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People can be addicted to odd things.
It’s a thought Michael always muses to himself and it’s become his default for when his brain feels empty and is craving a conversation with itself.
He remembers learning about ‘hobbies’ in primary school. It’s one of the earliest memories that he has. Sitting crossed-legged with the other children on the classrooms “together-rug,” which consisted of large foam puzzle pieces of various colors, stuck together to make one large area for the children to gather and listen to their teacher.
His curly hair had been much longer and unruly when he was a young child, and he was often teased for wearing glasses. But he focused more on the basic teachings in second grade rather than the bullying he would face.
"A hobby is what you like to do for fun. Sometimes it can be something that you’re good at, or just something you enjoy doing to pass the time. I want you all to write a short paragraph about what your favorite hobby is, and then pass them in tomorrow.” His teacher had explained. He remembers her as a beautiful woman with short blonde hair and a sugary voice, but he wouldn’t be able to recall her name now. Like most children, he’d just called her “Miss” or “Teacher” when needing her direct assistance.
Michael had spent the entire day thinking about his hobbies, but he didn’t really do anything often enough that it could be considered consistent enough to fit the definition. Could watching TV be a hobby? Playing with Lego’s? There were so many possibilities, but his teachers brief explanation didn’t give him enough material to compare. He wishes she could have given an example, then maybe he could have latched onto that instead of coming up with his own.
He was a happy child with a healthy imagination. It was very rare that he would ever overstep his limited boundaries as a child or go against his parents rules.
Sometimes he wonders how he’d ended up the way he is now, but looking back on that day he was walking home from school, it’s all to clear what the starting point was.
He was almost home when he’d seen it. A beautiful gentle little thing, just peacefully resting onto one of the large flowers that had grown through the cracks of the fence and peeked into the sidewalk.
He stops in his tracks when he sees it, feeling the crayons and pencils shuffling around in his backpack from his sudden halt.
It was a butterfly.
It’s wings were orange and black, reminding the young boy of Halloween, which was still a few months away. Things associated with that holiday should be scary, and this creature was anything but. He takes a moment to admire it, and wonders what such a beautiful thing thinks about when resting on leaves. What kind of thoughts invade a butterfly’s brain?
It was dainty and delicate looking, as though any kind of harsh movement could destroy it.
That small idea was what sparked it all. It begin the over looming bonfire that has become Michael’s adult thought process.
Feeling the butterfly crumple in the palm of his hands was an odd experience, but his small body was overcome with the power he’d gained from it.
He had the ability to destroy and end this beautiful thing’s life. Something so gorgeous and free was now gone forever, the only thing that remained of it’s existence was the disgusting mess of it’s lifeless body and the half-moon shaped imprints on his palms from squeezing too hard.
Somehow, he had found his hobby.
It started small like that, killing tiny bugs and insects in his free time, then only escalated when he’d found out how much better he felt when he’d kill the larger ones.
While most kids were playing hopscotch and tag, Michael was trapping small insects to squish with his thumbs.
He doesn’t remember the exact instance, but he remembers that the first thing he’d killed that wasn’t a bug was a bird. Probably one that was already half-dead on the side of the road, he can’t recall anymore. The amount of things he’d killed as a child is all just one big blur to him now.
But he does remember sweetly calling over the neighbors cat to his yard, singing sweetly for it to squeeze through the fence separating their backyards, and then grabbing it roughly once it was close enough. He still has a scar on his right cheek from where the stupid thing attacked him, but it was quiet and still quickly enough.
He felt a small amount of guilt when the neighbors had come to their door, asking his parents if they had seen their cat. Their teenage daughter, who couldn’t have been any older than fourteen, had tear stains down her cheeks and puffy eyes as she quietly held the “Missing Cat” sign.
The guilt he felt was quickly overruled by the control. He was the cause for that girl and her family’s distress. He did that. Just a simple second grade boy was able to make a whole family stop their daily rituals and mourn over their “missing” cat. All because of him.
