Chapter 1
594 Words
CHAPTER ONE
I never imagined knowing a killer, let alone becoming one.
He lay on the floor facing the light streaming through the broken window. Not that the moon kept him awake; even if it had been pitch black, falling asleep would be a struggle. And he’d soon be woken by nightmares.
I hate myself.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. The metallic warmth of blood on his tongue didn’t still the gnawing; a manifestation of self-loathing.
The voices in the other room grew rowdier. A bottle smashed. Somebody swore and laughed.
Same s**t, different day.
He rolled onto his side and hitched the scratchy blanket closer. His stomach convulsed. He gasped and turned onto his back again.
Some days, his stomach merely churned and burned, protesting even the birdlike amounts he ate. Others, he cramped and vomited b****y bile. He suspected a stomach ulcer but couldn’t see a doctor and didn’t care, because he deserved it.
I deserve much worse.
A groan. He tensed and listened. Before long came another. He crept across the room and crouched next to his mate. He palmed his brow. Poor bugger was burning up. The man poured water onto a rag and held it to the clammy forehead.
The kid gripped his wrist. Eyes open wide.
‘It’s okay, bud.’
‘Hungry,’ his mate whispered.
‘Only got cold baked beans. Okay?’
He forked beans into the younger one’s mouth. His buddy ate five forkfuls before falling back onto the bag that acted as his pillow. He shuddered and fell asleep.
The man watched him for a while in the moonlight.
We’ll have to move on from here.
The ones they’d hooked up with at this squat were hardened crims and risk-takers for the sake of it. They’d bring trouble on him and the kid sooner or later. They’d split tomorrow, he decided. Find a place quieter and warmer. The broken window and half-rotted timber floorboards in this room were making his mate worse, although his buddy enjoyed a few good days among the bad ones.
He propped against the dank plaster wall and contemplated his half-dead existence. Here but not where he wanted to be. Not dead but not living either. He didn’t have any tears left. Sometimes he tried to cry, wanted to cry, but couldn’t squeeze anything out. Happiness…gone. The only things that mattered now: not getting caught and looking after his mate.
He thought about that moment, that day constantly, the relative flicker in time in which he decided to take someone’s life. Not just anybody. No, somebody he should have nurtured and protected against bastards like him.
He added his blanket atop his buddy’s and cocooned the slim form. The kid stirred.
‘My head hurts.’
The man went to his backpack again and retrieved a packet of paracetamol. He tossed it aside with a sheet of empty blisters. A further dig in his bag uncovered a stray tablet. He picked off bits of fluff and fed it to his mate.
‘It’s all I’ve got. We’ll have to get some more stuff tomorrow, bud. And we’ll find us a new place to stay, too. We’ve got to get away from those rowdy buggers.’
His buddy nodded. He gave a weak smile and gripped his hand. ‘You’ll see. I’ll be sweet tomorrow.’ He drifted into an uneasy slumber.
The man sipped water and his guts blazed.
No point trying to sleep.
He hugged his stomach and replayed what he’d done that day – as he would every day for the rest of his miserable life.
His reasons didn’t justify his actions.
What made me this monster, the scum of the earth?
He couldn’t blame a dysfunctional childhood, lack of education, being unloved or unsuccessful.
All me. All my fault.
- Writer
