Disclaimer: This story explores relations between two males. If you are offended, please do not read further. Warning: This story contains violence and rape.
Author's Note: Thanks to Frances for editing! And a special thanks to Pete for all his beta-reading help and encouragement.
"Hey, baby."
Michael looked up at the familiar voice, so beautiful and deep, music to his ears for the last four weeks. Now it sounded dangerous, predatory, hungry.
His eyes filled with realization; horror crept into his stomach. He swallowed hard and coughed abruptly, choking due to lack of saliva. He broke eye contact and looked at who was in front of him, feeling paralyzed.
Michael knew he should run, but he couldn't get himself to move. His legs felt like lead. His hands felt sweaty and slippery.
"You're the, you're the..." he managed to get out before he started dry heaving.
Jeremy walked further into the basement apartment, a neutral expression on his face. "Are you ok, Michael?"
Michael fell onto his ass, scrambling backwards, creating distance between them.
Jeremy smiled in amusement. "Let me get you something to drink." He strode out of the room. Seconds later Michael heard the sound of glass clanging and water running. His heart pounded. This was his chance to run. If only he could get his body to cooperate.
Then it was too late; Jeremy was in front of him. Michael kept his eyes to the ground, Jeremy's black dress shoes in his line of vision. "Drink, Michael." It was an order, a gentle command. A glass cup that was three quarters full appeared.
Michael was compelled to obey. He didn't want to set Jeremy off. He gulped down the cool water, his throat hurting at the hurried pace, his stomach growing queasier.
"What are you doing here?" Jeremy asked.
"The door was unlocked," Michael answered, as if that explained everything. "I knew you'd be back from your trip soon and I wanted to cook you dinner. I wanted to surprise you." His eyes darted at the brown grocery bag sitting on top of the kitchen counter.
Jeremy smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "How sweet." His bright aqua colored eyes stared into Michael's. "You're so sweet," he murmured to himself thoughtfully. "It's such a shame though. It doesn't change anything." There was a note of finality in his voice. "It won't change your future, your fate."
Somehow, Michael knew to what Jeremy was referring. His eyes inevitably darted to the crisp piece of paper on the small wooden desk in the corner. Jeremy followed his line of vision.
"Did you see the list?" Jeremy asked, his eyes gleaming. The question was pure courtesy. Jeremy was toying with him.
Michael's lips quivered at the six names on that list. Five names were already crossed off. Only one remained. "Why are you doing this? Who are you?" His voice was hoarse and shrill at the same time. "Why are you killing these people? What have we done?" He needed to know.
Jeremy shrugged. "Why does anyone kill?" he asked. "For fun? For sport? Why do we hunt animals?"
Michael eyes widened. "Are you serious?" he sputtered. "People aren't animals!"
Jeremy paced the small living room leisurely, casually, nonchalantly. He was relaxed and calm. "The others were random. It was a game. Just practice, really. I needed to test my skills, hone them to perfection. Although I was pretty damn good to begin with," he grinned. "But you six, you six are special. Don't you remember, Michael?"
"I don't know those people anymore. We were friends in high school, but I haven't talked to them since..." Michael trailed off.
Jeremy waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. I know your story: closeted lacrosse jock; smart, good-looking; a total girl magnet. Then with college came revelation. You came out and have since had a string of boyfriends. Everyone loves and accepts you, blah, blah, and vomit! Now you have a stable job and you're searching for true love," he sneered. "Right?"
"But..."
"Here's something you need to know, Michael. It's a good life lesson for you to remember, so listen carefully," Jeremy said, staring out the window with a small smile. "Your past always follows you. It never goes away. Even if you forget, others will remember. Some people just never forget." His eyes turned stony; his expression grew hard.
"I don't understand." Michael shook his head. He continued to stare at Jeremy. There had been something so mysterious and luring about the slender man before him. Now, Michael regretted ever meeting Jeremy Wexler at that diner a month ago
"Who am I, Michael?" Jeremy breathed.
Tears welled in Michael's eyes. "You're the Phantom Executioner," he choked out.
