Through a killer's eyes. Some Riff Cain
He's pale and thin like all the rich little boys are, raven wings for hair and precious eyes that look down on you from afar. I saw him, I wanted him. There was something about the way he carried himself, manservant by his right hand, cane in the other, that spoke of a confidence that was only gained through experience.
I see him at times, that superior gaze, not sparing anyone but his manservant a glance. The streets silence as he arrives and crows caw at his presence, beady eyes sharp with hunger. The people whisper behind his back, pale fear and faces pallid as he passes through the main street, carrying his own deathly silence along with him. Haughty, oh so haughty as he raises his chin and clatters his cane, clatters down the road with his deathly silence.
There are the rumours of course. Child of sin.
But I don't need the rumours to tell me that.
Autumn is a type of fall that appeals to me a lot.
There's a grand idea of red gold brown that reminds me of blood; fresh, precious and crusted on a pavement surrounded by skeletal remains. The wind is always cool, and the flutter of geese flying to summer signals an ending too sudden to be final.
I see him walk through the streets at night, and I watch him, relentlessly as he pads through the street with his clatter against the cobblestones. I'm sure he can be silent too, but he wants to be known, he wants to be followed.
And so I oblige.
I confront him at the beginning of winter, just when the trees are bare and when the wind turns from sharp to biting. At this time of month, the cobbles are crusted with ice, adding a sheen to the streets when the sun peers out from the clouds.
But it's night time now, and I follow his clatter by ear because his raven hair melts into the darkness as easily as it stands out in day.
He walks down an alleyway today, and I suppose I really should have seen the trap. I know he's intelligent, and I know he has a habit of stumbling into other people's business. But the desire is there, something forbidden in him draws me like a moth to flame.
By the time I arrive, he's already turned around to face me, perched, birdlike, on stone steps that lead to a servants' side door. I know his skin is pale, but I only see the gleam of white teeth.
"It's nice we finally meet."
I can't help but agree.
I am pushed to the wall by his gaze, and he unravels to walk towards me. This is what I've been waiting for, and clatter comes towards me with a sinuous grace too tightly coiled to be slow. He's been waiting for as long as me.
I let him press up against me; I let him fist a hand in my hair. The knife is a heavy weight in my pocket, and I slip my hand around his clothed waist, keeping him there. I reach for the knife with the other.
The final one, I promise, he is my finality.
A sudden shift and a sudden stab later, I fall to the ground with a grunt and I feel my chest blossom in pain. Distantly, I realise that the moon has come out to shine silver on raven and alabaster again.
"I thought you didn't kill." I accuse.
"I don't," He says. "The poison does."
Through the haze of blood and pain, I feel the splatter of blood on the cobbles beneath me, thumping in rhythm with my heartbeat. I see him look down on me with his tainted eyes, a victorious smirk.
He puts his knife back into his cane, and his manservant appears behind him. He drags him into a deep kiss, and I watch, shamelessly, as the clatter returns and pulls the older man back down to lick at his throat. The smirk is still there, but this time, it's vicious.
My heart skips a beat.
A suspected serial killer of teenage boys was found dead on Havenswell Close yesterday at four in the morning. The body was punctured with a knife wound; however, specialists say that the cause of death was caused by the poison on the knife.
The killer remains yet to be found.
AN: What a load of nonsense. XD
If any of you were confused, the guy who speaks in first person is an OC, who I made up for the fun of it. Cain is extremely OOC and please forgive me for the fun I've had with the characters, clichÃ©s and metaphors.