And fuck if that didn’t make him feel like he held all the power in the world.
It only escalated from there.
As he’d grown into a teenager, and then eventually an adult, the obsession with death grew into something much more dangerous.
He wouldn’t be able to tell you when the first time he murdered a person was. It was so longer ago now, and it’s memory is drowned out by the numerous other incidents of taking human lives, that he it’d be impossible to recall.
Briefly, he can remember his first’s had started by luring people into the old woods at the opposite end of town where he lived. He couldn’t have been very old, but it was more than easy to persuade others into forested area, usually by cries for help or innocently asking them to follow him.
Somehow, they would fall for it.
People are easy like that.
Which is what turned him to committing to people in terms of who to take out his murderistic urges on. They were easy, they’d beg, they’d cry, they’d sob. And then it would all end with just the swift and harsh cut to the throat.
The feeling of gore beneath your finger tips. Blood running down whatever surface of your body it’s landed on, slowing dripping back onto the dead victim’s pale face.
It’s an odd rush. An indescribable one.
Michael’s read the novel before, the ones by murderers that are free and making money off of their crimes in some twisted slip of the law. They always describe themselves as going crazy, having an almost out-of-body experience as they begin ruthlessly taking away another person’s life with no guilt. Claiming that they turn into savages that would make the young children from Lord of the Fliesturn green with envy.
But Michael’s never felt like that. If anything, it calms him down. Brings him back to earth instead of dispelling him from it.
A rush of energy that floods through his veins, both empowering and settling at the same time.
He knows it isn’t healthy. Every single form of media would blatantly label murderers as being the villains, and he was never surprised by it. He knew that what he was doing would never be considered right in the eyes of others, because it literally wasn’t.
To be fair, he tried to stop.
And, admittedly, it wasn’t easy. Quitting anything cold turkey tends to have it’s side effects on you. Michael’s just happened to be more psychological.
He was more irritable, snapping at people during easy conversations for little to no reason. A scowl was permanently etched onto his face, paired with a menacing glare. It felt as though his default attitude was composed of irritation and discontent.
While causally watching horror movies filled with gore or brutal torture scene, he’d find himself twitching. Desperate to get his own hands dirty in a similar fashion, wishing that he could trade places with the killers in the movies, even if just for a moment. Those watching the movies with him would ask if he were okay, but he could just pass it off as wincing from the more unsettling parts. Little did they know that those scenes were what was pushing Michael closer and close to relapsing back to his old ways.
He also realized that he was simply losing interest in everything. Nothing could hold his attention anymore unless it was resembled the habits of his own ways. It felt like he was just going through the motions of day to day life, not actually caring about anything happening around him.
It wasn’t that life was insufferable or unbearable without death, murder, or blood in his life. It was just more… dull. Meaningless. Tedious. It felt like he was just tolerating life around him and no longer truly living through the death of someone else’s.
So, in the end, he stopped preventing himself from it, and got back into the murder business.
Nobody suspected anything, he was quite good at what he did, and he finally felt whole again. There were no downsides, other than the annoyance of trying to scrub the stain of blood out of his clothing.
There were no police officers hot on his heels, nosy neighbors peeking through his curtains, or prying friend’s questioning what he was doing the day before that prevented him from hanging out.
Everything was perfect for Michael Jones.
He continued to live a normal life with no consequences.
He’d attend his job, meet up with friends, and be an active member of society during the day, and then at night… no rules applied.
*
Whenever Michael has a body, hiding it or fear of getting caught with it is never a concern of his. It’s been so long that he doesn’t even consider the possibility.
That doesn’t mean he’s gotten sloppy though, he’s just lost the fear that would come with murdering a helpless, but still fighting, victim.
Much like what is happening now.
He doesn’t even remember anymore how he’d gotten them down here. Doesn’t remember their name or even meeting them. All of those memories have been completely flushed away because all that matters right now is that they’re in his clutches and they aren’t going to be alive much longer.