Jeremy laughed dryly. "The Phantom Executioner!" he crowed. "I love those names the media creates: Invisible Hunter; Sniper of Darkness; Death's Whisper. Very creative, don't you think? How do they come up with that stuff?" He looked at Michael, who remained silent.
"No, Michael. Who am I?" Jeremy asked again, in a louder voice. He came closer and crouched before Michael, his face a foot away. "Look at me," he stated. "Look at me!"
Michael lifted his eyes, taking in Jeremy's strong features. He searched Jeremy's face.
"You don't remember me, do you?" Jeremy said with a mixture of triumph and bitterness.
Michael looked harder, but finally gave up. He shook his head.
"Maybe I can refresh your memory," Jeremy said, a tight smile on his lips. He stood up once again and went into the bathroom. He emerged with a damp towel. "Look closely, Michael. Pay careful attention."
Slowly, he grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled. Centimeter by centimeter, the mop of blond hair came off, revealing dark brown hair, close cropped, and neat. It was oddly familiar.
Jeremy continued, wiping his face roughly with the wet towel. He kept scrubbing and scrubbing, the towel becoming beige. His nose and cheeks were full of freckles. "Jog your memory?"
Michael got a bad feeling in his stomach. He had seen those freckles before. He haltingly shook his head.
Jeremy reached up, his fingers pulling at his eyelids. Then he picked at his eyes: first the right, then the left. Throwing something on the floor, he looked up, his long eyelashes sweeping upwards. Michael was stunned to see a forest shade staring back at him, rather than the usual brightness of the sky.
Jeremy continued, tearing off the goatee around his chin. He yanked at his nose. Michael gasped when the plastic disappeared, and a small, upturned nose appeared.
"Do you remember me now, Michael?" Jeremy whispered. He had changed a lot since high school. His chest was more developed, his arms wiry, inches added to his height.
But the face was timeless. Extra wrinkles here and there, but the same pattern of freckles. The same long, curling eyelashes. The same silky, shiny chestnut hair. The same rich, vibrant green eyes, the color of the jungle. Michael could never forget those eyes. Those eyes had stared up at him once. Those eyes had begged him once. Those eyes silently pled for help once.
Michael's face was ashen with realization. He stared wordlessly at the man before him.
Jeremy cocked his head, his lips curving ever so slightly, his eyes sparkling. "What's wrong, Michael, baby?" he asked teasingly, with a subtle mocking edge. His eyes hungrily drank in the sight of Michael shaking before him.
Jeremy felt his chest puff out. His pants grew tight in excitement. He always loved power. He always yearned for it, wanting it to consume him. He loved feeling strong and alive. There was no greater feeling.
Jeremy had always enjoyed the kill, the end result. It was an intoxicating high, a sweet adrenaline rush. However, he had neglected the hunt. The hunt was slow, dangerous, but calculating as he had to tread softly, deftly.
"What's wrong, Michael?" he repeated. "You look like you've seen a ghost." Jeremy's voice was a gentle, sensual purr.
Michael's fingers curled on the wooden floor, his nails scraping it. "Julian? Julian, is that you?" He didn't know why he asked; he already knew the answer to his own question.
A glint of satisfaction filled Jeremy's eyes. He sighed and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "Ah, so you do remember."
"Julian, what's going on? Why are you doing this? Why did you kill..."
"The Phantom Executioner killed them," Jeremy broke in with a giggle. "God, I love that name. Although personally I prefer The Ghost," he said meeting Michael's eyes. "I haunt..." he whispered. "I'm always around, but you never see me."
"All those people," Michael choked. "All those people..." He broke down crying, covering his face. He was no longer friends with his high school classmates, but that didn't mean he wanted them dead. "Why did you do this? Why?" he screamed. "You're a fucking monster!"
Jeremy moved so fast, he was a blur, until he pinned Michael down. "I'm a monster?" he asked in a scratchy voice. "I'm a monster?" he growled. "Only because you people made me one! I'm a monster? Then I'm your creation!" Spit fell from his mouth and hit Michael's face. "Do you like what you've created?" he asked seriously. "Do you?"
