11. Psychotic Reaction

11

PSYCHOTIC REACTION

LESTER

ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO ― June 15 th , 1965

"Are you sure about this, brother?" Landon assesses my face worriedly, his dark bushy eyebrows pulled into a frown. He sits across from me on a leather chair in his large home in Denver, Colorado. Legs slightly spread, a full glass of whisky rests on his thigh as his free hand taps nervously on the armrest.

Because my brother and I are twins, we look exactly the same when it comes to our facial features. We just choose to dress differently―he's always ready for business in his expensive suits, and I'm always in my comfortable slacks and shirts.

His bronze-brown hair is combed neatly into style, never a day overdue with his haircuts, whereas I keep mine unkept save for the occasional cut I give myself in the mirror. Call it rebelling―even years after my father's death, I still don't want to give in to anything he demanded of me when I was a young boy.

Our eyes are dark by nature, but also because the spark went out of them a long time ago. His a little less than mine, because our dear old dad raised him to be his successor. Though with the type of job he does now―the kind of circles he's in, he's on his way to losing it altogether.

I plant my elbows on my knees and lean forward, meeting his eyes across from me. "I've never been surer of anything in my life."

Sighing deeply, he moves a hand over his clean-shaven face. He grinds his teeth, making his jawline flex. "Alright, then. Was about time someone did something about these fucks."

The fucks in question―the kind of people he works for.

For years now, I've focused on my career. I've graduated from the art institute in New York with honors, and focused all my time and energy on building a life for myself. I have everything I want and need―a successful career as an artist, money, possibilities.

Though it doesn't matter.

Because the nightmares have never stopped.

They haunt me, even after all these years. Even after my father's death. Even after the deaths of the evil human beings that put their hands on me.

I can't go on knowing that there are still parties going on like the ones I was left at as a child. The types of circles where my father left me inside the lion's den while they tore apart his son.

Landon puts his emptied glass down on the wooden coffee table and grabs the bottle of whisky, pouring us both another drink. "So June 19 th it is. That's in four days. Martin Harrington. His wife and kids will be out of town then, and I've heard him speak about his plans for the weekend-long freedom. You'll need to get your hands on him before that."

I nod, stroking my fingers over the thick leather beneath my arm. "I will."

"And after this, what will you do?" he asks, taking a large sip of Scotch.

"I'll do it again. And again."

"What about your work? You won't give all that up, will you?"

I shake my head, assuring him. "No. I won't. I'll do it once a year, I promise. I've spent too much time perfecting my craft just for me to throw it all away."

"Good." Some tension flows out of his shoulders. "And we're agreed that you'll do it in a different place every time, right? For your own protection as well as mine. If anyone ever finds out I'm feeding you information, I'm as good as dead. They don't take kindly to rats."

"I know, brother. I'll be careful. I'll never put you in danger, you know that."

"We always have each other's backs," he confirms with certainty.

He's right about that. Even as little boys with no mother and an evil father, we took care of each other. When I was taken to the underground parties, Landon stopped at nothing to find me.

But he was just a kid, just like I was. There wasn't much he could do. That never stopped him from trying, and sometimes, that was all I needed in order to survive. For someone to give a damn about me.

He always tended to me afterward, and when we were eighteen and ready to go out into the world, he helped me with getting payback. We said our final goodbyes to our father as we sent him on his way to the deepest pits of Hell.

As expected, I barely got a dime while Landon got everything―my father's estate, his business connections, almost every penny in the bank, save for the large donations he made to charities.

Always make sure people think highly of you―even in death.

None of it mattered, though. I knew I wouldn't get anything. I also knew Landon would share every single dollar with me, and I'd be set to start a life of my own. So, with the money, I paid for my art school tuition and an apartment in New York City.

That's when my life truly started. I spent those years trying to forget the horrors, but I never could.

Now I live in the large city of Desdemona Hill, North Carolina, where crime is high in the center, but low in the suburbs, where I reside.

"Let's talk about some lighter things," Landon suggests. "How was your art show last week?"

"Better than expected," I tell him proudly, the corner of my lip tipping up. "Sold every single piece."

He sits up, reaching for me from across the table to tap on my shoulder. "Now, that's what I'm talking about."

The rest of the evening is spent with us catching up, drinking our bodyweight in Scotch, and discussing the plan. Save for supplying me with the victim's information, Landon stays out of it. He's never killed someone.

It's been years now, for me. Five, to be exact.

My hands are nearly itching to get them on my victim. It's an adrenaline rush, and it's comparable to the way I feel when I get inspiration for my art, only much more intense.

