Another one bites the dust.
Unceremoniously.
Scratch that. Preston kind of carved him the fuck up. He’s a mess of cut flesh and rotten insides spilling out on the ground of the forest.
His face is disfigured, and a knife is lodged in his right eye while the other one hangs out of its socket, dangling against the exposed bone of his cheek.
“What a fucking mess.” Kane looks at the body slumped on the ground as he sheathes his gun with a silencer in the holster strapped to his side.
The three of us are dressed in black, but Kane is the only one without any splashes of blood on his face or hands.
I’m wearing gloves, but I felt the warmth splattering my neck when I stabbed the scum earlier.
Preston kneels by his handiwork and pokes the corpse on the forehead as if checking for any sign of the life he snuffed out with his bare hands.
When the dead man doesn’t even flinch, Preston grins maniacally, blood streaking his hair like red highlights, staining his teeth, forming rivulets down his face and dripping from his chin.
“You mean a masterpiece.” He flicks the handle of his knife that’s lodged in the man’s eye, making it wobble, then taps his scraped cheek. “You were a good sport, number ten.”
I cross my arms, standing beside Kane and looking down at him. “I remember telling you not to kill my targets, Pres.”
“Finders killers.”
“It’s finders keepers.”
“I meant it the other way. Shut it.” He jumps up, stretching and cracking his neck, still wearing his manic expression like a second skin.
He’s high.
While Preston does love the chase and the high of killing, he doesn’t usually carve them the fuck up as if he has a personal issue with them.
The last time he did this was with that scum teacher we killed at twelve at the boarding school after Kane and I found him sexually assaulting Pres.
Kane punched the teacher, and I held him down, then gave Preston a knife to take his own revenge. He stabbed him in the eyes. Over and over again. Then in the throat.
It was a bloody mess and the three of us looked like extras in a cheap snuff film afterward.
However, the huge smile on Pres’s face was worth it. Especially compared to the dead look in his eyes when we first found him.
Naturally, Kane and I got punished by our dads.
Preston, however, started his unconventional journey with mental illness diagnoses, ranging from antisocial personality disorder to bipolar, psychosis, and a basket full of issues in between.
He was ping-ponged between several clinical psychiatrists who worked for Vencor and was given several experimental medications, courtesy of my father and Julian, until he finally, only recently—and by recently, I mean since we started college—got himself under control for the most part.
I say for the most part because he relapses sometimes.
Kane and I always make sure he’s not alone, because his depressive episodes are brutal, and the last time he went through one, the last year of high school, he threw himself off the roof of the Armstrong mansion and fractured multiple bones. He was lucky he didn’t hit his head and die.
He also tends to be excessively violent and unpredictable, which is why I prefer he joins me on my personal vendetta hunts than go and stab a random person on the street just because they got in his way. Or supervise Vencor members on their missions, then become theatrical and put them and himself in danger.
It happened last week, when he chopped up the mayor’s aide into tiny pieces, then sent them to the mayor. Yes, the aide did betray Vencor, but the mayor was the one who reported him.
In Preston’s words, “He needs the visual so he doesn’t think of doing anything funny.”
He got punished for that by the organization by being whipped seventy-five times. Kane and I volunteered to take twenty-five each despite Pres’s objections. Not only because he would have become a drama king during the recovery period, but, really, we needed to remind him of the consequences of his actions, because they truly seem to fly over his head most of the time.
Despite his constant threats to go find new friends, Kane and I know we’re the most important people in Pres’s life, and as his friends, we have to keep him in check. Which is why I’ve been shadowing him ever since that incident.
I still don’t like that he kills my victims, but tonight’s particular scum was an elementary school teacher who’s facing allegations of sexually assaulting his students. And while nothing was official, the accusations were enough for Pres to go all out.
He wraps an arm around Kane’s neck. “I’m hungry. Make me a mean meatball pasta with lots of carbs that has the potential to send me into a coma.”
“I’m not your chef.” Kane removes Preston’s bloody hand. “And don’t get that dirty blood on me.”
Preston slides his fingers all over Kane’s face, smirking. “There. Much better.”
“You little—”
“Juude,” Preston whines, running toward me, then hiding behind me.
“Just leave him alone,” I tell Kane, resisting a smile at the view of the bloody marks on his face. “You look better like this anyway.”
“Right?” Preston jumps to my side. “Less put together and more like us. I keep creating masterpieces today. Bow down to me, peasants, muahaha.”
“Speaking of masterpieces,” Kane says, tilting his head. “Are we not going to address the fact that one name is still missing from your list of targets, Jude?”
I tense up, but my expression remains neutral. “I told you that’s none of your business.”
“But I want to play.” Preston punches his palm. “Hockey season is taking too long to start, and I’m bored.”
