Heathens & Hand Grenades (Book 1 of the Heathens Duet)

Chapter 26- Jaxson

         Like anyone else, I had a family once, though their faces have faded from memory. Their faces, their voices, all those idiosyncrasies that make up a person erased, deleted to make space for more useful information. Like "The Boats"; to this day I still have a slight aversion to milk and honey. Not pleasant. Though the information became pertinent to my work as an adult, no way anyone could've known then, torture's not so endearing coming from the mouth of a young boy. Even then I had a penchant for less than savory fixations.

They tried their best, I'm sure. Music and the structure it brought helped to calm the internal drive to hunt down those weaker than I. My parents attempted to aim my intellectual pursuits toward more socially acceptable targets. They succeeded for a time. But a violin or piano can only sate the hunger for so long. Most parents would have leaned into sports, but mine knew better. The last thing you want is to give a wolf like me is prey.

Eventually, my tastes ran deeper and after a few bullies learned that size and strength aren't what makes a worthy opponent, I was granted peace. Unfortunately for others, peace was never what I craved. All I wanted was prey that never let the chase die. That's where the real fun truly lies. Eternally chasing a high that never comes down.

Leaving the door open was just the bait. With the others distracted, it was the perfect time to play with Bambi.

Would she run? I could only hope. I craved the chase with every fiber of my being. My muscles strained with the ache of holding back. I should have just kept the door locked.

Should, such an odd word. The idea of withholding my dark desires because of what society expects and dictates as acceptable behavior is abhorrent to me.

Watching my little doe bite back at Kace had me readjusting my expectations. She's not the type of prey to just lay down and die. No, not my Bambi. She'll make us fight for every inch, even in if her methods are of the subtler variety. I see it all. Bambi's spine is forged in steel even if she masks it with plywood.

Trailing her was easy enough at the beginning. Ten minutes was a generous head start. Given a map, she easily would've made it out in that time. Keeping quiet comes second nature to me. She never would have known I was down here if I didn't taunt her a bit. But then the game would be over all too soon, with none of the rush that makes it worthwhile. I want her blood pounding behind her ears and her heart racing as the pressure to escape builds. It's more fun that way.

My neck cracks as I roll it between my shoulders, flexing my bare fingers in preparation for the game to really begin. My gloves are absent and while the thought of the dirt touching my skin has me cringing in need of an intense scrub down; some things just need a personal touch and my games are one of them. There's something so primal at feeling an erratic pulse beneath your fingertips with the knowledge that you put it there. It's beautiful like a living, breathing sculpture. But somehow, my victims always seem to ruin it. Blood is a perfectly fine medium. An artist should be able to bathe his work in passion. It's their filthy, pathetic pleas. The begging, the lies, the appeals to my humanity. They're more than welcome to appeal to it. I've even offered to stop if they manage to find it. It's been missing for as long as I can recall.

Staying with the guys is the closest I've come to locating my elusive humanity. They see the monster and keep me, not as something to fear or to let loose on others, I'd do the latter myself. No, my brothers keep me around because in me they see a reflection of their own monsters, just a touch freer, without the constraints of society to rein me in. As long as I get in an occasional hunt. I wonder if they even realized what they had done when they brought her inside our den.

Of course, Kace missed nothing. He always saw how close to the surface my beast was. Monsters always recognize each other, but he never masked his own. His was an acceptable beast, protective and reactive. Good thing we came to blows when we met over as he says, 'my creepy fucking face' and halfway through beating the ever-loving shit out of each other we realized that we could work well together. The start of our brotherhood. With him and Riggs as a package deal, it wasn't long before we adopted Dario and our misfit little family was complete. Or so we thought. I hold no opposition to it growing. By one. This one if she passes my little game.