it began to fade, he felt the pressure in his finger, and he squeezed.

A simple click. No explosion, no darkness, no death. He was still there, on his knees, weeping. The sirens had stopped now, the police outside. The voice spoke:

"Did you really think I'd make it that easy, Andrew? You don't escape who you are with such ease I'm afraid..."

On the line, he heard the trigger being pressed. The jacket he'd feared, that had spurred him into this destructive spiral was still intact. The pleasure of death was not forthcoming.

"They're here, Andrew. You've accepted who you are, now comes the consequence. It has been a pleasure, Andrew."

"W-W-WHO ARE YOU?"

"I've already told you, Andrew. I'm your guardian angel. I am your saviour." He dropped the phone just as the police entered. This life he'd hidden, the one he'd felt sacred, he now knew would be his end.

THREE WEEKS LATER

She hated how busy the trains were. It had been her regular commute, but she always had this sense of claustrophobia. Crowded, squashed, like cattle. Her stop was next, at least, and then just a slow walk into work. The lifestyle of work had never really suited her, she felt more free in her own time. The spur of the moment was when she excelled, no plans or dates, just a way of being. Leaving the train, she raised her hand to stifle a yawn.  Not even nine yet, she had plenty of time. The nail of her finger was red, she noted, and looking at it she saw it clear. His blood, dry. A faint hint, where she'd scratched him the night before. She hated when he was weak. She always had. As she picked at the mark, her phone buzzed. She answered with a hello.

"Do you value your life, Jacqueline?"