"Mr.Sampson!", shrill, uncaring, abrasive. The voice rang out over the room full of giggling youth, "Mr.Sampson, would you care to answer my question, or at the very least have the decency to reply somehow when spoken to?!".
One to the head.
You know you could do it.
It would be so easy, shut her up for good.
Yes, so easy.
We can help you.
We can make her be quiet.
"Shut up!" He jumped to his feat, stool falling to the science classroom's floor behind him. He screamed again toward the front of the room, "Shut up and leave me alone!" Before he fell silent.
He could hear them, all the other students, muttering, laughing. He was a joke to them. Everything was a joke to them. Mindless animals, none of them understood, none of them cared. He realized he was standing, not sure why he was on his feat, he realized the teacher, an older woman that taught grade ten science in their small town was red in the face and looking right at him.
"Leave, now. And if I ever see your face in my classroom again, I will see to it that you never finish high school, Mr.Sampson.", She spat his name, as if uttering it left a foul taste in her mouth.
He stood for a moment, dumbfounded. He had just drifted off for a few minutes, or been day dreaming, surely she could forgive that. He was an alright student, did well on his tests, surely...
But then, why would he be standing, stool laying on its side on the floor, with every eye in the class on him, why... He dared not ask, and just picked up his books and left. As he walked from the room, all eye were on him. He never saw lips move, but he heard them muttering, knew what they were saying the moment he looked away, heard their giggles and their laughter.
They don't need to make those horrible noises, we could stop that.
Yes, you could make sure none of them ever laughed at you again.
Never again, no more laughing, no more mocking.
We can help.
He was sitting on a bench, in the small town the school was in. Mid morning traffic could be heard on the main road a block or two away, a train was just rolling by, the screams of its steel wheels on the iron tracks seeming to wake him from his daze. He had a coffee in his hand, He couldn't remember buying it.
Sipping at his coffee, a little sweet for his tastes, he watches the people walk by. All that passed seem to over look the small, blonde haired boy. He was small for his age, both short and light, with clear skin and a hawk like face. A plain white T-shirt and a simple pair of blue jeans, black running shoes. He was a normal, if small, looking kid.
Nobody gave him a second look, skipping students were a common enough sight, after all, that they did not draw any real attention. So he thought he may as well make the most of his time off. Standing, he headed off down the road in the crisp, bright morning.
"Richard!" He could have sworn he heard it, someone calling his name. It was a voice he knew, but he couldn't place it. Again and again he heard it, as if from just around the corner, or just behind him. He knew what he heard, but no matter how many times he heard it, or how hard he tried to remember, the name of the voice would not come to him. Clearly male, yet so well known, he fought for many long minutes to place it.
After one very clear calling of his name, he found himself walking into the door of a small dollar store. It smelled of scented candles, incense, both of which were on sale in abundant masses, and plastic, the only thing more widely avaliable than scented candles or incense. He could have sworn he heard it again, and walked to the back of the store, offering a polite smile to the man behind the till.
At the back of the store stood a glass case. Inside of this case, were knives. Everything from hunting knives, to scaling knives, to carving knives, it was all there. He had always loved blades of any kind, finding a strange beauty to them. The voice had stopped it's calling, and he allowed him a few minutes to look at the assortment of blades.
The one with the black hilt.
No, the one with the golden wire around its grip.
You're both fools, clearly the wood handled hunting knife.
Any will do, any will kill.
Yes, any of those will do, take one.
Yes, I think we will.
Blood, its a strange thing. Until you have seen a true injury most do not, or simply can not, understand the shear volume of it within a human, or any other filthy animal. His hand was sure, and the cut was deep. He only suffered for a moment.
He stared down at the body at his feet. So young, so full of life. He thought of the cutting, the moment the blade had slid into the flesh, rent the filthy animals throat, ended its life. The crimson waterfall of its life falling to the dirt of its pen.
The poor caff. He loved his grandfather, but sometimes he wondered if a man unable to bring himself to kill a caff so young should have any right to demand to eat one. But every year, someone had to do the 'honor' of killing it for him.
It was a dirty job, and a unpleasant one. Unkind to all involved. He walked to the sink and washed the ruby waters of the youths life from his hands, letting the animals life blood flow down the sink. The air was heavy with the smells of a barn, manure and hay, animals and life, and the coppery, sickening tang of blood. He washed his knife clean, the one he had... come to think of it, he couldn't remember buying it... He must have gotten it that day at the store.
The blade clicked home when he folded up the knife, dropping it into his jeans pocket, and walking out of the barn. Blood had gotten on the cuffs of his jeans, sure to stain, but he found himself having a hard time caring. The thought of the cutting was fresh in his mind, the sickening pleasure of ending a life.
He walked up the stairs onto the old farm house's deck, and nodded to his grandfather. The elderly man, built like a twig, but strong as an ox, stood and walked off toward the barn. Preparing the meat to be eaten he could do easily, it was the cutting, the killing, that made the old man's hand shake and his legs go weak.
It was a start.
Yes, a nice start.
I think he liked it.
Liked the blood, or the killing?
I think he liked both, he wants more.
Good, there will be more.
Blood has a smell to it, unlike almost anything else. It somehow manages to smell oily. Oil does not manage this, but somehow the oder of blood does, it smells, reeks, of the oily nature of the animals it comes from. And the taste, that coppery tang we have all tasted at one time or another when we bit our tongues or another such thing, that taste that our minds somehow know is life itself.
He is starting to catch on.
I think its time.
Yes, well past time, they must learn not to laugh, filthy animals.
He was in his school again. He couldn't seem to remember much. He was sure he must need to get more sleep, if he couldn't even remember what he had been doing for the past few days... or was it weeks? No, it must be days, weeks would leave some impression.
He found himself wandering the halls, The sun outside of the second floor window was just setting in the distance. After hours at his high school, not that odd, but he simply couldn't remember why.
I think you know why your here.
He turns the corner into the science wing. The hall was deserted, lockers all closed, the floor polished and clean, a single pen laying against one wall, discarded. One door was open, his old science room, with a light on inside.
You know what to do.
So much blood. He had never seen so much blood. His knife was crimson, his arm, his shirt. The floor around her was covered with ruby splatter, the desks sprayed with her crimson water. She had only screamed once. Now she was still, but he kept cutting.
Leave now, or it will be too late.
He was standing on the roof of the school, the evening breeze blowing threw his hair. The hot blood felt suddenly cold on his skin as the air moved over it. He dropped his knife as he got to the edge, looking out over the edge of the building.
It's alright, we will catch you.
One more step, and everything will be alright.
They will never laugh again.
We fixed everything, It's OK now.
And into deaths arms he stepped. And as he took his last step, he looked over his shoulder, having heard that voice calling his name again. Suddenly it all came clear, suddenly he knew. It was his voice, He realized then, that he was on the sixth story, one foot over the edge, weight shifted.
He had just enough time to realize why he was covered in blood.
Just enough sense left to scream.