The room is loud. There’s so many noises filling the empty space of his basement, but most are drowned out by his television, which is playing a re-run of some old sitcom that he’s never paid attention to. It’s an old box, occasionally turning to static and letting out loud screeches to match, but he’s never bothered getting a new one, enjoying the ironic horror-movie type feel it gives off.
He’d originally gotten it to mask the sound of mouthy victims, but it also served the purpose of constant background noise. Having to listen past the loud television to catch the sounds of the dying’s last breath always makes it more advantageous to his addiction.
Michael can’t actually recall how long he’s had this person down here with him now. It could have been an hour, or he could have only just dragged them in, but he can’t even be bothered to frustratingly dig through his memory banks to find out. All that matters to him right now is that the knife he’s holding over his head is going to be buried deep within their chest in a few moments.
The moment it does, the relief hits him.
He gasps, desperate for air. The sensation making him feel deliciously light headed with just a smidgen of overbearing pain. The adrenaline pumps through his veins, reminding him of both the task at hand and how amazing it feels to have a fresh kill beneath his hands. Innocent, still breathing, and weakly trying to clench their fingers around something, anything, within their grasp that will help her. It’s futile, but Michael admires the effort.
He puts a stop to it though, with one steady stab of his other knife into the searching hand. Directly into the area that connects their palm and thumb. The scream they let echo through the entire house is like music.
Michael may be covered in splatters of blood, muscles aching from the struggle that had ensued earlier, and next to a body that’s life is slowly draining away from it…
But he’s never felt more alive.
*
It’s cold outside, but he doesn’t wear a jacket. The wind biting and nipping at his skin gives him a painful relief that makes him both sigh in relief and shiver. The moon shines down dully on him, illuminating both he and the forest floor in front of him. It does nothing to heat his goose-bumped skin or soothe the dull ache of freezing that’s spread down to his toes, which are already going numb.
It’s fall, nearing Halloween, to be specific. And although he lives in a warmer climate area, it can still get chilly at nights, especially when you aren’t wearing any clothing designed to protect against the slight chill.
It doesn’t concern him though, he’s too busy making sure that the body slung over his back like a bag of potatoes isn’t going to slip off.
The blood staining his skin and clothes has dried, and he curses himself for not washing it off before leaving. He’d just wanted to get the body disposed of quickly, eager to get back home and crash into bed.
It’s been a long day. This is the first time he’s been able to feed into his addiction in over a month, his work and social life giving him no free time as more responsibilities would pile up. He’d been itching all week for this, on edge and growing crankier as each day would pass and his palms still weren’t soaked in red crimson.
Now that he’s finally gotten the chance, he’s completely exhausted, both physically and mentally.
At least the walk through the woods is nice. His path is always the same so he doesn’t have to worry about getting lost, so this gives him time to just clear his mind and think of nothing for a while.
Maybe he’s gotten too comfortable with these woods though.
A twig snaps from somewhere nearby, making him jump. His knife is immediately raised, ready to strike, as his head darts around, searching for the source. The noise was too loud to have been anything other than a person.
"Get the fuck out right now," he states, his tone proving that he means business, "Show yourself."
No fear, just anger. Maybe towards himself for getting caught, even though it wouldn’t affect much. It could only be one person, and it isn’t like he’s ever had difficulty getting rid of one person before.
Michael’s knife lowers slowly in a rare moment of shock when a boy, of similar age, steps into the light.
He’s thin, and maybe an inch or two taller than Michael himself. He has messy hair and is just wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, not looking bothered by the cold air either. What’s surprising about him is that he’s covered in blood too.
It’s soaked so much into his clothing that it’s impossible to read what the original text on his T-shirt says. It’s dried into patches on his face, staining his large nose, and colors some of his brown hair a dark red.
Probably looking very similar to Michael’s current appearance.
The surprises don’t stop there, because it becomes all too clear where the blood has come from when he notices that the thing the boy is dragging is actually abody.
