Chapter Two: Christmas
The second chapter of the Son Of Sam story.
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Chapter 2: Christmas
“Crime is a fact of the human species, a fact of that species alone, but it is above all the secret aspect, impenetrable and hidden. Crime hides, and by far the most terrifying things are those which elude us.” -- George Bataille
The rest of the month crawled by at an unpleasant rate. Misha was exhausted, it was growing colder and the dreams were becoming almost tangible to him. Focusing at work was becoming an obscenely difficult task and he was finding himself drifting in and out of proper lines of thought. He wasn't even going to dare to admit the things that crossed his mind every time it happened. Gruesome, foul things that left a foul, prickling taste on his tongue. But the busier things got, the less of a priority these thoughts became. People were coming in for sweet pastries and bread for their holiday celebrations. The bell above the door was ringing so much as people crowed in and out that Misha almost felt uncomfortable when it was quiet in the bakery. The 25th felt like the busiest day, so many people bustling in and out that he was sure the door itself was getting dizzy from being swung back and forth so persistently. There were some American families visiting Russia for a white Christmas, he noticed, thinking bitterly how ungrateful they were for not appreciating the good weather they had at home. The snow had continued to fall this month, getting shoveled and salted away, only to pile up again. Misha was starting to grow tired of clearing the store front and would frequently find himself glaring at the white puffs piling up.
Glancing at the clock, he wrapped up the last loaf of bread, exchanging for money and giving a polite farewell to the customer. That day really had been a long, busy one and, sighing, Misha felt a wave of relief wash over him comfortingly. The blond was quick to sweep up this time, a little less cheerful than he had been before. No hesitation was made in grabbing his coat, speeding through his usual mental checklist. Soon enough, he stumbled out the door, locked up with cold fingers and headed home. A cold wind was blowing and pushing him around, snow thrust insultingly into his face. Misha pulled his scarf higher to cover more of his chilled skin before shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Ow!"
Misha let out a noise of pain, withdrawing his hand almost instantly, thrusting a now-bleeding finger into his mouth. He had somehow forgotten about the knife in his pocket...though he couldn't quite recall why or when he had put it in there. Tenderly nursing the wound for a few moments, he began to walk again, berating himself silently for forgetting. After all, who forgets a knife in their own pocket? Misha rolled his eyes at his own stupidity, pulling his hand back after he was sure the bleeding had stopped.
Then he heard the empty giggling, devoid of any brain or wit. Those two girls he didn't know but always saw were watching him, and as they made eye contact, they waved. Misha, in a knee-jerk response, waved right back at them. He didn't particularly care about them, but it was polite enough to wave back in greeting. The only giggled more as he stared at his feet after the motion and rushed off. They assumed he was blushing, flustered and being a tease with them. But in truth, Misha fled to hide the growing contempt, the feeling of desire to silence their giggles. Their stupid smiles, laughter...
"Misha, your father is hungry."
He heard it. He could have sworn someone had been there just now, whispering into his ear. But spinning around, the street was empty and the only company he had was himself. Paranoia was starting to touch on him and he turned down an alley to continue home on a quieter route. It was a relief to be alone, really, with no one to play tricks or whisper cheeky things into his ear.
And truly, it felt like such a relief that two women, strangers that looked like American tourists, soon joined him in that alley. He tensed up and instinctively reached into his pocket, running a finger over the handle of the weapon he had concealed. He felt the grooves, the curving and delicate shape underneath his hand. Something warm was starting to pour into the pit of his stomach, and his breath was speeding up as he looked at the women. He had felt so good when he was alone, but it was nothing in comparison to how he felt now, fondling the knife handle.
"They are alone."
They were. No one could see them, and he was sure no one would miss them...
"Helpless...You must do it."
Soon the knife was drawn, Misha's entire body practically vibrating with excitement. A new feeling was filling his mind and it was like he had turned into someone else. Misha was someone else.
Blood splattered across the pavement, hot and a shock of red in the cold white snow. Their screams were lost on him as Misha reveled in the feeling of the blade being thrust into them. Uncontrolled joy, steamy excitement and a sense of satisfaction; every one of these things was consuming him now, and he couldn't stop. Soft, yet supple skin was giving way to the surgeon-scalpel precise point of the knife...and then he felt a sting of pain as one of them sank her nails into his arm. Reality was starting to come back to him, barreling into his senses full force. Misha drew back, gagging in disgust at the squelching noise the weapon made as it slid from the wound. The women kept screaming, and without another word, he fled.
