#redding

13/2/20XX

The job proved itself to be just as pathetic as the rest—not that anything else would be expected from a job as a prison guard.

But the job wasn’t without its perks: the power and authority. 

I must admit, it was rather delightful being powerful for once, carrying myself with the surety that only comes with power.

But the day had left me with a name: Daniel Reddings. 

The one prisoner the guards avoided, the one who could take the whole guard and prisoners to his side just by words if necessary. 

The way everyone didn’t give his words a second thought yet—he has them questioning their own pathetic names just by a few words. 

He smiled and moved across the rooms like he already owned them. 

The power that’s exuding from every inch of him even when he’s bound with chains that do not merit a place on his wrists. 

The very banes of his existence. 

Bind them, brand them, cut them, hang them.

A quick search on the Internet gave me the images of his wonderful works, and all branded with his mark, a beautiful R burned into their flesh, just under their collar bones. 

Picture after picture, the quality and the sheer beauty of his works never faded.

Redding had done murder after murder, and no one suspected a thing. 

Branding them. Owning them. Controlling them. 

Brilliant man! Truly brilliant man he is!

21/3/20XX

Today he talked to me. The Daniel Redding talked to me. He told me I had potential.

He told me I had what it takes to be great.

To be remembered.

To be respected.

To be feared. 

He said he’ll guide me through his paths, that he’ll teach me, that he’ll be the mentor and I the pupil. That he needed a favour. 

Daniel Redding gave me a chance to prove myself, to prove I had what it takes, to prove my loyalty to him. 

Two tasks, one his communications and number two, his pathetic excuse for a son.

The reason he was now here, in these ugly chains and a cage that’s depriving him of the greatness he could’ve.

He was to aide his father, to be like him someday, and that son of a bitch went ahead and outed his father to the FBI, and as always the brilliant bird’s wings was clipped off. 

He wanted me to keep an eye on him. To gather information about him.

He told me there would be others, too, competing with me for it, and in due course, I’ll have to take them out. 

I’ll have to be their end.

I’ll get to be their end.

I’ll be their last sight. 

I’ll be the one seeing the blood seeping through the gashes that’ll be inflicted by me.

Blood. 

Blood.

Blood, blood, the need to have a work of art done by my hands. 

Soon, soon. 

18/7/20XX

Today the third victim was killed—the first one by my competitors; the victim—Trina Simms. 

Trina Simms’s murder was one done maddeningly horribly. 

I’m not weak like clark with his emotional and messy kills that aren’t done no where near how it should be done.

The murder should’ve been calculated, scrutinisingly planned and well executed. 

If it were upto me, she wouldn’t have made the mess dancing around while he played cat and mouse with her, bleeding on every surface, rummaging through the house—No. 

She would’ve been attacked from the behind first, knocking her out. Ah! The sounds of surprise she will be making! 

Then she would be bound, zip ties on hands and legs, deeming her limbs of no use while I have my fun with her. 

Then she’ll wake, for the metal to be poured onto her skin, branding her, owning her, her screams that’ll send the adrenaline coursing through my being—mine. Mine alone. 

Her terrified gaze as she realises I’m going to turn her into another one of my works. 

Her writhing on the floor, struggling to free as my knife finds its way from her forehead to her cheeks, to her neck. 

Her face, as I have my way with them, the knife sending rivulets of blood down her face, claiming them as mine. Mine

Her desperate noises dying down with her, eventually her eyes taking in me as her final sight. The final cut to her neck that’ll take her life as the pleasure of it all would be flowing through me, rejuvenating every cell of my being. 

And that son of a bitch did it worse enough that the police is now with his DNA. 

Messy, emotional and deserving of punishment. The thought of taking his life, once Daniel says so, makes the pleasure known to every inch of my body.

22/7/20XX

They rejected me. Again. 

The police academy deemed me unworthy of their troops.

The same fucking cycle of never being enough for any shit. 

The same fucking cycle of always the pawn never the player.

Even now bowing and kissing the ass of Daniel, listening to every whim and whimsy of his when he’s the one in the cage and I’m the one with power. 

When I could be great on my own. Powerful, calculated, brilliant. 

I’m neither the imperfect works of Clark nor the lack of attention to the surroundings of Christopher’s. 

My victims were always chosen for me, until now. Today I choose mine. 

The whore of Daniel’s son and the slut whom even Daniel couldn’t kill. The one who got away. 

Veronica Striling. 

The only one with the brand and life. The living mistake, the living hand slip of Daniel’s. 

I’ll be the end of them. The end of them. 

And this time, I do it my way. 

Them running through the forests, the twigs cracking under their desperate attempt to safety. 

Her desperate runs through the foliage and pathetic hope to live, me following behind in soft, slow footsteps—eventually the bullet from my gun finding it’s mark in her skull. 

The blood.

The blood.

The blood. 

The blood seeping down her skull onto her spine, the red flowing freely. 

Her lifeless stare into the void. 

All mine, in just mere hours.