“Don’t know, don’t care. I keep out of their business and that allows me to fly under their radar. I mean, I have a clue about what’s going on, because the guards like me, but I pretend I’m clueless.”
I rub my palm on my shorts, contemplating her words. Does that mean if I remain still, I’ll also fly under their radar?
My phone beeps and I startle before slowly fishing it out.
Unknown Number: Careful, Glyndon. You might accidentally become the next target.
6
KILLIAN
I learned early on that I don’t fit in the normalized, stagnant, preached society.
I was born to reign over it.
No questions asked.
Control isn’t only a need or a fleeting desire. It’s a necessity that’s as pressing as breathing air.
Deep inside me lurks a serial killer with fucked-up fetishes and constant demands to satiate its desires. Sometimes, the urge is dull enough to ignore, but other times, it gets to be so much that red becomes the only color I see.
However, I’m not low on impulse control like some other idiots. And I’m certainly not allowing a mere compulsion, obsession, or fixation to rob my control.
Which is why it’s imperative to keep that serial killer entertained, quenched, and absolutely sedated.
If my true nature were to be revealed to the world, the situation would get complicated and tears would look ugly on Mom’s face. She thinks I’m reformed and it’s going to stay that way until her death.
Or mine.
My father is much sharper and, therefore, harder to convince of my socializing habits, but he’ll eventually come around.
Either that or he’ll willingly choose to hurt my mom, which is something he’d rather die before doing.
It’s convenient to have parents who love each other to the point of madness. That way, they can focus on each other and their dream family instead of my fucked-up tendencies.
Asher and Reina Carson are New York’s untouchable socialites. Dad is the managing partner of Grandfather’s mega-huge law firm and uses his influence to save old geezers from legal shit. Mom, however, has chosen an entirely different path and is the founder of countless charitable organizations. A true immortal social butterfly and Mother Teresa's clone at her finest.
There’s also their golden child—Gareth. The neurotypical Gareth. The one who’s following in both our parents’ footsteps Gareth. The exemplary law student and charity volunteer Gareth.
He’s definitely the child they bargained for when they lit up incense during their procreation sessions. Not only is he built similarly to them, but his existence also gives them the satisfaction of being parents.
It’s definitely not me, and the reason is fairly simple.
Once upon a time, I was plagued by the urge to see underneath animals’ skin. Humans, too, but I only had access to animals. I contemplated scissoring up our fat cat, Snow, but Mom was crying when he got sick, so I left him alone.
Once I could cut open a few mice I caught in a dumpster, I came home running and brought them to my mother, happy that I could finally see what their red eyes hid.
She nearly fainted.
In my seven-year-old mind, I didn’t exactly understand her reaction.
She should’ve been proud of me. She was proud when the absolutely lazy Snow brought her some insects.
“Is it because I spilled blood all over the house? Don’t worry, Mom. The maid will clean it,” is what child me said ever so naturally as she cried in Dad’s embrace.
I’ll never forget the way they looked at me back then—Mom, with horror. Dad, with a furrowed brow, pursed lips, and…I think, pain.
At that moment, it felt as if they were mourning the death of their second born.
After that incident, and into my teens, I went through all sorts of tests and psychologists and yada fucking yada.
They slapped a label on me—severe form of antisocial personality disorder, ‘differences’ in the amygdala and other neurological areas, forms of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and fuck knows what—then sent me home with treatment methods.
Thank fuck I overcame that shackled version and adapted to their ‘treatment,’ to social expectations, and eventually became the me from the present.
Absolutely collected, definitely socially accepted—worshiped, even—and I no longer make my mother cry.
In fact, I talked to her earlier on the phone. She said she loves me, I said I love her more, and I’m sure she hung up with a bright smile on her face.
If you give people what they want, they like you, adore you, even.
All you have to do is conform to standards while slightly rising above normal, and repress your true nature.
At least, in daylight.
Night time, however, is a gray area.
I roam my gaze over the mansion’s first floor, filtering through the college students’ drunk skinny-dipping, cocaine inhaling, and vain fucking lives. Their jumping to the loud music is no different than a crooked version of monkeys on crack.
I’ve been at this party for a whole ten minutes and I still haven’t spotted anything that’s worthy of my attention.
And it’s being held in my fucking mansion.
Well, I share it with my brother, cousin, and Jeremy, and it’s all due to our leadership status in Heathens—and the amount of money our fathers pump into this college’s veins.
In fact, we own it. Every single part and person in it.
The property might be vast and with enough rooms to start a brothel, but it feels so small sometimes.
The whole world is.
A body clashes into mine from behind and a tattooed arm, full of skulls and ravens, snakes around my shoulder as I’m assaulted by the stench of alcohol and weed.
Nikolai.
“Yo, Killer!”
I grab my cousin’s arm and throw it off without masking my reaction to the blasphemous act of touching me.
He slides beside me, leaning on the wall that’s near the bar but hidden enough for me to pass under people’s radars.
“Hey, motherfucker.” He taps his jeans and produces a joint, then rubs it against his lips before he shoves it in his mouth and lights it. “What’s with acting disgusted?”
“Why? Are you disgusting?”
“On most days. Not today.” He grabs me by the shoulder again and I’m ready to break his fucking arm.
The black dots appear in my mind’s eye, heightening, pulsing, fucking multiplying into tinier, more miniscule ticks.
I might get off on touch, but only on my terms and when I’m the one who controls every aspect of it.
And this asshole is digging his own grave.
I wonder if Aunt Rai will cry too hard if she loses her son in a mysterious disappearance incident.
The tricky thing is that she’s identical twins with my mother, and if she cries, Mom will definitely cry harder. At least Aunt Rai is part of the Russian mafia. Mom is a believer of everything sunshine and could—would—be hit harder by her nephew’s disappearance into nowhereland.
All in all, the whole ordeal isn’t worth letting my impulse loose.
Repress.
Repress.