Serial Killer

If you would have asked me two years ago, I would have called it impossible. I never thought that things could be like this.

I suppose I should start from the beginning.

The Worldwide Crisis.

In just a few months, civilization had nearly crumbled. To maintain order and balance in society, the government took control of everything. All non essential activities were illegal. That was basically everything, according to the government. Millions lost their jobs. Naturally, the government turned a blind eye to everyone's suffering. Many turned to drugs or crime.

On the surface, things were bad. But the reality was far, far worse than that.

What I mean is, the entire world was rigged. It took my brother's death for me to learn that. It's been a year since then. Naturally, my life has changed a lot.

For starters, I was technically a serial killer now.

I'm not really sure how it turned out this way. I'd never thought of myself as a particularly violent person. But when my brother died, something snapped in me. I couldn't accept it. Inside my body was only blind rage. Towards the world. But also myself, mostly.

I'll never forget what happened that day. I had gone to the store to get us some drinks. We were going to race each other across the entire park. I knew we would get thirsty, so I told Marco to wait. When I came back, a group of shitheads were standing over his body. His face was bloody, and even from a distance I could tell that his nose was broken. He wasn't breathing.

At first, I tried to refuse to believe what I was seeing. For a few seconds, it worked. Reality didn't feel real anymore. It was all just a dream. A parallel universe, maybe. Yes. We were going to race around the park, gulp down our refreshing —

No. Marco was dead. Why? Why? WHY?!

I can't really describe how I felt at that moment. It was a distantly familiar sensation. I was uncomfortably hot, like I was stuck under several layers of sweaters in the middle of summer. Me and Marco had actually done that several times before. I hated this game, but I always loved seeing that wide smile on his face.

"First one to sweat loses!" He'd yell. I would always lose. I couldn't handle the heat very well.

"Whatsa matter, kid?" one of the shitheads spoke. The rest of them laughed. Marco.

That's right. Marco was dead.

Their laughter continued, almost seeming to swell and crescendo, like a morbid orchestral symphony. The cacophony of their guffawing seemed to amplify the burning sensation all across my body.

What the hell was funny? I could feel myself losing consciousness. The heat was so disorienting. My eyes were closing up. No. Blackness. NO!

When I came to, they were all dead. Each of them had suffered severe burns and were badly mutilated. My clothes were bloody and soaked with gore. I could hear sirens in the distance. How would I explain what I saw before me?

At the time, I had no clue what the hell had happened. I didn't realize that I was responsible. I pieced it together later on. That I was a metahuman. A dangerous one who couldn't control his powers. And I had gone on a rampage just before I lost consciousness. I was a cold blooded killer.

Well at least, according to the news. Ha! Those idiots thought I had killed my own brother. It pissed me off, actually.

In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have ran. If I had stayed, maybe I could have explained the situation. Things would have gotten better. Nah. Wishful thinking, maybe. Deep down, some part of me knew that the end result would have been the same. My brother would be dead. My parents would be devastated.

Nothing would ever be the same.

I still don't know how to feel. Whether to even feel at all. Actually, I didn't really have the luxury of choice. My emotions did whatever they wanted, whenever. Some days I was cheerful and outgoing, genuinely happy. Sometimes, there were days I couldn't do anything but cry. Other days? I just felt…

Empty.

If you would have asked me two years ago, I would have called it impossible. I never thought that things could get like this.

"Welcome to Hell."

That's what Akari had told me. On the day we met, she told me about her past. That she was an assassin. She had killed for a living before. She didn't seem like she was lying. But she was hiding something.

So was I.

"Welcome to Hell." It was one of her favorite expressions. We'd been traveling together for a few months now.

"July?"

"Yeah?"

"You're weird. Why do you trust me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean why would you trust an assassin that hides in the shadows? How do you know I don't have ulterior motives?"

"Well. It kinda sounds silly if I say it out loud."

"Say it."

"I feel like I can see you wherever you are."

"July." She looked at me intently. Her eyes were bright. Those were tears.

"I'm sorry." I apologized.

"I mean, who are you?" Akari asked.

"I don't know," I said. I was born in July. That was all I knew.

"You've killed before haven't you?"

"What?"

"You have, haven't you?"

"Yeah. But how do you know?"

"I can tell. Death. I can sense it."

"You really don't want me to trust you don't you?" I asked. She laughed. It was a gentle sound.

"I'm the one that should be saying sorry." she said with a sad smile.

I thought it would be dark forever. That's what she wanted to say. I heard her, almost like her soul was saying it. What had really happened to her? What was her dark past?

"Look, we should get going. " I said.

"Yeah."

Danger.

I could sense it.