5 | Liam #2
We had met Nathan earlier that year—a boy two years older than us and our only friend in school.
He had been held back a few classes despite his family's efforts to make him obey the rules. He was never the type to follow them when he was younger, always getting into fights. Eventually, they had to enroll him in a public school because none of the private ones would take him anymore, and that’s how he met us.
He convinced his family to foster us long before the fire.
He prepared the ground for what was going to happen; he was the only one who knew about Mike’s plan besides me.
His parents later adopted us, and for the first time in a lifetime of horror, we truly felt like we belonged.
And when they died... They left everything to the three of us.
Not just to their son. To their sons. Because to them, we were as much their kids as Nathan.
And that truly should be what family is: claiming someone despite the blood running through their veins, protecting a child through horror, making sure they are safe and set for life.
That’s how a parent should be. But mine missed the memo, I guess.
Nathan’s parents passed away around a decade ago, around the time we started this deadly game of ours.
Even though they were around for just a handful of years, I always felt like they were the only family we truly had.
They are the parents I miss when I am homesick.
Their home is the one I feel safe returning to when we eventually pass through New York every few months to make sure everything is running smoothly.
I hear chatter from the living room as I make my way to my bathroom. Nathan must have woken up, and they are now sitting cuddled up on the couch watching something on the laptop. I don’t need to check on them to know what they are doing. As I said, we are all creatures of habit.
I step into my bathroom, turning the shower on while I remove my clothes.
I take a black garbage bag from under the sink where I keep a pack of them stored and toss my clothes into it.
Like everything else I’ve worn on a hunt, these will be disposed of.
I never keep my clothes after a hunt—only my leather jacket.
I love that jacket. It’s the one matching Mike’s with hand-stitched details that I stitch onto both of them, when we were in high school, and years later, it still fits.
It’s old. The leather is worn out, but it’s the one thing I kept from those years we struggled to survive.
As I enter the shower, the hot water hits my skin; there is a moment of relief from all the guilt that gathers in my soul every night after a chase.
It feels like the sound of rain felt hours ago, yet I know well that my sins are bound to me, and no matter how much hot water I waste, they will never be washed away.
I have been standing under the stream long enough that the water is turning cold; I’ve been lost in my thoughts for what seems like forever.
They're the same ones that torment me every hour of every day. I wonder sometimes if that’s God's way of punishing me for everything I allow to happen around me—if that’s how I am being tortured for the lives I let my cousin and his boyfriend take while I enjoyed the hunts alongside them.
I exit the steaming bathroom and grab a towel to wrap around myself as I walk to the wardrobe in my room.
This was the reason I picked the room with the attached bathroom: I love taking my time each morning getting ready for the day.
Picking out what to wear has always been my favorite part of the morning.
Even though at this point the morning feels more like an extension of the night before, I still enjoy this moment.
I take a deep breath as I browse through my clothes.
I will admit that my outfits have never been anything interesting.
However, I have always loved the act of getting dressed, and that alone can make my morning sometimes.
As I finish getting dressed, I walk out of my bedroom and down the stairs to the living room, passing through on my way out.
I notice the guys are still in the same spot; they haven’t moved an inch.
Nathan is fully awake now, and something new is playing on the laptop.
I can tell from the way he is sitting that this is something he enjoys.
I smile, because the idea that my companions are enjoying themselves feels almost as good as it would if happiness found me, too.
“I am heading out,” I announce without waiting around for an answer. I walk slowly enough to notice Nate as he gets up, turning his back to me and walking to his own room, shedding his clothes along the way. I know all too well what that means: that’s their favorite part of the morning.
Mike and Nate have constantly danced along the boundaries of their friendship, always finding exactly what they needed to fulfill their desires in each other.
The thrill of the chase is what fills all of us with excitement—the adrenaline, the game of life and death.
Taking a life can sometimes be a strange aphrodisiac not many know about.
I guess that’s a good thing. I bet there would be many more serial killers walking the earth if that were common knowledge.
I still remember the first game. The first girl. She was a coincidence. Mike was flirting with her at a party, and she angered him. Mike, being Mike, tied her up, put her in the back of his car, and brought her to the property where we were living at the time, announcing that he had caught prey.
It was Nathan's idea to grab the bikes and chase her, but it was never intended for her to die; it was more about teaching her a lesson. Her death came anyway, albeit accidentally.
While running for her life, convinced she would die anyway, she dared to mock Mike about it.
It was like a switch flipped inside him.
I could see it in his eyes. In a moment's time, I had that boy who held a gun to my father’s head standing in front of me all over again.
Mike’s eyes had a spark I only see when he is killing someone—almost like it gets him off, but not quite.
It didn’t take long to figure out that what truly got him off was blowing off steam after the kill while the hype of the chase was still in his system.
As if reading my mind, he gets up and follows Nate to his bedroom.
Those two will be busy for a while. I smile, satisfied that they'll be too occupied to notice what I'm doing with the rest of my morning.
I give Dog one last treat before I walk out the door. I watch him bring it to his bed, satisfied with the exchange. I am sure the guys will take him outside when they are done, so I don’t bother attending to his needs right now. I have something else on my mind for my morning.
I reach into my back pocket and fish out my keys.
I open the back doors of the van, reach down, and unlock the chains holding my motorcycle in place as I slide it out of the vehicle.
I don’t bother cleaning the remnants of blood from the floor of the van; it will be covered with fresh blood soon enough anyway.
Maybe that’s a sign that I, too, have been getting careless lately.
Maybe Mike isn’t the only one getting bored with our lifestyle.
I walk to the passenger seat of the van where I left my helmet earlier and open the door.
I take it in my hands, inspecting it for any traces of blood.
When I am sure there are none, I place it over my head and walk back to where my motorcycle is waiting.
I close the doors of the van and lock it before inspecting my motorcycle for blood as well. Surprisingly, there is none.
I climb on, eager to head to the diner. Jessica must be there by now, and I can’t wait to see her again.
The drive isn't long, and the gloomy morning is the ideal scenery for it.
The smell of the wet ground fills the air, entering my lungs by force and making me reminiscent of my hometown and what little happy memories I have from that time of my life.
I have always enjoyed the mornings after it rained all night.
As the tires slide on the wet road, I let my thoughts carry me back to a time when things were simpler—when, if the horrors that followed had never happened to any of us, Jessica and I could have had a chance.
But I am no fool, and I know well that this is never going to happen. Yet, it doesn’t hurt to dream.