“My FUCKING luck!” Gerard murmured.
The four policemen pursued Billie, who was now four blocks away, running through busy, crowded areas, ensuring the cops wouldn’t shoot. He shoved people aside, making room for himself and slowing down the police. Garbage cans and food stands were knocked to the ground in the process of creating obstacles.
Billie never slowed down; he kept a steady, fast pace, his feet hard on the ground, never looking back, focused on moving forward. He had to lose them, make some sharp turns, and they’d be off his trail. He turned right, then left, then right again, always maintaining the same consistent speed. He gained more and more distance, but the police still chased behind him. Before long, Billie heard faint sirens. He cursed. Now they were chasing him in cars-he couldn’t outrun them.
He’d have to find a place to hide. With a destination in mind, he picked up his pace, making sure the police were far behind to ensure they wouldn’t know where he was going. The criminal slipped into a bar, bustling with drunks. He covered his shaggy, black rebel hair with his hood and bought a drink as to not look suspicious.
He glared discreetly at the window, taking slow sips of his drink. A grin crossed his face as the four policemen on foot passed by the bar, heading on a wild goose chase. He began to giggle as three police cars drove by. Leaving the glass only half empty, Billie left through the back exit, making his way through alleys to the edge of town, in which stood a run-down, abandoned apartment building.
Covered in vines, and with the rusty bricks fading in color, the building seemed as if it were about to crumble. It was ten stories high, with many of the windows shattered. The door was boarded up. Billie entered through a broken window at the side of the structure. He entered into a dim room on the first floor, which Billie used as his hideout, since his old home was out of the question.
Papers were scattered upon the floor; furniture was either broken or damaged. There wasn’t much in the room, but what was there was unorganized. Against the far wall was an old, worn mattress covered by a thin blanket of a navy blue color. Billie collapsed from exhaustion on the mattress, falling asleep as soon as he hit it.
Gerard opened the door of his house well after midnight.
“I’m home,” He called into the dark, empty hallway.
He received a tired reply originating from a room with a half open door coming from his wife,
“Hey,” Gerard sat at the side of the bed his wife,
Lyn-Z was in.
“Bandit’s asleep,” Lyn-Z said, wrapping her arms around her husband’s neck.
Gerard released himself from her grip and changed into clothing more comfortable for sleep. Gerard felt like crap-chasing an insane guy for a half hour was exhausting, and he did it often. The crimes were getting worse now. At first they would be small things, such as shoplifting or property destruction. Not to say they weren’t bad-just that they weren’t as bad as what was coming. After a while, there had been home robberies. Following that were the fatalities.
People were shot, stabbed, ripped apart, burnt, suffocated, crushed, beaten, and drowned. The town was an easy-going one, though the reputation was difficult to maintain with the current situation.
And Billie had followers. Other criminals seized the opportunity to commit crimes, making things worse. It really pissed Gerard off. His working hours were longer than normal, so his family time and free time was limited-very limited.
He had to spend all day chasing a fucked up, insane guy who was a total ass, and his fucking minions, who were like fucking devil worshippers. It was a fucking insult to Gerard, his family, the cops, the town, and the whole fucking world. Fuck, he hated it. Gerard, exhausted, climbed into bed beside Lyn-Z and fell asleep.
Billie woke up early the next morning at 3:00 A.M. in a rather angry mood. He sat at the edge of the mattress, his head buried in his hands.
“Fuck,” He whispered.
He repeated it once, twice, three times. Then he screamed it,
Springing from his seat, he shoved a small, worn dresser to the ground, shattering the weak wood. In a broken voice, he repeated the word once again. Billie sat on the floor, picking up the scattered papers, allowing them to slip through his fingers like sand, staying quiet for a while. He picked up the papers again, keeping them still in his palms. Reaching for his pocket, he pulled out a switch blade.
Billie held the shimmering blade in front of his face, gazing at it with his emerald eyes. He dug it into his arm. His gaze drifted from the knife to the blood, never taking his eyes off of it, as if it were the most mystical, strange thing on earth, as if he had never seen the substance in his life, although he saw it often. It just seemed different, foreign, when it was his own. He dipped his pointer finger in the blood on his left arm and brought it down to the floor.
He wrote words: fuck, hate, destroy, kill, die. He moved to the walls: hate, hate, hate. He sketched images of murder: people drowning, being decapitated, stabbed. Blood droplets accumulated, forming puddles on the floor. Billie laughed.
Chapter 2 END