"You made me this way," Jeremy hissed, his eyes darkening, flashing against the dim lamp in the corner. "Don't you remember what you and your friends did to me? All I wanted to do was go home that day, but your friend stopped me. Pushed me into that room. Changed my life forever. Made me what I am today." Jeremy lifted his chin defiantly.
"You all made me this way! All of you! It's entirely your fault!" he shouted. He pushed his face close to Michael's. "But I guess I can't be too mad. Guess what, Michael? I like myself. I like myself now. I never did before, but I love what I've become."
He threw his head back and laughed. "I hear people talking when I travel. They whisper about the sniper that kills. They talk of him on the train, on the bus, in coffee shops, over lunch or dinner. They admire him, they fear him. He's random; he's quick; he's skillful, and most importantly--he never gets caught."
"You're sick!" Michael spat out. "Julian..."
Jeremy slapped Michael. "Julian is dead. Julian no longer exists. Julian was weak and pathetic. He let himself get tormented by you, by those people, by his parents, by the oppression that was his life!" he screamed in outrage.
"I'm Jeremy now. I'm Aaron. I'm Kevin. I'm David. I can be whoever I choose. Do you know why?" Jeremy asked. His eyes lit up. "Because I'm God. I decide who lives and dies."
Michael's eyes widened in horror.
"I pick. I choose. No one can stop me," Jeremy went on in a sing-song voice. "No one sees me because I vanish in the breeze. I'm a mirage you thought you saw. I'm a distant thought from your past."
"But you remember me now, huh?" Jeremy asked. He laughed. "I bet you're the first one out of your little group to remember me. I give you kudos, Michael. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were gay all along. Ironic, right? I normally never deviate from my plan; but I had to, just for you. When you asked me out at the diner, I knew that I could allow myself to have a little fun. One guilty pleasure in a lifetime; what's the harm in that? After all, even God deserves to take a break from his duties."
"I always wondered what you would be like in bed," Jeremy said his eyes narrowing. "You're very good, Michael. Very good. The things you do with your muscles, with your tongue." He caressed Michael's jaw, brushing the light stubble. "Delicious," he cooed.
Michael's skin crawled and he shuddered, nudging Jeremy's wrist away.
Before Michael even realized it, Jeremy grabbed Michael's face tightly, and pulled him close, as if they were going to kiss. Michael gasped and tried to pull back, but he didn't have enough leverage. Jeremy was smaller than Michael, but deceptively strong. Michael felt the man's weight bearing down on him.
"Come with me, Michael. Come with me down memory lane," Jeremy breathed into Michael's mouth, their lips practically touching. "Take a walk with me."
"Let me show you the moment I stopped being Julian Larson and became someone great, someone powerful, someone memorable. Come with me, Michael. Let me show you."
Michael knew power. Michael knew tradition. Michael knew wealth and privilege. He had grown up with it. Being on top of the food chain, he rarely thought of those beneath him.
Until one day. Until the day he and his friends, the leaders of the all boys school, went one step too far in their ritual.
Upperclassmen always played pranks on the underclassmen. Becoming seniors was a rite of passage and they had to show it outwardly. It happened every year. When Michael and his friends had been freshman, sophomores, and juniors, they too were subjected to bullying and jokes. It was tradition. Everyone accepted tradition at his school. It was no big deal.
The year was almost over. Summer was upon them. Excitement was in the air. Michael and the rest of the senior class were preparing to head off to college, probably Ivy League with their parent's money and connections.
Michael and his friends wanted to do something fun, one last time. So they picked a random kid after school, on a lazy Friday afternoon. The halls were practically empty by the time the final bell had rung.
"What do you want?" the smaller boy had asked. Michael could see even through the school uniform that the younger guy was skinny and couldn't have been more than sixteen.
Randy, the class president and the supreme athlete of the school, pushed the boy into an empty classroom. The rest of them filed in dutifully. Michael had been the one to shut the door. It closed with a soft click.