I fall asleep in the guestroom and wake up refreshed and energized. Landon takes me golfing on my second day here―which I complain about, because really? I get that he's this distinguished businessman now, but does he have to be such a cliché?

We spend the third day going to an art exposition, having a nice steak dinner in the city afterward. And the fourth day is when it's time to release my inner demon.

Which means that right now, it's showtime.

Mr. Harrington's scream is a beautiful lullaby that hangs in the air. Tonight, I'm not just a sculptor―I'm a conductor making a sinister symphony that'll have even Tchaikovsky hand over the reins. My tools are my instruments, my victim is my orchestra.

And this is our time to shine.

Everything has been put into position. The camera behind us is rolling, the mask that covers my face is put in place, and my victim's chest is cut open from collarbone to pelvis, liters of blood already seeping out while he hangs suspended from the ceiling in an empty building at an industrial lot.

In a minute, I will yank out his guts and use them to decorate his neck. But first things first.

The photographs.

Landon was able to obtain photos of the two little boys that this man has ruined. Entire lives, shattered. Just to fulfil some type of sexual gratification. Inhuman desires. Sodomy and rape, subjected to two children that were far from being developed. They should have been playing in the park, kicking around their soccer balls and getting dirty in the mud. Like young boys should.

Those things were taken from me as well.

They'll never be normal. They'll never go about life without looking over their shoulders.

Maybe they'll end up like I did.

And that would be the biggest tragedy of it all.

More monsters like me.

I walk out of the camera frame and squat down next to one of my suitcases, taking out two glossy papers that contain the faces of the two boys. These pictures were taken before their trauma occurred, so their eyes still contain a lust for life. Curiosity and innocence. So pure, so carefree. Now all of that is gone forever.

Walking toward the lens, I hold up the pictures one before the other. The cops will find out who the kids are and get them help.

What good that'll do.

My victim is still screaming his lungs out, even with the hooks pierced through his cheeks spreading his mouth wide. I did the same thing with the corners of his eyes, blood leaking down his cheeks in a stunning display of crimson artistry, as if I painted it myself.

Onto the next order of business. I cut the ropes where his torso is suspended from the ceiling. He drops down dramatically, the hooks attached to his mouth and eyes getting yanked out as he goes down. The audible rip of flesh is a delectable, satisfying sound, and I close my eyes for a brief moment to wallow in it.

Back when I was an eighteen-year-old young man with a taste for revenge, I just shot my victims. It was all I was capable of at the time. But I'm an artist now, and I'll execute my kills accordingly.

From this day forward, the world is going to see them burn. And they will see them in a way that satisfies my cold, black heart.

For years now, art has been my mistress. My way to cope with the dark reality of what I've been through and the notion that evil lurks in the shadows of every sharp corner.

Hanging upside-down by his ankles, Mr. Harrington's head hovers high enough for me to slide a large tin bucket underneath. I don't waste any time before I grab a large blade from my suitcase and slit his throat. Blood splutters as he chokes on it, and terrified eyes turn into dead ones. I let him hang there for a long moment as I drain him of his life's essence.

Drip, drip, drip . More satisfying sounds to add to my mesmerizing symphony. Such beauty, it gives me goosebumps.

Moving on to the next part of the sculpture, I carve a larger hole in his torso before ripping out his guts and dropping them in the blood-filled bucket.

Hours fly by before I cut the drained corpse down and splay him out on the ground, his chest open and organs removed. I fill the chest cavity with liters of Phthalo Green paint, then sew the skin closed with delicate but strong stitches.

I sew six long cables onto the large flaps of skin and bind his wrists with rope, suspending him from the ceiling once more. The strings are long, and I take them with me all the way to the entrance of the room, where the police will arrive in just a few hours.

They'll be too much in shock to notice and trip over them with their feet, causing the body to rip open and paint the room in beautiful shades of green. I'd like to take the detectives on a journey with us, mix them into this masterpiece.

The last finishing touch will be to wrap Mr. Harrington's guts around his neck, adorning it like a sinister necklace.

I've gotten my fill of the macabre for the year.

This is the first time I've done it like this, so it might need some tweaks. I consider this my test run. Next time I won't film the whole session, just the ending. Or start somewhere in the middle. I'm not entirely sure yet.

I leave the camera running so the detectives get to watch their own horrors back later on, after they've mentally recovered from the shock of a dead body exploding and covering them in paint.

A quiet, amused huff leaves my nostrils before I wrap it up and get the hell out.

I am a monster.

But there are bigger, more evil monsters all around us.