Sweet Destruction
Chapter One
Please note this chapter is unedited and subject to change in the final version
Beckett
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The screams died out a while ago. Now my only company is the steady flow of blood splattering onto the concrete floor and flesh separating under my scalpel.
But my work's only just begun.
Skin, muscle, and bone are my medium and the human body my canvas. I’ve got an array of tools spread out before me, and the crimson staining my gloved fingers has never been more vibrant.
I breathe in deeply, the smell of copper hanging so heavy in the air I can taste it on my tongue. I imagine tiny flecks of blood floating around me, soaking into my skin as I become the monster I was always meant to be.
The one I force deep down inside until it claws at my skin from the inside, refusing to be caged any longer.
As I make another cut, my body relaxes. The tension bleeds away like the fluids from the corpse on my table as I sink into my work. These are the moments I relish, the ones I live for.
Another cut and my pulse steadies. Another and the icy chill of the room draws my attention as goosebumps rise on my arms. With every incision, the world comes into focus.
No longer am I numb.
This right here is the height of my existence. This moment. For a few blessed hours, I feel.
I feel everything.
At least until the high wears off and I’m dead inside again.
A soft knock on the door breaks my concentration. I try to ignore it, but it happens again. And again.
Finally, I drop my scalpel. It clatters on the metal tabletop as I rip the black latex from my hands. There are only five people who know where I am, and all of them know better than to interrupt.
The heavy metal door bangs against the wall as I throw it open. “What?”
Xander stands outside the door, the only one of the Savage Six crazy enough to taunt me mid-kill. He’s leaning against the door frame with his hands shoved into the pockets of his black slacks, but his gaze drifts behind me and lights up.
“You’re having all the fun without me,” he pouts, and then grins. Xander’s smiles are always unsettling, like the monster under your bed trying to lure you into the dark. I still can’t figure out how he managed to become a priest of all things. One look at him and even I can tell he’s not right in the head. “At least let me sit and watch the master at work. I can pray for your eternal soul.”
He's not going to leave until I give in, so I relent, stepping aside and gesturing for him to enter The Icebox. Some might refer to it as my lair. It’s also my sacred place. The only spot in the world that brings me true joy.
“Stand in the corner and be silent,” I tell him. “No praying for a soul that doesn’t exist.” I pluck a new set of gloves out of the box beside my tools and put them on. “I mean it.”
Xander is pure chaos, and that energy has no place in this room. Not now.
I take a moment, closing my eyes and trying to find the high I was riding before he intruded, but it’s vanished. I look down at my creation with a frown. He’s only half finished, and yet the vision for what he could become is gone. His potential lost. Disappeared in the black hole of my imagination never to be seen again.
I glower over at Xander where he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and vibrating with excitement. He’s doing it all silently, but the second he stepped into the room, the energy shifted. “You’ve ruined it.”
“Maybe if you let me help, we can get it back on track.” He takes a cautious step forward as if he’s approaching an apex predator about to attack. In some respects, that’s what I am. Only I don’t strike in the heat of the moment. I’m not that careless.
I tilt my head toward the box of gloves, and he eagerly rushes forward, snapping them onto his hands. “Have at it,” I tell him, gesturing at the tools carefully laid out on the table.
He stares down at the row, considering each one. He picks up a saw, turning it over, inspecting the razor-sharp teeth, and setting it back down. He opts for a drill instead and gives me his unhinged smile again. “Does this mean you’ll put me in your next book?”
The buzz from this kill is already starting to fade as my anger dulls at the edges. “What this means is you’ve wrecked him, so now you can have your fun. I’ll have to find a new canvas for my vision.”
If Xander’s bothered by what I said, he doesn’t show it. He hums happily under his breath as he carves into the carcass like an absolute heathen. He doesn’t have any artistic vision and it shows as he drills through flesh into bone. My lip curls up in disgust as I watch him work wondering how this night went so wrong.
My last night of freedom before I put on the mask of respectability I’m going to be wearing for the next nine months or so. It’ll be much more difficult to find the time to discover my next muse.
And I’ve got a publishing deadline.
Irritation crawls up my spine, but then fades into nothingness. My high is nearly gone now, the familiar numbness dampening anything I might feel. Xander is nearly finished now, the body he’s working on practically unrecognizable as human.
He sighs as he sets the bloody pliers down, the ones he swapped the drill for a few minutes ago. The sigh is filled with satisfaction as he glances over at me. Tiny splatters of blood cover his face and arms. “I can see why you do this. It’s relaxing.”
I nod once but say nothing as I start to clean up. Xander moves to leave, and I step in his way. “You helped make the mess, you help clean it up.”
He pouts but then switches out his gloves and grabs a piece of the man on my table and tosses it in a black plastic bag. “I can’t believe you’re going to teach children.”
I raise an eyebrow at him as I mix some activated oxygen cleaner with water, moving quickly so it doesn’t freeze. “This from the man who people come to for repentance and advice? Who’s allowed to hear confessions and mete out salvation?”
He laughs, wild and loud. “Incredible, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“You know you can’t just murder someone’s kid if they fail a test, right?” he asks after a long, blissful stretch of silence.
I look up, my features expressionless, my voice devoid of tone. “I’m aware. And they’re hardly children. It’s in my contract to only teach the seniors.”
“That still doesn’t mean you can kill them, even if they’re eighteen. Someone will notice.”
He’s right, of course. It’s the reason I’m taking this ludicrous job in the first place. Students are going missing at an alarming rate, and I’m the only serial killer in the area. Between Cole’s wife’s suspicious abduction at the school right under the headmaster’s nose, and Anton’s mysterious financial benefactor, I don’t like how out of control Emerald Hills is becoming.
Either someone is encroaching on my territory or there’s something bigger at play.
The Savage Six rule here, and we’re being undermined. Thus, my undertaking the impossible—teaching creative writing to the students of Emerald Hills Preparatory Academy.
“I may have a taste for… unusual art, but I’m not self-destructive.” Yet, like any killer, I crave appreciation for my work. It’s why my kills are always the basis for my bestselling horror novels. My crimes displayed in homes across the world with no one suspecting the words they’re reading are real.
Non-fiction disguised as fiction and sold to the masses.
He stares me down as if he doesn’t believe me, but finally nods before going back to the task at hand.
I may not be able to hurt the students, but there is something going on at that school and my instincts tell me whatever I find will make the perfect inspiration for my next novel.