The boy stared at him with fear in his eyes. They were wide and green. A rich shade of green. Michael was fascinated by the color. He had never met anyone with such eyes. Michael wondered if the boy was staring at him for help, or simply because Michael was closest to the door.
"I have to go home," the boy whispered. "I have a dentist appointment and my mom..." He was cut off when Chester, Randy's right hand man, shoved the boy backwards. "What are you going to do?" he asked in a small voice, clutching his sides, as if that would protect him.
Randy slowly looked him up and down. He turned to his friends. "Guys, let's try something different."
"Different?" Chester asked blinking.
"Like what?" Michael chimed in.
Randy smiled, baring his teeth. "I've been seeing Heather for most of the year. But she's going to Asia for the summer. We usually hang out all weekend, but she's packing and spending time with her family this weekend. Next weekend, right after graduation, she leaves. So, I need to get off. Now."
"Off?" Warner asked dumbly. "What do you mean?"
Michael frowned. "What does that have to do with..." he trailed off, his mind working. Randy met his eyes and grinned at the recognition.
"You want to fuck around with him?" Emmett asked Randy, his eyes darting toward the frightened underclassmen. "Seriously?"
"It's just us at the school now," Randy pointed out. "We could all use a little release, right?"
"Isn't this going a little too far?" Sebastian asked hesitantly. The tall basketball player looked at Michael and they shared an understanding glance. "We're not gay, Randy."
Randy rolled his eyes mockingly. "No one said you were, Sebastian. But a hole's a hole. It will feel good."
Emmett looked around. "Isn't that, um, rape?" he asked.
Michael was about to agree, when Randy spoke up, commanding as ever. They all looked up to Randy. The entire school did. He was class president after all.
"Who is going to call it rape? You?" he asked, staring down his friends. "Are you?" Randy asked, looking menacingly at the shaking boy with the green eyes.
The kid looked nervous with all of the older, bigger boys staring at him. He said nothing, but the answer to Randy's question was clearly evident in his eyes, in his body language. He didn't want what was to come. Who would?
"Okay, boys. I'll get things started," Randy said confidently, stepping forward, undoing his belt. Randy Wilkins was always the leader. He was a natural.
The boy backed away instinctively, until his butt hit a desk. His lips trembled, his hands shook. "No," he whispered. "Please, no."
Randy didn't listen. He did as he pleased; he grabbed the slim boy and pushed him face down onto the desk.
"No!"
Randy's pants dropped to the ground, along with his underwear. Chester, Emmett, Sebastian, Warner, and Michael stared in fascination, in horror, and reluctant desire as Randy's ass stared back at them.
There was some fumbling, some movement, some scuffling as the smaller boy struggled futilely. In milliseconds he was restrained by Randy's superior bulk and strength.
"Shh," Randy murmured soothingly. "It will be easier if you don't fight. This is tradition. Everyone goes through it. Just take it."
From where Michael was standing, he saw Randy's erection, thick and eager. Then Michael frowned at Randy's words once he had processed them. `Everyone goes through it?' Nothing of the sort had ever happened to Michael. He wondered what Randy meant.
A cry of agony, of indescribable pain pierced the silent classroom. That shrill, gut-wrenching sound sliced through their haze, but still they remained motionless. No one stepped forward to help. No one said anything. They looked at one another, in shameful cowardice, before they once again stared at Randy's ass, now thrusting in and out.
Quiet sobs filled the room, but still they did nothing.
The sounds were sickening. Flesh slapping together. Sweat smacking between two bodies, one robust and vigorous, the other limp. The disgusting sound of blood and bodily fluids being forced along torn flesh and crevices.
But still they did nothing.
"Oh, fuck. He feels so good," Randy groaned, his head dropping, as his actions became faster, blurred, frenzied.
Michael looked down, ashamed of the tension in his crotch. Glancing at his friends, he knew that they were in the same predicament. Torn between right and wrong. Torn between lust and sanity. Torn between succumbing to peer pressure and salvaging the innocence of a stranger. Or what was left of the boy's innocence.
