October 6th, 2018 - 4 of 12 dead
— ♠️ || It was always interesting, hearing them beg. The things they would offer him, the pleading, the crying, the whining, the empty threats. He knew he wasn’t an imposing figure, per se; he wasn’t very tall, more lean muscle for agility rather than brute strength, and his voice while speaking normally was deceptively soft, light, eerily gentle. Unsettling. Catching them off-guard was his favorite thing. He’d let them hit him, beat him down and kick him around, until they thought they had him.
He’d laugh and laugh, the sound becoming more and more deranged and ragged, at times splitting the stitches that held his face together properly, smearing the blood across his lips as he laughed and cried in hysterics.
Their faces would pale. He hoped they realized why he was there, and what was to come. Even if they didn’t, in then end it didn’t really matter. He just wanted them to suffer and die. Helpless and alone and scared.
During storms was the perfect time, dramatic and it would drown the sound so anyone passing by or in adjoining apartments or businesses would have a hard time pinpointing just what was happening. Jump them, catch them off-balance. A stab to the brachial plexus, each side right in the shoulder, that usually did the trick; disable motor function to the arms, then it was harder for them to struggle.
Then he could take his time with them.
There was something he never fully grasped during his kills. Early on he had a sense of direction, a goal. Twelve specific men, names known, faces known, their sins…known. But with each kill, their faces blurred once the rain started. All he saw was his father, a literal ghost from his past, and things would get worse. He would tie them to a chair or bind them to bedposts or lash them to a door from corner to corner, beat them with his belt, across the face and legs and chest, making sure to strike last with the buckle hard enough to break the skin. Then came the straight razor…paper thin cuts along the forearms and thighs in erratic patterns, not enough to bleed them dry, only enough to cause lingering stinging pain. A sledgehammer to the knees, just in case they managed to get free; sometimes he would fake a swing, only to laugh and drop to his knees to slice at their Achilles tendons. He would toy with them, taunt them, until they stopped responding. Until it wasn’t funny anymore. That was all he’d done at the start, before he would finally carve his calling card into their face. A Glasgow smile, cut while they were still alive…just like him.
Lightning would crack overhead, countdown to thunder. Next flash, countdown…
A single shot to the forehead to punctuate the suffering, but it was not the end. The next part was meticulous, the slashed-in smile stitched in such a way that it was pulled open and pulled taut to the cheeks, through the meat and up to the cheekbones. By then, he was delirious with his own pain, emotionless and numb, carefully cleaning and redoing his own stitches as if he hadn’t been absolutely manic shortly before. He would tear open their shirt, it they’d managed not to lose it in the scuffle and the torture, and used a scalpel to carve a name into each of their chests.