MERMAID MOTEL | PHAN

! one !

1991
1/6

philip michael lester wiped the blood off of his face and grimaced at the fact that he had made such a mess. he pulled the bloodied butterfly knife out of his latest victim's chest, and spun it in his hand; he didn't know her name, and frankly, he didn't give a fuck. the truth hurts, and the truth was that phil only cared about the fact that he killed again, that he had felt that rush again.

only that was what mattered.

after he had wiped the bloodied butterfly knife off with his ink-black shirt, phil stowed it away in his pocket and he left the victim, bleeding, on the side of the road. he left her there, dead, her eyes faded and staring off into nothingness. phil got off on that, and he had always got off on that; the groans of their pain, seeing the light behind their eyes fade out, watching them take their last gasp of life - he loved it all. phil was fascinated by the way humans reacted to being so close to death, always had been, and wouldn't have it any other way.

"please," the girl he had stabbed merely minutes before had begged, to which phil had only laughed as she coughed up blood before going rigid and staring off into space, which could only mean one thing: she had died.

and fuck, did that feel good to know.

his work done, phil began his long walk home through the woods; he knew how to be careful, so he knew not to kill in the same place, not to kill too close to home, not to stay in just one area. he knew that doing that what make you easier to catch, and phil definitely didn't want to get caught. if that happened, he would be in prison for life, possibly even get the death penalty and, worst of all, he would never be able to kill again.

and phil did not want to stop killing, because killing kept him sane, in a way; the rush that he felt when plunging his beloved butterfly knife into someone's chest was no match for the feeling of his favorite drink slipping down his throat and watching the dancers perform on their glittering silver poles, all lingerie and lipstick and beating hearts.

phil reached his secluded, two-story brick home in around ten minutes, and took his black boots off before reaching the porch to avoid getting blood on the wood (he had made that mistake once, back when he was just starting to slaughter people who had done him wrong.) he rinsed his boots off with the hose, tossing them to the side before heading inside.

once he had entered his house, phil walked up the semi-grand stairs and entered his room, already picking out an outfit to wear to the strip club.

he needed a drink and a lap dance, to say the least.

after taking out his contacts and putting them in the solution, phil showered quickly to get the excess blood off of his body, drying himself off even quicker. next, he put on a plain white shirt and some black jeans before slipping on his other black leather jacket. he gelled his hair up into his normal quiff and then put a silver crucifix around his neck, before lacing up his other pair of black boots and checking out his reflection to make sure he looked good.

he did, like usual.

phil walked out to his room, and grabbed his pair of glasses and put them on, blinking when he saw things clearer. he headed straight out to his black car and started the engine, and when the air conditioning began to roll, he shivered a little bit; it was colder than it was outside. phil switched on the radio, and his favorite station was already playing; a 60s station.