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Chapter 2: Christmas
“Crime is a fact of the human species, a fact of that species alone, but it is above all the secret aspect, impenetrable and hidden. Crime hides, and by far the most terrifying things are those which elude us.” -- George Bataille
The rest of the month crawled by at an unpleasant rate. Misha was exhausted, it was growing colder and the dreams were becoming almost tangible to him. Focusing at work was becoming an obscenely difficult task and he was finding himself drifting in and out of proper lines of thought. He wasn't even going to dare to admit the things that crossed his mind every time it happened. Gruesome, foul things that left a foul, prickling taste on his tongue. But the busier things got, the less of a priority these thoughts became. People were coming in for sweet pastries and bread for their holiday celebrations. The bell above the door was ringing so much as people crowed in and out that Misha almost felt uncomfortable when it was quiet in the bakery. The 25th felt like the busiest day, so many people bustling in and out that he was sure the door itself was getting dizzy from being swung back and forth so persistently. There were some American families visiting Russia for a white Christmas, he noticed, thinking bitterly how ungrateful they were for not appreciating the good weather they had at home. The snow had continued to fall this month, getting shoveled and salted away, only to pile up again. Misha was starting to grow tired of clearing the store front and would frequently find himself glaring at the white puffs piling up.
Glancing at the clock, he wrapped up the last loaf of bread, exchanging for money and giving a polite farewell to the customer. That day really had been a long, busy one and, sighing, Misha felt a wave of relief wash over him comfortingly. The blond was quick to sweep up this time, a little less cheerful than he had been before. No hesitation was made in grabbing his coat, speeding through his usual mental checklist. Soon enough, he stumbled out the door, locked up with cold fingers and headed home. A cold wind was blowing and pushing him around, snow thrust insultingly into his face. Misha pulled his scarf higher to cover more of his chilled skin before shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Ow!"
Misha let out a noise of pain, withdrawing his hand almost instantly, thrusting a now-bleeding finger into his mouth. He had somehow forgotten about the knife in his pocket...though he couldn't quite recall why or when he had put it in there. Tenderly nursing the wound for a few moments, he began to walk again, berating himself silently for forgetting. After all, who forgets a knife in their own pocket? Misha rolled his eyes at his own stupidity, pulling his hand back after he was sure the bleeding had stopped.
Then he heard the empty giggling, devoid of any brain or wit. Those two girls he didn't know but always saw were watching him, and as they made eye contact, they waved. Misha, in a knee-jerk response, waved right back at them. He didn't particularly care about them, but it was polite enough to wave back in greeting. The only giggled more as he stared at his feet after the motion and rushed off. They assumed he was blushing, flustered and being a tease with them. But in truth, Misha fled to hide the growing contempt, the feeling of desire to silence their giggles. Their stupid smiles, laughter...
"Misha, your father is hungry."
He heard it. He could have sworn someone had been there just now, whispering into his ear. But spinning around, the street was empty and the only company he had was himself. Paranoia was starting to touch on him and he turned down an alley to continue home on a quieter route. It was a relief to be alone, really, with no one to play tricks or whisper cheeky things into his ear.
And truly, it felt like such a relief that two women, strangers that looked like American tourists, soon joined him in that alley. He tensed up and instinctively reached into his pocket, running a finger over the handle of the weapon he had concealed. He felt the grooves, the curving and delicate shape underneath his hand. Something warm was starting to pour into the pit of his stomach, and his breath was speeding up as he looked at the women. He had felt so good when he was alone, but it was nothing in comparison to how he felt now, fondling the knife handle.
"They are alone."
They were. No one could see them, and he was sure no one would miss them...
"Helpless...You must do it."
Soon the knife was drawn, Misha's entire body practically vibrating with excitement. A new feeling was filling his mind and it was like he had turned into someone else. Misha was someone else.
Blood splattered across the pavement, hot and a shock of red in the cold white snow. Their screams were lost on him as Misha reveled in the feeling of the blade being thrust into them. Uncontrolled joy, steamy excitement and a sense of satisfaction; every one of these things was consuming him now, and he couldn't stop. Soft, yet supple skin was giving way to the surgeon-scalpel precise point of the knife...and then he felt a sting of pain as one of them sank her nails into his arm. Reality was starting to come back to him, barreling into his senses full force. Misha drew back, gagging in disgust at the squelching noise the weapon made as it slid from the wound. The women kept screaming, and without another word, he fled.