Be Mine

Prologue

Noah

People are only perceptive to what’s in front of their noses. Too complacent, too distracted, too self-involved. When you grow up, you leave the myth of the boogeyman behind. But he exists. No longer hiding under your bed. He walks among you. He lives next door. He buys groceries at the same store.

This serves my motives best because it leaves my victim unsuspecting. I don’t look like the boogeyman. I look like an average guy out having a drink, nursing my beer while watching the game.

I’m not really drinking the beer or watching the game, though. My focus is on the man at the other end of the bar. The man who gets a little too boisterous with every draft the bartender serves him. His lips a little too loose.

Peeling away the edges of the label, I listen in as he runs his mouth about an ex-girlfriend of his.

“This girl was a freak. Sweet pussy, too. Too bad she was a fucking bitch.” He leans into the guy sitting next to him, talking animatedly. They both laugh, taking a generous swig of their beers. “I’m gonna pay her a visit soon, remind her of what she’s missing.”

Bringing the bottle to my lips, I take a small sip and peer to my left to look at him. He’s tall and slender, with an unkempt beard and hair shaved on the sides and back. The right side of his skull has a dragon tattoo, the body wrapping around the shape of his ear. His knuckles are marred with various ink, as well, giving the illusion this guy is tougher than he is.

They both cheer as Chicago scores on an empty net, sealing the deal. My eyes momentarily slip up to the big screen hanging over the bar. They’re up four to two now with forty-five seconds on the clock. Toronto isn’t coming back from this.

“I’m fucking set man,” he claps the other guy on the shoulder, “I put the odds on Chicago. Payday for me.” They clink their drinks and watch as the last few seconds of the game wind down.

Swallowing down the last of my drink, the bottom warm and tasting like skunk piss, the bartender motions towards me, asking if I want another. I tip my chin at him and he reaches into the cooler for a fresh beer, popping the top off before sliding it across the bar top. I’m aggravated and feeling impatient, but I gotta ride this out.

The TV switches to another game, one out on the west coast. I feign interest, counting down the minutes until this guy closes his tab and leaves.

He continues to rattle on, jumping from one topic to the next like he doesn’t have a single cohesive thought in that tattooed head of his.

Each word he speaks grates on my nerves, the sound so irritating I feel it in my teeth. I envision myself severing his tongue from his mouth, relieving the world of his relentless chatter. The thought fills me with a buzzing warmth. My fingers twitch in anticipation. Yeah, the tongue goes first.

An eternity passes before last call, most of the bar is now deserted besides a few drunken stragglers and the man at the opposite side of the bar. His friend has abandoned him for the night, but he’s still lingering, draining the last of his beer before paying and scooting off the stool. He careens to the right, the effects of nearly a dozen beers prevalent now he’s found his feet. I’d laugh if I could remember how.

Giving him a head start, I too, close my tab then wander to the washrooms, not wanting to bring attention to myself. Exiting the bar, it doesn’t take long to find my target. He’s turned left, towards his home a couple of blocks up.

Keeping my head down, hood up, and my hands in my pockets, I stay a solid twenty feet behind him as he stumbles down the street. It’s an unfavorable part of town, most don’t venture this way unless they want to get jumped—or worse. I keep close to the storefronts, masking myself in their shadow. I’ve always felt a kinship with the darkness; it shaped and molded me into the man I am today. A man who is stalking a stranger down a street with the intent of robbing him of his life.

Rounding the corner into a dilapidated neighborhood, one where houses look one strong windstorm away from collapsing, I begin to close the distance between us. The crunch of snow and salt under my boots alerts him of my presence.

He spins in front of his house, a small home that likely once upon a time was white, but now resembles a shade of grey as a result of the filth and peeling paint.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, his voice squeaking slightly, betraying his words. The arrogance. He doesn’t even recognize me, even though I sat at the other end of the bar all night long. Self-important. That’s what the population has become.

I let him simmer, slowly inching closer to the safety of his home. It’s an illusion. He’s not safe. He’s breathing his last breaths now, wasting them on words.

“Duke send you? Look, I’ll have his money in a day. Two tops…” he slurs. Another step closer to the porch. And another.

“I’m not interested in your money,” I say calmly. For every step he takes in retreat, I match it with my own until he’s stumbling back against the bottom step. He reaches out for the railing, trying to stop the inevitable fall. The ice is unforgiving and he lands on his ass, feet scrambling to gain some traction, to scurry away. There’s nowhere left to go.

Looming above him, I relish in how he sobers. That fear-stricken face is so delightful. Those eyes that round, the bottom lip trembling, the stuttering pleas.

Please.

No.

Don’t.

It's too late for forgiveness. I haven’t even pulled a weapon on him and he’s diminished to a weak, pathetic mass of useless flesh.

It's time for retribution, and I will enjoy every pound I flay from his body. But first—the tongue.