"Hello there!" the boy greets cheerfully, raising his free hand (which is not wrapped around the lifeless body’s ankle that he’s dragging behind him) in an innocent wave. His British accent is clear and cuts through the silence of the night in a pleasant way.
Michael just glares at him with furrowed eyebrows, “Who the fuck are you?”
He tilts his head in amusement, “I could ask you the same thing! But, it’s clear that we’re out here for the same reasons, so there’s no need to get aggressive, lad. What’s your title?”
The boy speaks so quickly and with such kindhearted fervor that it throws Michael off for a moment. His tone of voice and demeanor don’t match the blood stains and dead body.
"Title?"
"Yeah!" he nods enthusiastically, "The thing the papers and news stations refer to you as."
Michael feels as though he’s at some kind of Serial-Killer-Anonymous type meeting.
"Um, I think the last was ‘Curly Killer’ and other things along that line."
The boy nods, but the slight eyebrow raise give away the fact that he’s heard of Michael before and is a little more than slightly impressed. “What’s your real name?”
Michael scoffs, “You think I’d trust you with my real name?”
"Why not? We’re both in the same boat. What am I going to do? Snitch on you?"
"I don’t know you."
The boy grins, and it’s clear he was waiting for that opening. “Then get to know me!”
Michael raises a brow, “Why would I want to?”
"I don’t know, isn’t there some kind of serial killer pact or something? Birds of a feather flock together and all that crap?"
"I don’t think murderers are known for travelling in packs."
"Then we could be the first," he grins, reaching forward his empty palm to offer a handshake, the other still holding the ankle. "I’m Gavin."
Something reacts deep inside Michael, but he can’t bother pinpointing exactly what it is, instead focusing on rolling his eyes at the dumb introduction. He doesn’t even bother looking at the hand, but does step forward to get closer to the boy, knowing that he’s no true threat.
"How am I supposed to know that’s your real name?”
"Can’t you just have a little faith?"
"We met two minutes ago because we were crossing paths on our way to dispose of dead bodies. I think you’re stupid for having faith in me.”
Gavin just simply shrugs, “I’m a trusting person.”
"That trait must come in handy when you’re a murderer," Michael mutters sarcastically.
"Hey, we all have our strengths," he defends, a grin stretched across his face. "Mine is that I’m incredibly charming."
Michael’s about to argue with him, but he realizes that it must be right. This guy’s somehow dragged him into an actual civil conversation whereas normally he’d just be prepared to stick a knife into anyone that came even close to seeing him at this time.
He should be pissed, but instead he’s slightly impressed, clearly having underestimated the guy. He’s clearly not an amateur when it comes to this sort of stuff, and Michael can respect that.
Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to kick the guy in the nuts though for being a cocky prick about it. Facial expressions can say a lot, and this guy knows what he’s doing.
"You’re awfully peppy for somebody that’s just committed second degree murder," Michael points out.
"The blood give it away?"
"That and the body being dragged behind you."
Gavin smirks and lazily shifts his weight to one leg, standing casually as though they’re two old friends shooting the breeze and not psychotic murderers meeting for the first time. “So, I’ve got to ask. Curly Killer? What’s up with that?”
"It’s stupid, I know," Michael grimaces, "But it’s what a witness described my hair as. Ya’know, curly. And, I guess those idiots just rolled with it and now it’s a name that will probably be tacked onto my crimes forever."
"It is rather curly,” he snickers, looking at Michael’s hair as though he admires it.
"Don’t remind me."
"I like it. Kind of a shitty deal though that it sounds so cheesy when used as a name. Makes you sound like one of the three stooges."
"Do not."
"In fact," he grins, "I rather enjoy it. Since I don’t have an actual name to call you by, I’ll start referring to you as Curly.”
The air between them is so light and playful, Michael’s lost all tension in his body and instead is able to chuckle at Gavin’s pestering. “I will rip out your throat.”
