He had a need, a need so strong it couldn't be controlled. The desire for blood and death vibrated through his entire body.
"Where is she?” he yelled to the poor, brutalised family.
He had them tied and gagged, quivering in fear of the unknown. He looked around the quaint home; the family had done well for themselves, he surmised. He picked up a framed picture—mother, father, son, and daughter—stroking his finger over her face, such a perfect looking family—too bad they wouldn’t survive.
He took in a calming breath and crouched down next to the wife. She was sobbing uncontrollably now; she whimpered as he unsheathed his blade.
He always preferred to use a blade over a gun, a blade was so much more personal. Yes, it took more planning, and it was sometimes riskier, but the joy of slicing through flesh and watching the searing pain in his victims was beyond gratifying, and he could always draw out the dying process.
"I'm only going to ask this one more time.” He was looking directly at the husband, whose jaw was clenched, teeth clamped shut, clearly trying to find a way out of a situation that was hopeless. He looked into his angry gaze and wanted to commend him for his commitment to his family.
He had broken every single one of his fingers and toes, and still, he did not reveal the information he was after. With the blade pressed tightly against his wife’s throat, the husband broke his gaze and looked to his wife. What he saw there was love, sorrow, and understanding. He mumbled a heartfelt, "I love you,” through the gag, tears streaming down his face.
The husband glanced toward his unmoving son, blood pooling around his awfully still body. Then his gaze locked with the killer’s; he could see the renewed determination. He wasn’t going to say a word.
The killer’s blood raced with excitement through his veins; this was going to be fun . . .
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