With a deep growl, from the depths of his stomach, Randy grunted, throwing his head back. His hair was sweaty and matted to his forehead. His eyes were closed, but his eyelids fluttered slightly. He thrust a few times, his muscles clenching as he reveled in the pleasure, in the pleasure of his power.
Randy let out a satisfied sigh, pulling out with a sharp pop. An audible gasp escaped the broken boy on the desk. Randy wiped his brow and turned to his followers. "Who's next?"
No one stepped forward. Randy frowned in annoyance, not used to waiting. "Who's next?" he demanded. When no one said anything or moved, Randy snapped his fingers at Warner, who was closest. "Come on, man. You're up."
Warner peeked at the rest of them, but found no help. They were just as useless as Warner. And just as hard.
So he did as he was told. He stepped forward, dropped his pants and underwear, grabbed onto those poor, helpless hips, and plunged ahead. An involuntary moan escaped his lips. He gripped the boy's hips harder as he began sliding in and out.
Randy grinned as he dressed, looking sated, relaxed, and high.
Each guy took his turn. None lasted very long. The boy was so still, it was almost as if they were fucking an inflatable doll. Finally, Michael was up. They had all done it. Michael couldn't be the odd man out. His heart raced. His hands were clammy. He felt cold. He shivered.
"Michael, come on. We don't have all day. Let's go," Randy prompted, snapping his fingers.
Michael felt a flash of contempt. Who had made Randy the boss? But as he stared at his circle of friends, he realized that they had made Randy the boss. Now it was their duty to listen, as they always had.
With heavy feet, Michael stepped forward, his actions seeming slow to him. He heard the click of his belt. The pull of his zipper scraped his eardrum. The sweep of his pants and boxers falling down his legs made his stomach drop.
Then he was buried inside the warm, wet hole. He saw blood and cum, but ignored it, biting his lip, closing his eyes. The feelings were amazing. He had never felt anything so tight. The pleasure, lust, and desire overwhelmed his reason, overwhelmed his shame. His motions became faster and faster until he could no longer think. Before he knew it, he was done.
The six of them grouped together and filed out the way they had come in. Michael glanced back. The boy still hadn't moved. He was completely still except for the rise and fall of his back, indicating that he was at least alive.
Michael winced at the blood and semen dripping down the pale thighs, mingling, swirling, reminding him of a candy cane. His legs almost gave out. He clamped his hand over his mouth, forcing down the rising vomit.
What had he done? What had they done?
That weekend the six of them hung out as usual. No one mentioned the incident. There was an occasional glance, a look of guilt, but no one spoke the words. They were all too afraid. They followed Randy's lead and acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The school year finished. The summer came and went. The six of them drifted apart during the summer. Their group broke apart completely after their first year of college, even though they always came home during holiday breaks. No one admitted why they had grown apart, but Michael always suspected it was because of their shared secret, of their shared sin.
By being together, it was a constant reminder of what they had done. It was better to be apart. Then they could forget. Then they could bury the past. They could move on with their lives, with their promising futures. Michael was sure that none of them took into account that their past would not be buried forever. That their actions would come to haunt them. Literally.
As for the unfortunate boy with the beautiful green eyes, Michael never saw him again. The boy didn't return to school Monday morning. Or the day after. Michael eventually found out the boy's name, but as far as he knew, Julian Larson never returned to that school. He vanished into thin air.
Over time, Julian vanished from Michael's memory as well.
Michael had never expected Julian to reappear. Especially not in the flesh.
"Wow! Where did you learn to shoot like that?" The stranger stared at Julian wide-eyed, mouth hanging open with awe, eyes filled with amazement.
Julian shrugged and looked down at the deer in front of him. There were some guys in his class interested in hunting. For some odd reason he had been invited. For some reason he had decided to go.
It was there that he found his calling, his skill, his artistry.
"I went to military school for two years," Julian simply replied, as if that answered everything.
He stared at the deer, with a single bullet wound to the head, right between its lifeless eyes. Julian had no idea how he had managed to shoot so accurately, with such precision. He had never possessed such talents before. Maybe without a sergeant yelling in his ear all the time, he could finally concentrate.