His grin widens and his eyes shine with glee, “Is that a threat or a promise, Curly?”
He laughs at the determination to get a rise out of him, no longer hating Gavin or wishing he found some other forest to dump his body off at.
The guy reminds him a lot of his own friends, always playful and insulting one another for a laugh but never actually meaning it. The only downside with his friends is that they don’t know of this side of him. The dark demented side that loves to turn bodies inside out. But Gavin knows all about it and they’ve only just met. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise Michael if he and Gavin have similar situations occurring.
Being a normal person during the day and a blood lusting murderer at night.
His friend’s would think it’s psychotic (because, let’s face it, it is), but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to know another person facing the same desires, habits, and addictions as him. And even if Gavin and he aren’t so similar in that aspect, it would be interesting to learn the differences of how they function.
He’s getting ahead of himself here, he’s only just met the guy for god sake.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for him to formally introduce himself to Gavin and be, at least, acquaintances with him. He trusts him not to “snitch” on him, so what more does he have to lose? If they actually see one another again after this and become friends, then great. If not? Michael will shove it to the back of his mind and will easily be able to forget about it.
He ignores the tiny part of his brain telling him otherwise.
Instead of arguing with himself on it any longer, he lets out an exaggerated but playful sigh, knowing that dragging this out any longer will just end with Gavin calling him ‘Curly’ again.
"My name is Michael," he states, not bothering to even attempt a handshake, "Michael Jones."
It doesn’t get the reaction Michael was expecting, if he was even expecting a reaction at all. Gavin’s smile drops from his face and his mouth falls open slightly, drawing out visible breaths of air against the cold.
"Michael?" he starts to confirm. A look of, almost confusion, twisting his face.
Instead of getting annoyed and frustrated with whatever is going on right now, Michael chooses to be patient. Which is rare for him, but he knows lashing out won’t do any good.
Damn, he and Gavin have known each other for less than ten minutes, have barely exchanged a conversation, and he’s already treating this guy better than he would anyone else.
"Yeah," Michael nods, "Why?"
Gavin appears to be struggling with himself internally on something. His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s biting his lip in concentration, looking back and forth between Michael’s face and the ground.
"Is your middle name… Vincent, by any chance?" he finally murmurs out curiously, looking equal parts hopeful and nervous.
The question was unexpected and Michael’s breath is caught in his throat for a moment.
He’s reminded of the name printed across the skin of his collarbone. The messy chicken scratch writing that brands him as the soulmate of another person.
Everyone has one, and most waste their entire lives looking for the person behind the name on their skin, but Michael had never bothered much with it. It came when he turned eighteen, much like everyone else’s, but he didn’t react like the others. He honestly didn’t care, he had other things to worry about. Like how he was going to pull off his first murder and wash the blood stains out of his clothes.
Normal teenage shit.
After a stretch of silence, both too busy processing to speak, Michael finally responds. “Is your middle name David, by any chance?”
Gavin nods wordlessly, his facial expression unreadable as he drops the ankle of the body, the lifeless leg falling to the ground with a thump. Neither pay any attention to it though as they maintain eye contact, Gavin outstretching his hand in front of him so that Michael can see it.
He can see the fainest hint of black hidden beneath the blood that so beautifully stains the creases of his palm. By the lack of open wounds in his flesh, and the amount in his victims, Michael easily knows who's blood it actually is.
Beyond that, Michael can see Michael Vincent Jones written in neat black scrawl in the center of his palm.
Without reacting yet, Michael lets his own victims body slip of his shoulder, landing ungracefully onto the forest floor with a solid and uneasy noise that neither boys care for. He reaches up and pulls down the collar of his t-shirt, revealing his own soulmate tattoo.
Gavin David Free, it reads.
Pure silence passes through the air between them once again, neither speaking a word. If it weren’t for the soft rustling of leaves at their feet, disturbed only by the faint wind, the dead cold October air would bring forth no noise.
They just stand there, observing their own names that are permanently etched onto the others skin.
