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William stares down at the body at his feet.
Charlie. Sweet little Charlie. The little girl he watched grow up. The little girl who just earlier today gave him a handmade bracelet and hugged his legs, saying "I'll see you tomorrow, Uncle William!" The little girl that lay in the alley, lifeless, the fabric of her clothes soaked with rain.
Why? He doesn't know. He's never killed anyone before. But he doesn't necessarily regret it. It felt good. He felt powerful. He had decided that was already going to go to hell for his past sins, so why not take things a step further? He has nothing to lose.
Seeing Charlie out there freezing in the rain, alone and crying, William just couldn't help himself.
At first, she had been happy to see him, hoping he would unlock the doors and let her inside. As soon as she saw the look on William's face, her uneasiness became apparent. She was still kind to him, ignoring how he was staring at her with such a soulless and cold expression, his pupils as small as pinpoints as she explained her predicament.
"It is a very dangerous situation you've found yourself in. All alone out here in the cold. Isolated. Vulnerable. There are many bad people in the world, Charlotte. Bad people who do bad things."
Charlie had yelled for her father and struggled as she was grabbed by her hair and dragged into that alley to be slaughtered.
William had smiled as he strangled her, the shadows concealing him in case some passerby were to realize that he was killing her. He had held down on her throat for a while after she had gone limp, to assure that she was dead.
So now, he stands and stares at her lifeless eyes. He hadn't done it because he disliked her. He hadn't done it to hurt Henry. He had done it purely because she was there. Because he could.
Little half circles indent his arms from where she had dug her blunt nails into them, desperately trying to gasp for air.
She doesn't look peaceful. She looks empty and blank and betrayed.
William kneels down and unties the baby blue ribbon in her hair, slipping it into his pocket. A souvenir.
Just months ago she had wandered into his office, staying late with Henry, as he was unable to find a babysitter. She said she was sleepy and that the fan in Henry's office was too loud. William had scooped her up into his arms and hummed until she fell asleep.
He hums that same tune to her now, kneeled over her body, adjusting the way her wet hair falls onto her shoulders. He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to her forehead, as if he were tucking her into bed.
He walks back to his car, smiling a little. If his hair was long enough, he's surely be wearing that ribbon in it. He sighs and opts to tying it in a bow around his wrist, running his fingers along the silky fabric a few times before stepping into his car.
His mind wanders during the drive. Henry will be devastated. He'll cry and take time off and William will get to hug him and comfort him and maybe, if Henry sinks low enough, sleep with him.
Henry.
Henry is very pretty. So was Charlie. William wishes he was pretty. Instead, he's a bit odd looking, with downturned eyes and a long nose and sharp features that make him look cold and stern.
William looks at himself in his rear view mirror. Is this why Henry doesn't love him? Is he not pretty enough? He grips the steering wheel tighter.
Fuck Henry. He can already see himself taking a knife to Henry. And then to himself. He thinks about the gun he bought a while ago, for protection. It's stowed away in his office. He could kill Henry and then himself. Maybe write a note and leave it at the scene, declaring that they were madly in love and decided to die together to escape ridicule and controversy. It would be a lie, or course, but then at least they would be remembered as lovers. Maybe even buried together. What a romantic thought that is.
William wants to make Henry bleed. Take him apart and rip him into pieces and consume him. Eat his heart. Isn't that romantic? What better way to profess an undying love is there? William doesn't know. But he thinks that Henry would taste good.
He wants to hurt Henry.
He wants to marry Henry.
He wants to see the look on Henry's face when he goes to take the trash out and finds the body of his daughter.
He wants to be Henry.
He pulls into his driveway and walks to his front door. He makes a beeline for his office, ignoring his children and wife's greetings as he opens his mini-fridge and takes out a beer. Just what he needs.
He drinks a lot nowadays. He needs something to quiet the thoughts and noise in his head, and nothing does the job quite like alcohol.
He takes out his journal and starts doodling, watching the way the ribbon on his wrist moves as he draws. He's in an odd headspace.
He thinks he might do it again. Maybe to Henry. Maybe to his own wife. Maybe to Michael. It was fun. Next time, he wants there to be blood. He wants more of a struggle. He wants there to be gore.
Fuck, he really wants it it be Henry. To have his blood on his hands and to wear his clothes and to keep the body in his basement and to know that Henry is his and nobody else's.
He's crying now and he doesn't know why. He has completely snapped, completely lost what little there was left of himself. Pushed too far past his breaking point. He doesn't even realize how unstable he is.
He raises his fists and hits himself, striking himself in the head and face repeatedly until the tears cease. He doesn't let himself cry. For as long as he can remember he was always told not to.
Then, he prays. He recites the prayers that have been ingrained into his head since childhood, but he knows he's going to hell anyways. Not for killing Charlie, no, he's sure he was damned before that. He's bad. That's what his father used to say. That from the moment he was born he was just bad. Dirty. Impure. Vile. Disgusting.
He doesn't know what made him so bad. He just knows that he was. That he still is. That he was always destined for this. That he's scared to die because he doesn't want to go to hell and he doesn't want to be punished because he's been punished so much in life already.
William hits himself again and reaches for another drink.