~ Alan Paton ~
But I wonder, as I observe from the safety of my self-imposed seclusion, how much have I lost throughout all of this? No matter how hard I try, it is impossible to remain indifferent. Despair washes over me as I once again realize that this beast can never be tamed. True, he has suffered immeasurable amounts of hardship and pain, but so have I and all by his hand. I have been here through it all, held hostage by wrath borne of confusion.
Though paralyzed by his anger, I have tried to help him, to show him that there does exist one person who cares. Emotionally, he pushes me aside. Better to pretend that I don�t exist then to realize what could potentially be. Physically, he keeps me under close watch, never allowing me to stray far or gain control of any situation. He despises me because I am living proof that good does exist, just as I despise him for the constant reminder of evil in our wake.
Powerless, I watch as another �whacker comes after the infamous killer. I harbor no illusions. This man will die. The only thing that remains in question is how long will this cat play with its mouse. Will it be quick and painless or drawn out and torturous? Either way, it will be violent. I want to call out to the fool, telling him to count his losses and run. Save yourself while you still can. Spare yourself a senseless, brutal death. Spare me the agony of having to watch another person die. But no matter what my desire may be, I know that I will remain silent. To warn this stranger away is akin to signing my soul�s death certificate. Though I now wish he would, he wouldn�t dare grant me physical death.
Once I lived with the fear that he would kill me. Now that fear has turned into the dread of knowing that he won�t. I know too much. My knowledge of his crimes, of his past, binds me to his side forever. Besides all that, he enjoys toying with me too much to put me out of my misery. Once upon a sometime, he had been capable of mercy. Back at that nightmare place, he saved a life and, as his reward, she later abandoned him, once again proving that to show mercy is the same as showing weakness.
Any act of kindness and mercy will never be attributed to me. I paid a heavy price for speaking out, pleading with him to be compassionate. For whatever reason, on this rare occasion, the Killer chose to listen to me. But rest assured, I paid a heavy price. He locked me away for months, denying me the simple pleasure of fresh air and light. When everything is said and done, people will disregard the random acts of good will, and we will both be condemned to a brutal fate. The Bureau doesn't care that I am his unwilling hostage. They will blame me for my inaction much as I already blame myself.
It is with panic and resignation that I watch the young man approach. He thinks he is being stealthy but doesn�t realize that nobody can sneak up on the Killer. Back when he was still capable of good, he learned the deadly consequences of having someone sneak up on him. As a child, he learned that it meant an array of new bruises and, quite possibly, a broken bone or two. After repeatedly hearing the sickening snap of fingers, the Killer � then known as Simon � learned to listen better. Since then, his sense of hearing had become acute, and this �whacker was too na�ve to have thought of this fact. Like every other cocky twenty-something-year-old male, this one thinks he is invincible. It is evident in the way he walks with his head held high, shoulders square and jaw clenched slightly. He figures he�ll come out on top. I pity him just as I pitied the others.
The very second he heard him, the �whacker�s fate was sealed. I didn�t want to witness this now unavoidable murder, though I understood on a primitive level that it had to happen. If he caught his prey, he caught me as well. Two-for-one. I would be thrown into prison alongside my captor, powerless as always to do a goddamn thing.
�Bad move,� the mass-murderer growls, bringing me back to the here and now.
We both stare at this intruder, though only he can be seen. I have been forced back into the darkness. This bushwhacker was younger than the rest, and the Killer enjoyed a good laugh over this fact. They were sending babies after him now, which meant that the gutless bastards were finally learning. From where I hid, I was able to gaze upon this man who had walked in on his own death. His red hair was clipped short, but not shaved completely like the Killer�s. His face still bore traces of baby-fat, only adding to his youthful appearance. His green eyes sparkled with triumph and self-assurance. Eyes that were not yet dimmed by fear.
�Game�s up,� the �whacker draws.
His responding laugh is chilling, and the familiar dread coils in my stomach. �You don�t realize how right you are,� he retorts.
�Run,� I cry softly. The bounty hunter doesn�t hear me; he can�t. He goes to great pains to make sure that I am rarely heard. It�s clear that he has heard me, and my fear only intensifies. Shined eyes and supersonic hearing have sentenced me to another harsh lesson.
I don�t need to see his body go rigid or hear his breathing quicken to know that he is angry. I can feel the anger pouring off of him in waves. He has heard me, and now there will be hell to pay. But for now, I am not the issue at hand. The over-eager merc takes precedence over me.
�Just surrender,� the hunter says. �Make it easier on yourself.�
�Funny,� he laughs. �I was thinking the same thing.�
The �whacker didn�t look fazed in the least; if he was nervous, it didn�t show on his finely chiseled features. He had an air of calm about him, and this confidence momentarily unnerved his prey. He knew about the Killer�s history, but more importantly, he knew the truth that everyone else went to great lengths to conceal. He thought this bit of information gave him an edge over the murderer.
�I know all about you,� the �whacker says.
I want to warn him that he doesn�t truly know the Beast. Hell, the Killer himself doesn�t even know who he truly is. I�ve been his prisoner for so long now that you�d rightfully think that I�d know. But I don�t. You can never fully understand the Beast. You can�t know what goes on in his mind; you can�t know what broke inside to make him capable of slaughtering those who got in his way. All I know for certain is that he wasn�t born a monster; he was made one through years of systematic abuse and torture. He hadn�t been born with a black soul, nor was he a bad seed. His life had been damned the very instant he was birthed into a toilet. Flushed like waste, he never stood a chance at a normal life. His first few hours in that bathroom had stained his psyche, and there could be no turning back.
Perhaps with the proper guidance he could have been saved. But being thrown aside by your own mother is a fate worse then death, and as a small boy he knew that if his own flesh and blood couldn�t accept him then no one could. In the beginning, however, he tried to be good, to be whatever they wanted him to be. But he was viewed as a second-class citizen, deemed unworthy and forever found lacking.
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