Michael’s seen soulmate tattoo’s before, and they differ in size and appearance. Some are printed messily, and though it were just a phone number somebody was writing down on a sticky note while in a rush, or shakily like a kindergarten had only just gotten the hang of making their words illegible. Most are written properly though, just simple handwritten names that are easy to read and distinguish.
Michael’s never seen his name written so beautifully before.
Granted, that might just be the stupid soulmate emotions finally kicking in after living his entire life not even bothering to acknowledge it, but he’s never felt this way.
The media revolves around this soulmate stuff, constantly spreading the newest celebrity gossip on who’s got who’s name, and advertising websites designed specifically to help you find your other half. But, Michael’s never even bothered with it before. Not because he hates it or think it’s bullshit, it’s just never crossed his mind.
The name “Gavin David Free" was inked onto his collarbone, and the one called by the name was his soulmate. He’d never thought about it any further than that. He was too busy with his murderous thoughts and impulses threatening to consume him.
Who has time to think about romance, sex, and love when you’ve got bodies to hide?
And, if Gavin’s raised eyebrows and parted lips are anything to go by, he’s always had the same mindset.
"Well," he says, "This is certainly an interesting way to meet one’s soulmate."
Michael smirks, thankful that they’re moving past the uncomfortable silence and inital shock. “Yeah, think we’ll be on tonight’s episode of You Wouldn’t Believe How I Met My Soulmate?” he asks, referring to the cheesy TLC show that features the odd and comedic ways that people meet those branded with their name. It’s usually all bullshit, and probably scripted, but it’s one of the highest rated shows on television right now. People eat up this soulmate shit.
"We could be," Gavin grins, "Along with our mug shots."
They share a laugh, the awkward air dissipating, leaving them with the same comfort level they’d had prior.
Now that Michael thinks about it, it makes sense why he and Gavin were able to hold a conversation and act civilly towards each other after meeting, even under such tense circumstances.
If he and Gavin weren’t soul mates, this meeting would have ended before it even began. One of them would be on the forest floor, bleeding out, while the other begins digging a makeshift grave for three bodies instead of one.
It definitely wouldn’t have ended with them shooting the breeze, sharing chuckles over ridiculous titles, and then revealing their real names.
Now that he isn’t too busy deciphering if Gavin is a threat or not, he’s actually noticing how attractive he is. Even if he looks like a mess, covered in blood, barely visible under the dim light of the moon.
"So," Gavin starts, biting his lip lightly before continuing, "Do you want to maybe… hang out?"
Michael snorts, “Is that what people usually do after finding their soulmates? Hang out?”
"Well, if you want, we could shag. I’m down for it."
He lets out a single breath of laughter in response, “Let’s… bond… a little bit first.”
"Does burying these bodies together count as bonding?"
"It’s probably the most bonding we’re ever going to do in this relationship, so I sure hope so."
"Perfect!" Gavin beams, "We can be one of those cute couples that murders and buries victims together."
Michael rolls his eyes, as he reaches down to pick back up the body he’d dropped minutes before. “So cute,” he says sarcastically, “We’ll be like a real modern day Bonnie and Clyde.”
"Dibs on Clyde!"
"You can’t call dibs on being Clyde."
"Well, I just did," Gavin states, crossing his arms like a smug child, "Dibs."
"Fuck you, I’ll be Bonnie then. She was a bad ass anyways. Now, pick up the goddamn body, let’s get this shit over with."
Gavin does as he’s told, wrapping his hand around the limp ankle and then dragging it over so that he can stand next to Michael. He grins over at him with a mixture of self-satisfaction and excitement.
Michael nudges him harshly with his elbow as they begin walking through the forest together, sharing no words. The only sound ringing through the forest is the corpse Gavin drags uncaringly behind him and the sound of his quiet giggles.
As Michael repositions the dead body hanging over his shoulder so that it won’t slip off, he thinks that he could definitely get used to that noise.