gould in life, ghoul in death | {death one, clue}

Like a shadow, you'd been waiting. A clever observation, a suspicious glance. Anything that may have turned an eye toward you. And he knew, pretty boy with pretty words. Of course he knew. His purpose was to read people, was it not? And he saw right through you.

Anger is what fueled you— nothing more, nothing less. You cloaked yourself in darkness, took to the circuit breaker, and made the decision. It was an easy one, which surprised you at first, but the moment you slipped into Malcom’s office, any second thoughts or hesitation evaporated at the sight of him. With his smug, conceited eyes and sanctimonious attitude. It made you feel ill, forced your stomach to churn until it was left in knots— not at the knife held tightly within your palm, nor at the blood pouring from greed-inflicted wounds, but because it was him. Who was he to judge you? To test you? To put you on trial with the rest of those fools he’s brought into his home?


He was nothing.
You were everything.

You were in control.

You'd killed a man, admittedly out of rage, envy, and in the name of secrecy. Now, as you watched Blaine step away from the group, the knife tucked into your boot suddenly felt heavier. You blinked one time and he did not know you were there. You blinked a second time, and he was on the ground, terrified brown eyes beaming back up at you.

You blinked a third, and he was no more.

The blood stained your hands and it splattered your face. The metallic taste touched your tongue and you tried not to cringe. It seemed to cover almost every inch of your skin, but somehow managed to avoid your shirt. At least now the cleanup would be easier. You dropped the knife down next to the body, certain that there were no traces of evidence on it. You were too careful for amateur mistakes. This was your second victim, after all, you should have practically been an expert by now.

It’d been far messier than you thought it would be. Arterial spray landed across your face, along the walls, spilling to the floor and staining his spotless button-down shirt. You watched intently, eagerly, as it splattered atop all the pristine tile in the hallway. It felt appropriate, you thought to yourself as the last breath of Blaine Goulding escaped his lungs. His sad, sad attempts of finding you out, all for nothing.

With one slice of a knife across his throat, he existed no more. And you’d never felt better, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. You’d never felt more alive—more in charge—than you did standing over his dead body.

God help anyone else who dared to stand in your way.

Two victims down, too many more to count. Your body tingled with excitement, but also with dread. Was this really happening? What pushed you to such extremes? Part of you wanted to look for escape, but your grave had already been dug. It was too deep to even consider trying to climb out now. You took one more uncertain glance at the body and you whisked off into the darkness. You were not sure if this was right, you were not sure if this was wrong.

But whatever it was, it was too late now to turn back.