"Military school?" the guy echoed.
"Military school," Julian affirmed, gripping his rifle, feeling tension in his hand. His fingers tingled and twitched around the trigger. There was a funny sensation in his stomach, a sense of craving.
"How long were you in military school?" the guy asked, oddly interested in Julian's life.
A smile crept onto Julian's lips. "Long enough," he murmured with a faraway look in his eyes. "Just long enough."
Julian had told no one about the incident. He never again spoke of that fateful afternoon. It would be his secret forever, his companion in the grave.
That day when he got home, his ass was bleeding, torn, and raw. Tears caked his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to shower and go to bed. However, his mother had kept pressuring him, pestering him until he caved. Julian had to tell them something.
"It was bullies," Julian had whispered. "They cornered me and beat me..." His face burned with shame. His body overwhelmed by filth. He needed to clean himself. He couldn't stand the stench that clung to his skin--the smell of sex, his tears, his blood, and other boy's semen and cologne. The combined smell made him nauseous.
Julian had received no support from his father and only mild sympathy from his mother. She always did as her husband said. She was pathetic. Julian hated that sense of inferiority. It was disgusting. He vowed that one day, in the future, he would be strong.
Julian was small for his age and not particularly interested in sports. His father already suspected he was gay although Julian had never said anything of the sort. Seeing Julian cry, hearing him talk about bullies, only weakened Julian further in his father's eyes. It was no wonder that Julian's parents didn't report the incident.
Once the words had spilled from his mouth, there was no going back. The seal had been broken. It could never be taped back together. He resented his mother. He hated his father. They were supposed to be there for him, protect him, and love him in spite of anything. Instead they left him in the cold, turned their backs on him, and shipped him off to military school where things were worse.
His hatred and resentment grew. Any joy, happiness, love, or innocence in him quickly died, until Julian morphed into an empty shell of a being, practically devoid of emotions.
Somehow Julian survived the two years in military school, with rare visits home, when he had no choice. His physical appearance grew masculine and strong due to the daily workouts. He finally hit his growth spurt. He was considered handsome. His father was proud, finally. But that pride came too late. His mother's pampering no longer had any affect on his heart. His heart beat inside his chest, yet it felt nothing.
In college his real life began. He had random hook-ups and plenty of sex, but never relationships. Julian had always been a loner, and now continued to be one by choice. He relied on himself. It was the only way to live, to thrive, to survive.
After that first hunting trip senior year, he never looked back. Soon, he was hunting with his new "friends" every weekend. Julian was always invited because he always got his target, right in the head. They began calling him "Bulls-eye Julian."
Then a thought crept into Julian's mind. Could he be "Bulls-eye Julian" with people? Or would he get scared? Would he cower? Would his hands shake?
Julian decided to test his theory with a trip back home. He told no one of his intentions. He didn't have to. He had no friends to tell. Not even his parents knew he was coming home.
It would be a surprise to remember for eternity.
"You killed your parents?" Michael managed to get out, his voice strangled from the shock of Julian's tale, his tale, irrevocably intertwined.
"Actually three people in total, that first time," Julian said with a sense of pride. "My father was having an affair, so I decided to off the both of them as they were leaving the motel. Since it was so random, the cops were stupefied," he snickered. "Stupid cops."
"They thought it was the husband of my father's mistress. I was also a suspect, but there wasn't enough evidence to hold me. I went hunting and had good sharp-shooting skills, but that didn't mean I killed my parents. No one ever heard of any complaints about our relationship, so I was free."
Julian chuckled. "After all, what kind of psychopath would kill his own parents?" Julian's gleeful laughter filled Michael's ears.
"What happened after?" Michael asked, intrigued, but desperate to keep Julian talking.
"I continued. It's addicting. The whisper of death from my silenced weapon. The subtle snap of the trigger. The faint pop of the shot. Then the target drops," Julian stated. "It's a sport. A game. A vocation. A skill." He looked Michael directly in the eyes.
