Chapter Text
It was foretold that if you were old enough you would see a mark on your skin. Well, only you and one other person. Something about soulmates or whatever. It wasn't like he’d really focused on the details of such a foolish story. Thus Sock had never believed it most of his life. It was nothing more than an urban legend, or so he told himself. He'd seen something though. One day while walking home from school, a faint impression of a dark heart shaped mark flickered across his right wrist. Tired as he was, he blamed it on his tendency to stay up late and forgo a necessary amount of sleep.
He had what most kinder folks would liken to morbid tendencies. He’d seen movies he really shouldn't have during his youth, of course when nobody was looking, that bore a rating of a single letter R. The narratives he liked most depicted the tireless murder finding them self “in the zone” while bloodied. It painted a mind full of what ifs that manifested into his youthful play. His parents had taken no efforts to stop it. He took a pair of scissors to his stuffed toys to stop their imagined sense of living he had breathed into them. Yes of course he had loved his teddy bear and his stuffed bunny and other soft toys that reeked of childhood, but even a fake life was worth damaging. It was a phase by the standards of Sock’s parents. Although strange, if it made him happy there was no reason to stop it… Right? Besides, the fake play hadn't really hurt anyone living. In reality though, it was only a practice that fueled his practicing. Thus, later as his world grew with him, he longed for putting it into actuality. So he hatched a plan. In his backyard he stashed a knife, stolen from the kitchen without notice from his parents. Then with a jar of peanuts, he fed the local squirrels that visited his yard. One day, once the squirrels gained trust, he gained the confidence to pounce. He had found a sense of joy within each fuzzy victim's helpless cries, each victim's bloody mess against his hands. Half moons of dirt etched themselves under his fingernails after he dug each victim's grave behind the shrubs lining the edges of the house. It became a morbid hobby. But soon enough his small form outgrew his small kills. His heart raced less and less as the thrill died in his desensitization. He needed a better victim. So he watched and waited, crafting the perfect one.
It was easier to do since she got pretty drunk. It all started for Sock when he befriended Jojo. A little older now, he had entered high-school and grown into his inner desires. Different than most, Jojo had found solace in his friendship as a fellow ignored outcast. She was a little too tomboyish and he was seen as the strange skirt wearing boy. It made sense that wallflowers stuck together. She'd brought him to a high school house party once. Probably one of the rich kids houses in which the party was held. It was near the local lake, and a lake house was prime real estate. Something most couldn't afford. It was all set up by some teenager whose parents weren't home and had let the liquor cabinet become empty and the bottles run dry. “I'll take you home later,” he told her. “I don't drink.” It was a solid plan to her and made her feel comfortable within Sock’s presence. He was someone she could count on. Maybe she felt a little too comfortable. He watched carefully as she opened her phone, stopping to scroll through some social media posts in between talking with him, mentally noting her password. The night wore on and she kept going. Sip after sip from a liquor filled cup. Sock grabbing one after the other, handing her drink after drink, till he handed her the poisoned one.
Antihistamines weren't just for allergies. They'd make you sleepy and tired in high doses. A bottle lay in the bathroom cabinet. He traipsed in as if to take a bathroom break. A few of those mixed into the cup brought a drowsiness to Jojo's eyes and dampened her awareness even further. Since he'd offered to walk her home, and make sure that she got back without alerting her parents or drawing suspicion to her absence all night she'd accepted. But it was when he led her down a dark and different path, passed her house, and headed to the other end of the lake out of sight, she didn't notice through her haze of drunken drowsiness. He reached around and swiftly grabbed her phone from her back pocket. Then one shove of her half asleep body and the gurgled cries drowned out in the noise of the party on the other end of the lake. A few bubbles popped on the surface of the dark murky water in the aftermath of it all and he smiled. He typed in the passcode, noting it from earlier and opened the notes app. He wrote a simple message, denoting all the stressors and things that set her apart after having observed her through their years of careful friendship, capping it off with labeling his shove as her chosen and thought through demise. The police would rule it a suicide. He smudged his shirt edge over the screen and phone case wiping away or obscuring any fingerprints. Still holding it by the area he covered with his shirt, he dumped it near the shoreline. After years of planning, days stalking the right prey, and putting up the right facades, a giddy adrenaline high unlike anything he had ever felt enrobed his form. Humans made such different victims….He craved more.
That night, as he crawled into bed after sneaking back through his bedroom window, unnoticed by ignorant parents, he saw it again. The dark heart shaped mark flickered over his wrist. He blinked his eyes, unsure of what he had briefly seen and shrugged it off. He dreamed of blond hair that night.