Chapter Text
Charlie pulled the string tightly, holding on to the two wooden handles he had made. There was a tension, a slight pause as both sides fought against each other, suspended together in a moment. A grudge match between flesh and copper, the copper digging deeper until finally, finally, the flesh gave way and allowed it to slice like a warm knife through butter. The man stopped struggling, and Charlie allowed his body to relax. He allowed the body in front of him to slump to the floor. Charlie knew him as Gary Flanders. He was a man who deserved to die. He treated women with no respect, he controlled them, manipulated them and ultimately destroyed them until they were a mere shell of themselves. He had watched Gary at work as he took his newest conquest on lunch dates, giving little comments designed to sting as she tried to eat her lunch, but ultimately pushed it aside. This would be followed by a gesture of love, an impulse purchase of flowers as they walked hand in hand back to his flat. Charlie watched as he made love to her while she slept, only waking when he was that little bit too rough. So now he watched as the blood pooled on the floor, he was careful not to tread in it. He left the piano string still embedded in Gary’s neck as his lifeless body lay on the floor. Charlie blinked once, twice and with no shred of emotion he turned away. He left as silently as he had arrived.
How did he get here? How had this become his life? He had so many hopes, so many dreams and yet… this was it. Standing in his en-suite, he gripped the edge of the cold porcelain sink, digging his fingers into the unforgiving material until his fingers were white, then digging a little more. He enjoyed feeling his nails pressed back and upwards into their beds. Occasionally, when he did this, his fingers would slip and glide effortlessly into the soft flesh of his palm. Blood would ooze from the wound, a crimson bead that he would watch. He would watch the blood drip, drip, drip, into the bowl, a flutter in his cheek, a twitch of his lip, a ghost of a smile. Not one of happiness but one of recognition.
Pain.
He knew pain. The pain had become his comfort, his constant, the one tangible thing he could hold onto and actually feel.
He looked into the mirror before him, not recognising who he saw. He saw the same curls, the same cheekbones, the same scars from past battles. But the person he saw was hollow, empty, a mere shell of a being. He curled his lips into a smile, but it was weak, and his eyes crinkled insurmountably. There was no joy to be found, no happiness there. His eyes remained soulless, sorrowful, and dead.
He knew he had to practice to thank the kind shopkeeper who helped him with his bags. To thank the bus driver for the safe journey, and to acknowledge someone in the street who had smiled at him. He needed to perfect his gaze, show just the right amount of teeth, brighten his eyes, and make them believe. And so he practised. He spent hours in front of the mirror until the muscles in his face ached. Smiling and frowning were what he needed to master. To remember how to convey these emotions when he calls them, to make the muscles deepen their memory. He knit his eyebrows together slightly for a quizzical look, flared his nostrils, and pouted his lips as he displayed the fakest anger.
He allowed his face to rest, a plain expression stared back at him with a deep, dark nothingness. He traced the lines of his face gently with his finger as though scolding them for disobedience. It was a feather-light touch that held the promise of more. His finger ghosted over the scar on his right brow, the one that the cricket bat had caused. It floated over his left cheek, which still felt strangely like it could shatter at any moment. His cheekbone had been remade in haste and was never the same as it was. That was a boot, pressing his face into the ground with a loud crunch of his bone as it began to crack and shatter. That was the last thing he heard before there was nothing. The searing pain in his body from the beating, the sticks, the boots, the fists. All landing their place on his body over and over again, creating damage and leaving a legacy. And for what? Because someone had found out he was gay. His fingers followed the scar that started at his ear and followed his jawline, mostly covered with stubble save for a thin silver line. It was sensitive even after all these years. It tingled a little as the pad of his finger brushed over it. He arched his eyebrows in the middle and looked up through his lashes. The slight downward curve of his mouth and the small jut of his bottom lip: sadness. He’d been working on this emotion. It had been difficult to master the subtlety of the muscle movements, but he kept trying and now believed he had a believable mask. Ten years had passed since the attack at fourteen. Ten years during which brute force had stolen his emotions, and ten years of staring at an echo of himself in the mirror. But now, he believed he could convey sadness, even if he still didn’t feel it.
Charlie was no longer the musician he had once longed to be. Perfecting his craft on each instrument he put his mind to. His fingers would fly over piano keys, creating melodic masterpieces, they’d dance over violin strings, designing the most beautiful, sorrowful sounds. But it was when they kept the beat with his drumsticks; That’s when, as a child, he would lose himself to the music for hours, the thrill of the bridges, the excitement of the crescendo. It was a puzzle that slotted together perfectly. He would zone away from the world and create a completely new one. One filled with beautiful music lifted his soul, and he was happy. Pure and simple happiness.
Now, since his attack, music had lost all meaning. Of course, he could still play, create the most exquisite sound, bring people to tears with the softest of songs, or make their hearts race with the increasing beat of his drums. But he felt nothing. His emotions had been stolen, and it all just felt meaningless, frivolous, and pointless, so he stopped.