"Each state, each city, each town is my very own personal shooting gallery. The supply is endless. Day and night, through light and darkness, the moving targets mill around, helpless, just waiting for me, the presence of God."
"I'm a master. I've honed my craft. I've dedicated myself to my art," Julian whispered with a dreamy look in his eyes. "I'm completely clean in the eyes of the law: no police record, no arrests, no prints. With my parents' money, I spent years perfecting my skills: weaponry, car theft, physical combat, police procedures, disguises, memorizing city grids, creating a mental map of my chosen destination, learning to swiftly navigate, and most importantly, planning my escape route."
"How did you get away with it?" Michael asked, unable to believe his ears.
"Disguises," Julian answered. "Platform shoes. Body pillows. Various glasses. Wigs. A bunch of colored contacts. Facial hair. Eye patches. Canes. Props. You name it. After each hit, I make sure to record everything in detail, down to the date, time, weather, city, state, street, what I wore that day, what weapon or car I utilized. I make sure to note the victim and their race, sex, age, physical description. I comment if I had any trouble escaping, you know, for future reference."
"I never have trouble though," Julian stated. "One shot. Right to the head. Precise. Clean."
"You're fucking sick," Michael murmured before he could stop himself.
Julian smiled. "Sicker than six guys raping me in an empty classroom?"
Michael flinched. Jeremy's smile widened.
"I'm happy, Michael," Julian's voice was almost soft. "I have myself, my skills, my beautiful weapons, my fun disguises, and my targets. I don't drink, smoke, or do drugs. I have never had an interest in them. I don't like to be weak. I don't let any substance render me weak or powerless. I am strong. I run every morning and night. I pack weights with me wherever I go."
Julian sighed in amusement. "And there is a lot of excitement involved in this business, Michael. Did you know that I once leapt between buildings when a cat pushed away the wooden wedge I had left to keep the roof door open? Or that a stolen car randomly stalled and I had to rely on my mental map to get away by foot? Shit happens. You always need to be prepared for the unexpected." He cocked his head condescendingly. "Right, Michael?"
Michael was amazed and terrified at the casual way Julian was talking.
"I'll tell you one thing, Michael. I broke some rules with you and your little friends," Julian said. "My parents were a trial period, to prove that I could do it, that I wouldn't chicken out, that my hands wouldn't shake, that I wouldn't clam up. But once I proved myself, all further targets were random, regardless of age, sex, social status, race, you name it."
"I also enjoy the spontaneity of it all. I would wonder to myself, who would I kill today? Would it be a pretty girl with her boyfriend? Would it be an old man buying breakfast? Would it be a bum begging for change? A child playing outside their house? A teen running to catch the bus? A person sitting in a car, waiting for the light to turn green?" His voice hitched in excitement.
"But then I thought, there's nothing wrong with choosing a particular target. If I was so good at picking targets randomly, imagine how good I would be if I planned the target? Research had always been my strength, and it was fun. A little reading and web browsing, some questions here and there," he snapped his fingers. "I found all six of you. Voila. Piece of cake."
Julian pointed at Michael. "You really made me switch up my routine. You're gorgeous. So tall. Those shoulders. Those pretty eyes. You haven't changed much over the years. I had a little crush on you back in the day, before the incident, that is."
"I couldn't resist having you. I rented this place, settled in, only shooting on occasion. A random trip here and there." Julian sighed and shook his head in mock regret. "Oh well. It's been fun while it lasted, huh?" He stared at Michael, his lips slowly curving upwards.
Michael searched for any hint of emotion in Julian's eyes. He found none. "Are you going to kill me now?" he asked, his lips trembling.
Julian smiled and patted Michael's head. "No."
"No?" Michael was surprised. "Then why..."
"It's almost liberating that someone else knows about me and what I do. You know, and there's nothing you can do about it," Julian smirked. "I bet you'll call the cops, but no one will ever find me. No one will ever trace me. I have no home, no destination, no family, no friends, no roots. I don't even exist," he said confidently. "Having you know that I'm out there, watching, lurking, playing—it's enough for me."
