Page 2 of The Player
One…
Showtime.
“Have a good evening,” he calls out as I stop dead in my tracks, a wicked grin spreading across my face.
I love that he has no idea what’s about to happen.
This is my favourite part.
Oh, I’m not leaving, Wilson.
I’m only just getting started.
I take the shiny, gold devil’s mask I’ve been holding, or rather, hiding all this time, and pull it over my face. I love how it shimmers in the moonlight, as I stand and stare up at the dusky night sky, taking a moment to enjoy the anticipation of what’s to come. The sensation is exquisite; death is just a haunting, hollow breath away.
Carefully, I twist the lock on the door, and then pull the blind down. Lucky for me, the window displays are hidden behind shutters, shielding what goes on in the shop from the people outside. We’re secluded, alone, and everything is perfect.
Slowly, for maximum effect, I turn around to face him.
The blood in my veins rushes freely now, my heart a steady beat, resonating from my chest into my ears, right through to the tips of my toes. I cannot wait for him to see me. I want to feel that sweet shot of adrenaline that only comes from drinking in the fear swimming in your victim’s eyes. I’ll admit it, I’m a junkie. And my drug of choice is taking sick fuckers like this down. I feed off the terror, terror they so readily inflict on others. But not today. What goes around comes around, and Wilson is about to find out how true that is.
A second passes, then he lifts his head, his body jerking back slightly as he notices me standing in front of the locked door with my head tilted to the side, staring at him. Confusion hits first, then exasperation, followed by anger that flickers in his eyes as he glares at me.
“Wha… what are you doing?” he stammers, his voice betraying him as he tries to appear confident, but I can tell it’s a lie; his composure is wavering. It’s evident in the way he overly swallows, like his throat is coated with tar. It’s in the way his hands shake as he battles his fear, trying to stay calm. And then there’s the tell-tale twitch in his eye, so subtle that most people would miss it, but I know it’s there as he squints back at me. I know his reactions better than anyone.
He’s weighing up his options.
Fight or flight.
Funny thing is, he has no options.
Flight is useless. I’m young and fit, and he’s old and overweight.
Fight will only spur me on to be even more sadistic in my payback, which, if I’m honest, would be tough considering what I already have in store for him is beyond fucked up.
I smirk behind the mask. Wilson hasn’t got a fucking clue what I’m here for, or why. He doesn’t even know how to confront me properly. How to stand up and be a man.
Oh, how times have changed.
I love having the upper hand now.
I grin, taking a few steps forward and then stop, shaking my head slowly with regret and tutting, “Oh, Wilson.”
He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to solve the puzzle that is me as he says, “You’re too early for Halloween.” And then, gesturing to the door, he tries to dismiss me like I’m a nobody. “Go on, get out. Fuck off. I’m too busy to play games.”
Games.
Wilson used to love playing games.
I think I need to remind him…
“But, Wilson,” I taunt. “Mygames are only just getting started, and I know you’re never too busy to play games withme.”
He furrows his brow in morbid curiosity as he tries to process what I’ve just said. And I take a few more slow, measured steps forward, my eyes trained on him as my body hums in anticipation.
He’s breathing faster now, visibly panting as he licks his lips, and then his thick neck bulges as he tries to swallow again. My presence is making his mouth dry. His terror is spiking, and I can see his pulse throb, coursing through him like a freight train that won’t stop. Soon, it’ll make him explode. I can’t wait for that to happen. I do love a macabre spectacle.
“I’m not in the mood for playing games,” he snaps, irritation rising as he places his hands flat on the counter, leaning forward to try and make himself look more imposing than he really is. He glowers at me, giving me a steely, harsh glare, and I can’t help but throw my head back and laugh at his weak gesture.