Jane had seen an opportunity and she had jumped at the chance to use it. She would use the brutal attack on her child as a way to gain balance in the world. She would train him, guide him, and teach him in the world of killing, murder and torture. The bullies at school had created a monster in her the day they attacked her son. A monster that wouldn’t rest. They had ended his ability to feel emotion so now she would use that to her advantage. She would weaponise her son, and she would feel no remorse. Jane and Julio were tied together in sickness and in health, through secrets and betrayal. The day Charlie was attacked, something had broken inside Jane, and Julio couldn’t fix it; he could only paper over the cracks and hope no one saw. He could only finance Charlie's training and keep Jane's secrets; he could only assist and stay silent. It didn’t matter if he agreed with her or not; Jane wouldn’t listen, she would punish him in a personal way if he spoke out of turn. And so, Jane and Julio Spring turned Charlie’s life in a completely different direction. No longer were his dreams filled with music and literature, art and creativity. They were now blackened with murderous intent and greed. Charlie had forgotten how his dreams used to be; he had lost the ability to feel, but he had also lost his sense of self-worth. He was that pathetic little fag, they had called him, he was small and weak. And so he allowed himself to be moulded, unaffected by guilt or reason, he allowed his body to be strengthened, his mind to be sharpened and his resolve to be tighter. He allowed it because he had no choice. He didn’t mourn the loss of his old life; he relished the new, improved version of the boy he once was.
He had learnt many things in the last ten years. He had learnt how to stalk, catch, and kill. He had learnt that silence instead of music could be beautiful, only hearing the thud of your heartbeat, and then hearing the thud of theirs slow to a stop. He had learnt which mask to wear, when to apply it, when to listen and when to hide. He had learnt that people kill and beat and destroy as is their very nature. But above all, Charlie Spring had learnt how to cope in a world without emotion, without feeling, without empathy, love, and fear. He just lived. He lived as he worked; silently and ruthlessly and without mercy. That is what they had taught him. That is what they had created.
He rolled his shoulders backwards and relaxed his muscles once more. A blank canvas to master his portrait. He stepped backwards from the sink, releasing his hold on the porcelain and turned to the shower, pushing the curtain back and turning on the taps. As the water ran its icy dance, he stepped in as it too needed to practice its role. It always ran cold and then warmed slowly. The blades of ice hitting his skin were delectable. The pain of the chill was a feeling he couldn’t put into words, but it was something he could feel, and he cherished it. Cold, heat, and pain are his repertoire's three most dependable things. As the water washed over his body, he winced only slightly when it encroached on his newest wound. His latest victim had taken a lucky shot with a letter opener, one that was later wiped clean and hidden by Charlie, he sustained a quick jab to his side just below his ribs. Thankfully it didn’t bleed too much, more of an ooze, Charlie was able to hold it closed with his T-shirt. He knew it was a mere flesh wound, but he still enjoyed the sting of water as he rinsed away the day. He continued down his body, his fingers brushing over scars, some old, some newer, some still pink around the edges. The soap and water washed away the grime of his actions. He let the water rinse the soap away, his body cleansed, but his mind remains fuzzy. He turned his attention to his hair, massaging his scalp with shampoo, gliding over the fractures beneath the skin, irritating the line of scarring that his longer hair helped to cover. Opening his mouth, he took in the shower spray, gargling and spitting with force at the drain. The water turned off, the harsh scratchy towel rubbed over his torso, his arms, his legs taking the remaining dead skin, leaving behind a tingle of newness. He wrapped it around his waist and walked to his bedroom. He fills the drawer under his bed with medical supplies. He used to keep them in the bathroom, but he quickly learned that he needed the comfort of his mattress as his muscles ached, and sleep overtook him. A wooden box opened, and inside lay everything he needed to fix superficial wounds. He would always methodically sew any wounds when he was dry. He would relish the stab of the needle in the angry skin, the pull of the silk thread as it tugged, but his favourite part was the sting and burn of the surgical spirit he’d use to clean it. The smell was intoxicating, the discomfort oddly therapeutic.
“Charlie! I have another order.” He heard Jane bellow up the stairs, destroying his reverie the surgical spirit gave him, he quickly completed his sewing and dressed the wound with gauze. Placing his needle in the glass container, he would sterilise it later; he knew better than to keep Jane waiting. He put the leftover bandages back into the box and slid it back safely under his bed. He shrugged on a T-shirt and made his way downstairs. She was at the bottom waiting for him. He took the piece of folded paper from her held-out fingers.
“It’s a big job, Charlie, it’s worth the most we’ve ever accepted. Don’t fuck it up,” Jane warned as Charlie stared at her. This is what he was trained for; this was the only way he felt useful or of any worth. Jane would compensate him with 60% of the offer, unless, of course, he got injured or required assistance, then she would deduct. He gave her a small, twisted smile. He knew it wasn't his best attempt, then turned on his heel and walked back up the stairs to his room. He sat on the edge of his bed and slowly unfolded the paper.
Nicholas Nelson.
All he required was a single name. With that name, he would embark on a relentless pursuit of his new prey. He would shadow them, meticulously studying their habits and uncovering their secrets, immersing himself in their world. Every detail he gathered would fuel his creativity as he methodically crafted the most cunning and effective plan to eliminate them. In this dark dance of intellect and instinct, he found his sole expression of artistry, and he revelled in it completely.
The papers went through a wave of ‘names’ for him: ‘The Dead Beat’, 'The Rhythm Killer’, ‘The Murder Maestro’, all of which made his lip curl involuntarily. His craft being so carelessly named, joked about, and belittled. But then the journalists became a little more sophisticated when they realised he wasn’t going anywhere, he wasn’t getting caught, and he wasn’t stopping; he was a mastermind in both music and murder. Their names changed to ‘The Virtuoso’, which he enjoyed; it paid mind to his ability and talent, but then one journalist dubbed him ‘The Crescendo’, and that one seemed to have struck a chord, and soon enough, that was who he became. To show he approved, he signed one of his murders by leaving a violin bow snapped to form a ‘C’. He knew it was reckless, but he wanted to let the world know that he was owning his crimes.