Page 103 of Two for Joy

“It isn’t about gore, or blood, or art.” Romeo growled, tapping his head. “It’s about silencing this, giving it what it wants.”

“People say they don’t like violence, it scares them, disgusts them, but you should see how many newspapers sell out. I helped to share your countdown, bring it to the masses. They wanted to read about it, they wanted to visualize it, and this time I’ll be the one to deliver it. No longer sitting behind my computer desk, but the monster in the article.”

He took a step closer, looking Romeo up and down. “The question is, whose side are you really on, Romeo? Are you the monster you claim to be?”

“Maybe I’m not a complete monster after all.”

“How disappointing.”

Marc rushed Romeo, swiping the blade through the air. He lifted his arm to cover his face, and the blade sliced through sprinkling the white wall with red. Romeo tried to grab Marc’s wrist, but he struggled with only one working eye, didn’t grab him cleanly, and Marc slipped away. The scalpel sliced into Romeo’s bad cheek, making him cry out, stumbling back.

“I’m gonna kill you, and then I’m gonna kill him. Nice and slow.”

“You’re not getting anywhere near him.”

Marc slammed him into a door, it swung open, and Romeo staggered back, losing his footing. He landed on a mattress, and Marc was on him, scalpel held in both hands, trying to slit Romeo’s throat. Romeo grabbed his wrists, tried to pry his hands away, but Marc wasn’t giving up, Romeo could see the triumph in his face, the upturn of his lips, the snarl.

He was going to die at the hands of another killer, a killer he’d inspired. The blade cut into his throat, he battled for his life, to stop Marc from forcing the blade across, but his hands were slipping.

Then Chad was there, involved in the tussle. He hooked his arm around Marc’s neck, and yanked him back, cutting off Marc’s air supply. Chad tightened his grip until Marc’s eyes rolled into his head, he stopped fighting with Romeo, dropped the scalpel, then propelled himself backwards, knocking his head into Chad’s face. Chad hit the ground with a thud. Marc gasped, wheezed, then looked for the scalpel on the mattress.

Before he could reclaim it, Romeo was on him, hands around Marc’s neck. He was physically drained, but the monster ran on autopilot.

The monster needed to kill, more than ever.

He threw Marc down on the mattress, managed to straddle him, then throttled him with both hands.

Marc struggled, clawing at Romeo’s arms. Blood dripped from Romeo’s face onto Marc’s, splashing him red while he thrashed and jerked.

The dormant part of Romeo’s brain sparked into life, making his heart thump, his breathing come hard and fast, as if he was mocking the man beneath him. His senses sharpened, he could smell sweat, blood, could hear the pump of his heart, Chad breathing close by. It all added to the thrill in his head. The monster in him didn’t purr, it roared, encouraging him to put an end to Marc Wilson.

He watched the life seep from Marc’s eyes, it almost felt like it fed into him, made him feel almost supernatural. There was the feeling again, the dose of pleasure, of happiness. He’d not just won the league or the grand slam, it was the equivalent of winning everything, winning at life by taking it.

Romeo remembered he’d read somewhere that hearing was the last sense to go when you died. He leaned closer, till his lips were on Marc’s ears.

“My number one fan.”

Marc’s body stiffened, then started to relax into the mattress. The endorphins in Romeo’s head continued to flow, the neurons, the electrical signals—whatever they were in his head, all aligned after being skewed for so long, and gave him a high of sick satisfaction, a hit of something wrong and intoxicating, a rush of dark drugs. It felt good to kill, it had with the others, but Marc Wilson took it to another level. He was buzzing with it, floating, as if he could see the scene from a different perspective, as if he was above looking down on himself, grinning that he was grinning, happy that he was happy, experiencing double of everything. The last person he would allow himself to kill. He’d done it, he’d satisfied the monster within, given it what it wanted to be free of it, and even better than that, he’d made sure Marc could never hurt Chad again.

Because as much as he enjoyed the killing, Chad had to live.

Romeo didn’t let go of Marc until he was absolutely certain he was dead. He couldn’t feel anything but the fuzzy floaty sensation in his head, like he was drunk on power. He was the reaper, a dark force, he was who he was born to be.

He sensed Chad behind him, leaning closer, getting a good view, but when he turned to check he was all right, Chad was fleeing through the door.

Just like that, as if a switch flicked, the blissful buzz began to fade, he could feel the throbbing in his cheek, the stinging in his arm, the nick in his neck, the intense ache in his hands. He released Marc, then flexed his stiffened fingers. When he touched his cheek, and checked his fingers, the blood ran down them. It had relieved some of the pressure pressing his eyes shut. The scalpel had easily cut through Neil’s suit, catching his arm. Romeo prodded the wound. Fine, but deep.

He looked behind him at the door, hoping Chad had returned to him, but he wasn’t there. Chad had run, and Romeo didn’t blame him. He’d just killed someone right in front of him. It may’ve been the man that had tormented Chad for days, but it was still murder, something Chad had sworn against. Chad had finally seen the monster in action, could no longer separate Romeo from the countdown killer, and it scared him.

He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and waited for the sound of sirens. He’d go back to prison having finally concluded his countdown, but he’d lose Chad forever.

Chad wouldn’t want to visit him.

Romeo twitched his nose, he could smell something, something familiar, something that reminded him of his childhood home. It was the scent of his father’s cigars. He opened his eyes, turned his head, and saw Chad behind him, hand outstretched, offering Romeo the cigar to brand his last victim. Their eye-contact lingered, Chad’s eyes were wide, he was breathing heavily, then he nodded.

The blissful buzz returned to him, and when he took the cigar from Chad a shiver went up his spine. His hairs stood on end, and his scalp tingled with sensitivity.

Chad saw him, all of him and still he stayed.

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