Without another word, Julian started packing up his stuff. Michael could only watch dumbfounded. "You're leaving. You're just going to leave." Michael was stunned and couldn't say more.
"Let me say this, Michael." Julian turned. "You forgot about me, didn't you?"
Michael didn't get a chance to answer before Julian continued. "You won't forget about me now." It wasn't a question. Julian knew that Michael would never forget him. Michael could never forget now.
Nothing more was said. Michael watched as Julian packed his weapons, his disguises, and his clothing in a few duffel bags. Michael was frozen, his limbs ice cold. To think he had been so attracted to this monster, had cared for this devil in human form, and would actually miss Julian. Prior to this horrifying revelation, Michael had actually enjoyed spending time with Julian.
"I know what you're thinking," Julian broke in quietly.
Michael looked up.
"You still think I'm a monster for doing what I do." Julian's eyes were blazing. "But it takes a monster to spot another of its kind."
Julian smiled, his lips curling sweetly. "Don't ever forget, Michael, that it was you and your friends who have created me. Every person who drops like a dead fly, it is because of you."
Then he was gone. The apartment was silent. All that lingered after Julian Larson's departure was the subtle scent of his cologne.
Julian had vanished once again.
Breathe in, breathe out. Calm heartbeat. Steady pulse. Adrenaline rush. Pleasurable anticipation.
Range: four hundred yards.
Adjust the focus. A little more, until it is just right.
Maneuver finger inside the guard, curling the tip around the trigger.
Eye lined up with the scope piece. Zone in on the target.
Breath in, breathe out. Calm heartbeat. Steady pulse. Adrenaline rush. Pleasurable anticipation.
Tighten finger against the trigger, slowly.
One, two, fire.
A tall man with broad shoulders dropped forward onto the sidewalk. Dead before he hit the concrete. Lifeless in an instant.
"Bulls-eye Julian," he whispered, a smile creeping onto his lips.
Familiar sounds made their way to Julian's ears. Terrified wails. Shocked screams. Babies crying. A man with broken English shouted for the police. People ran.
Beautiful sounds. Fulfilling sounds. Arousing sounds.
Smoothly and calmly, Julian took apart his weapon, casing it delicately as if it was his baby. He dusted off his jeans, preparing to leave.
Disappearing and reappearing at whim was what he did best. He easily navigated through the city, having memorized the layout weeks ago.
No one even noticed him.
Julian got onto the train, heading to the airport. When he arrived, he booked a flight to the West Coast.
"Mr. Carson White, enjoy your flight," the woman said smiling, handing him his ticket.
Julian checked in his multiple bags after they were weighed. He nodded. "Thank you."
Once on the plane, he stared out the window as they took off. "Good-bye Michael," Julian whispered, recalling the man that had fallen on the pavement hours before, blood pooling beautifully around his head, like a halo. "I won't be haunting you anymore." He chuckled under his breath.
"What?" the girl beside him asked curiously.
He turned to her and grinned charmingly. "Ever wonder what it's like to be a ghost?" he asked.
The girl blinked and looked at him funny. "A ghost?"
"Yeah. You vanish without a trace. No one knows your name or what you look like. You're free and anonymous. You can do what you want, when you want. No one can stop you," Julian said. "Isn't that wonderful?"
The girl stared at him. "Umm, sure..."
Julian laughed. "Ever heard of a human ghost?" he continued.
"Mister, I'm going to the bathroom," the girl said getting up.
He nodded at her and resumed looking out the window. Not a cloud in the sky.
"What a perfect day." He settled into the seat and closed his eyes, slowly drifting to sleep in the steady motions of the plane. Julian made a mental note to cross off the sixth name on his list. As soon as he landed, that would be the first thing he'd do. For now, Julian just wanted to enjoy the flight.
He dreamt of sheep jumping over a fence. Every time a sheep jumped over the fence, it would be shot. He would be waiting for it, trigger cocked in anticipation, in excitement. Julian visualized their stupid faces, mouths hanging open in shock.
There were six sheep in his dream. They had all been shot dead.