I shove him away with an index finger to his forehead. “Go and participate in the murders with Vencor members. Without drawing attention.”
“But that’s boring! We can only torture for answers, and we’re not allowed to get gory, because it’s too messy to clean up, and my family would be up in my business like bored housewives. My witch of a grandmother told my dad that I need to be admitted to the mental institution after my harmless fun last week. Apparently, I’m a liability to the Armstrong name. Did I mention I despise her? Anyway, I prefer this.” He headlocks both of us. “The three musketeers doing their own thing, with me as the reigning god, of course.”
I elbow his side and Kane punches his stomach at the same time. He wails dramatically as he releases us. “My talents are not appreciated in this toxic friendship. I need to find me a new gang and throw you all under a yacht.”
“It’s under a bus, Pres.” I sigh.
“I mean a yacht, so you’d be chopped up by the propellers. And you’re not changing the subject, Jude. What’s come of this mystery number seven?”
I flick his forehead. “None of your concern.”
“Suspicious.”
“So are your recent frequent trips outside of town, but you don’t see me commenting on that.”
“I’m fucking my stepmom’s friend!” He makes a motion of slapping the air. “Amazing ass. Gives great head and will give my stepmommy a stroke when she finds out.”
“That’s, like, the worst idea you’ve ever come up with,” Kane says. “And most of your ideas are shit.”
“Nah, this one will really get to her, I’m telling you.” He bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Oh my, fuck, I’m getting high just imagining the shock on her face.” His excitement immediately dies down. “And the usual sighs from Dad. I think he doesn’t care what the fuck I do anymore. I could be found rotting somewhere, and he’d just sigh. Maybe in relief this time.”
“It’s better that way.” I slap his shoulder. “Regis is too involved in my business. Asshole locked me the fuck up in my room for a whole week, making me have dinner with him every night just because I ignored him for a while.”
“The for a while being since your mom died.” Kane sighs. “But yeah, Pres. Grant’s idea of attention is making me hang from the ceiling for a whole night while dousing me with ice showers.”
“I’d take the locking up and forced dinners over sighs.” Preston lifts a shoulder, his expression aimed downward, but then he perks up. “Just kidding. Hate the guy more than his wife. Anyway, let’s eat! Then how about some late-night training? That wasn’t a question. You’re coming. Let me get Hayes to clean up the mess.” He jogs ahead, calling in a singsong voice, “Haaayes, where are youuu? Show yourself, my miiiinion.”
I watch him for a while and then turn to Kane, who also has his full attention on Preston.
“Fucking prick,” I mutter. “Thought he was spiraling for a second.”
“He was for a bit there, I think.” Kane sighs again, dragging his gaze toward me. “Pretty sure he’s either not taking his medication or not taking them properly.”
“He is.” I run a hand through my hair. “I make sure of it every day. It’s just…”
Kane is facing me fully now, the frown appearing monstrous with the blood. “Just what?”
“It’s not working anymore, or it’s losing its effect. The psychiatrist doubled the dose, so we’ll see how that works.”
“Fuck.”
Silence stretches between us for a bit, only punctuated by a distant owl’s cry and the heaviness of the uncertainty of what will become of Preston. Kane and I have been his only non-enablers in his environment.
Which isn’t comforting, considering we’re not your average college kids.
If we hadn’t always been keeping Pres busy and watching over him, he would’ve ended up in a grave a long time ago. And now that the meds are barely keeping him in check, it’s a problem.
A huge problem.
And it’s probably behind the tension lodged in my bones lately. Because I refuse to fail to protect Preston as well.
That just won’t be fucking happening.
“Can your brother work on something innovative?” Kane breaks the silence. “He’s been testing all these off-the-record drugs lately, surely he can tailor something for Pres that’s better than what he’s on.”
“Eighty percent of his tests go sideways. He’s been spending more time killing his test subjects than helping them. I wouldn’t trust him with a psychiatric drug. Preston was already used as a test subject for my father and nearly died. That won’t be fucking happening again.”
“I suppose we have to wait and see if he can keep himself under control.”
“He can. I’ll make sure of it.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You don’t have to put more responsibilities on yourself when you’re already struggling with control.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Jude, you’re stalking one of your targets and doing God knows what in between, and it’s messing with your head. You might not notice it, but I do. You’re on fucking edge and it shows.”
I clench my fists and then unclench them but choose to keep my mouth shut because he’s not entirely wrong.
“Listen up, I don’t care what you think you should do with Violet, but keep Dahlia out of it. You don’t go near her, okay?”
I narrow my eyes. Kane has never had this much interest in a girl he’s never even talked to. He’s worse than me in the opposite sex department and rarely hooks up.
However, ever since the first time he took me to that Stantonville shithole to show me where Violet lives, he’s been enamored with Dahlia.
Not sure if that’s the right word.
