But people weren’t scared…they adored me.
Hell, they showered me with DMs of videos of themselves ‘jacking and jilling’ off to my posts.
You fucking name it, I had a picture of it. I saw everything from unsolicited pictures of dicks, tits, and feet. My comments were filled with people asking for spicy subscriptions, recalling my kills, and what I did right and wrong.
Everyone wanted to be a fucking detective, sleuthing in the illusion of safety from their cheap computer chairs. The more I shared that I was truly a killer, the more feral they became.
That’s society for you. Fucking Booktok.
“Wow, Carrington, have you been working out? I can’t even get the blood into all the ripples on your abs. Are you finally going to get a girl, little bro? For someone who cleans up dead people all day, you are fucking shredded.”
I ignored my annoying sister, Xanthy, trying to stop the quivering of my skin as her fingers glided over my body with the sticky paste of SFX makeup and blood. I hated being touched. It’s why I always wore my black nylon gloves. I didn’t want to fucking brush against anything, much less be groped for hours and spackled in makeup. My day-to-day as a crime scene cleaner was quiet. Nothing like this fucking noise.
“That depraved already, Xanthy? I guess you need your imaginary boyfriend.”
She bristled and smacked me. I smiled, enjoying her reaction.
“Shiloh isn’t imaginary, asshole. We may have a long-distance relationship, but he’s been my boyfriend for a year. He is very real and just as toned as you. So, shut the fuck up before I drop one of my designer bags on your dick.”
My sister had been on edge as of late. Her long-distance boy toy created a new breed of monster in her PMS-ing ways.
Supposedly, this man was coming to the hunt.
Maybe his family demanded the fame as much as Xanthy demanded his presence for her own pleasure. He was a nerdy wannabe doctor, from what my sister said, and he was always too busy studying for his residency to show up, until now.
I didn’t give a shit either way.
My focus was on how to keep the masses entertained while I found a way to persuade my prey to take a wrong turn.
I need the fucking lake house.
It was the only destination in my mind now. I was already giving up this façade of chasing mindless drones.
“Yeahhh, Carry! What the fuck, bro? You’re ripped, my dude. What’s your regime? I need to step up my game, or you’ll be stealing all the babes this year, dude.”
How many times can one dumbass say the word dude?
Ashton’s voice grated on my nerves, and I tried to focus on my heartbeat, so the plastic knife concealing my real one didn’t end in his eye socket tonight.
“C’mon, Ash. You are pretty. Carrington is just a new beast that one can only hope to live up to.”
Now Raegan was joining in. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dim were my moron cousins, and just like me, had been roped in every year since they were old enough to put on a mask.
Stupid fundraiser bullshit.
Ashton and Raegan were from my mother’s side, and just as the stark blond hair and blue eyes showed that trait, so did the idiocy of not having an original thought run through their minds unless it was connected to their limp dicks with a marionette string.
“I’m going to kill you all.” I breathed, pushing off the vanity and walking outside.
I couldn’t handle the touch of Xanthy’s hands on my body any longer. I just fucking couldn’t. I needed to get this adrenaline and negative energy out of my system. When someone touched me, it always felt like ice gliding across my skin. That hot-cold bite made me hiss from the intensity and pain. My sense of pleasure and pain were flipped in my brain. I didn’t feel anything but the beautiful numbness that followed…
Causing someone else intense pain was the only thing that got me off. The only orgasms I ever had in my life that weren’t faked for the fucking persona had been from my kills. Their screams, that gleam of helplessness in their fading eyes when they knew it was no use.
I loved it, craved it.
I needed it.
And right now, I needed to fucking hunt, not the cat-and-mouse toying fantasy, but the real hunt. I didn’t bother listening to the crowd behind me, bawking like chickens at my dismissal and exit. They were worse than flies on a horse. Always there, never quite leaving, even when you snapped at them.