Intrigued? Impressed, maybe?
I was too busy recognizing Violet as the girl with the blue umbrella, but then I noticed the gleam in his eye when Dahlia used a gun—an unloaded one—to threaten the drunk who was harassing Violet.
Dahlia was firm and loud, unlike Violet, who remained in the background, then scolded Dahlia for having the gun.
That’s what Violet does best—scolding instead of being grateful.
And now I’m thinking of her, and I refuse to think of her after my recent resolution.
At any rate, Kane told me to stay away from ‘the sister’ that very night, and he sometimes plugs in a reminder to not disturb her in any form.
I narrow my eyes on him. “What’s with you and Dahlia? You arranged her scholarship, didn’t you?”
“You stay out of my business, and I stay out of yours, yeah?”
He changes the subject, talking about how we can gain more power in Vencor. Something about turning as many Seniors as possible to our side and subtly forcing our dads to relinquish power in our favor.
A sort of a coup d’état.
Kane has always had this ambition for us to become stronger and run Vencor however we please.
And I agree in principle, but I don’t have time for it.
Or maybe I do because I promised to stay away from my recent fixation.
And I have.
For about four weeks now, since the night Violet sucked my soul through my cock.
I’ve never come that hard or wanted to come that badly down someone’s throat. Or mess them up with my cum.
Or watch my cum on her tongue as she looked up at me with watery blue eyes that were so goddamn alive.
Passionate, even.
I’d never seen that look on her face—satisfaction mixed with a hint of submission. Not until I saw my cum on her tongue.
And for a moment, I had a raging possessive thought about locking her the fuck up somewhere only I had access to.
But then I was disturbed by that thought because I’ve never considered making a girl so wholly mine; she’d never look at anyone else, let alone go on dates or flirt with them.
And that girl won’t be Violet Winters, number seven on my list, who’ll meet an untimely end like all of them.
It’s just a matter of time before I rip off the Band-Aid.
The thought didn’t sit well with me, but I chose to stay away.
The first week was because Regis locked me up. Ever since I was released from the prison of my old room, I’ve only been going at night to read her journal while she’s asleep. Sometimes, she’ll have these brutal nightmares, and I find myself sort of…placing my hand on her back, which surprisingly seems to calm her down. Especially if I pat her for a while.
I don’t really know why the fuck I do that.
Maybe it’s because she’s going through a depressive episode, seeming to talk less and less in her journal. She doesn’t write much about death, but I’ve learned from studying the patterns that she tends to be less creative and more one-sentency in her entries when she’s off. Not to mention, she talks less about herself.
Laura is having a hard time. She was crying in the bathroom during break. I want to help, but I can’t do much except take some of her shifts or look after Karly whenever possible.
Dahlia is so excited for GU, and I’m so proud of her. She’s meant to go places, and I can’t wait to see how far she reaches.
Karly is so cute. I want to protect her contagious smile.
Good weather. Black insides.
Finished an ugly stitch. Threw it away.
Learned a new recipe. I ruined it.
Went walking. Would’ve been hit by a car if it weren’t for my guardian angel.
The sky is colorless even though it’s beautiful outside.
The demon sitting on my chest is heavier lately.
Why couldn’t Mama love me even a little? Just a tiny bit. Would I have been better if she hugged me and told me she loved me even once? Or am I grasping at straws and finding excuses?
Endure.
Endure.
Endure.
Endure.
Endure. Please.
Her last entries have been just that word, and it’s starting to creep me the fuck out. Pres and Mom both tended to be self-destructive, and if their depressive episodes are any indication, Violet could be headed down that same path.
In Pres’s case, he’ll be too reckless, testing gravity and physics. Mom’s episodes usually manifested when she stopped eating and withdrew into watching TV all day, looking straight through the screen. And attempting to take her own life…or someone else’s.
But then again, Pres and Mom struggled with more issues aside from depression.
Violet’s episodes are… I don’t know what the fuck they are. Mario says she’s acting normal, but I can tell something is off about her lately. Her nightmares are frequent, her embroidering is almost nonexistent, and her journaling isn’t the same.
She doesn’t reply to my texts either, having completely ignored the few I’ve sent since she asked about Dahlia’s scholarship a week ago.
My mind races as Kane and I clean up in the old cottage tucked deep in the Armstrongs’ forest. It’s the same place where we used to hunt, the same one we were abandoned in as kids and told to “learn how to survive.”
It’s become one of our playgrounds of sorts. A place where we come to inflict the same pain that was once inflicted upon us.
I’m putting on my shirt when my phone rings.
Larson.
My shoulders tense at seeing his name. Why would Mario’s aide of sorts call me?
I pick up, my voice already on edge. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t reach Mario. Something is off.”
“Off?”
“I’m afraid something might have happened to them.”
What. The. Fuck?
