Blood of Gato

Have you ever considered what you would do if the police suddenly started following you? If they suspected you of murder? What actions would you take: would you go about your business as usual, confident that you have nothing to hide, or would you try to lay low? There are many options, and if your conscience is clear, you're unlikely to be plagued by the fear of being caught. But what about those who are truly guilty?

The guilty have few choices—they essentially face two paths at a crossroads. One option is to confess to their actions and repent, hoping for the mercy of the law; the other is to seek their own way to salvation and fend off the serpents that pursue them. William chose the second path. Some might say he is acting selfishly or even like a sociopath, but he is simply a person who wants to live a little longer, and nothing more.

******

Sitting in his cramped room, the only source of light was the cold blue glow of the monitor. William leaned over the keyboard, a chocolate bar stuck between his teeth, while the desk was littered with empty energy drink cans. His fingers nervously drummed on the table; the search hadn't even begun, yet anxiety knotted his stomach.

"Well, internet, surprise me," he muttered, opening another tab for his search query: "How do criminals hide from the police?" The results were disappointingly mundane—advice on changing appearances, fake documents, false alibis. Much of the information seemed ripped straight from cheap detective novels.

"There's so much information on how to avoid getting caught!" he exclaimed aloud, ironically reading yet another article about methods for disposing of evidence. "Only this all works if you don't leave two damn corpses with your wallet!"

He angrily took a bite of the chocolate bar, chewing while staring at the screen with a hazy gaze. No, he wouldn't find salvation on the internet. Why were there so many dating sites and not a single one that could tell you how to shake the cops? He sighed in frustration.

"Why did I get myself into this mess?" he muttered, slapping his cheek as if hoping to clear his thoughts.

At that moment, a notification pinged in his ears about a new post on the forum. Boredom and desperation compelled him to click on it. A heated exchange unfolded before him between two users—He-Man87 and SaraKonnor1993. The argument was escalating:

"Are you out of your mind, idiot? Jack the Ripper is the best serial killer in history," wrote He-Man87, peppering his message with emojis and typos.

"Maybe I shouldn't stoop to the level of an amoeba, but you're so stupid it's infuriating," replied SaraKonnor1993. "Before you open your mouth, uneducated one, read up on who Edward Gein is, and then tell your fairy tales about who the scariest serial killer is."

William shuddered, feeling a wave of disgust. No matter how you looked at it, discussing maniacs with such enthusiasm was revolting. He even smirked, recalling how Max was one of those obsessed individuals.

"There are losers out there even worse than me," he muttered, a crooked smile forming as he gazed at the forum window.

He began scrolling through photos: victims, the faces of criminals, clippings from old newspapers. He paused for a moment on a photo labeled "The Heart-eater." Dark thoughts suddenly whispered in his mind.

"We have maniacs too," he murmured, studying the pictures. His fingers nervously brushed his chin as he pondered. The room was filled with tense silence, broken only by the clicking of the mouse.

"Damn!" William suddenly exhaled, struck by a sudden realization. "They're already looking for one maniac... What if I make them think there's only one in the city? If I pin everything on him?"

He straightened up sharply, his gaze becoming focused and determined. Everything inside him tightened, both from fear and excitement.

"This is madness... But I have no other way out," he muttered to himself, feverishly typing into the search bar: "Crimes in Bergenthal."

******

Sitting in the car on the side of a quiet, greenery-drenched street, Sam and Anna had been watching the Farrow family's house for nearly ten hours straight. In that time, their sedan had collected a fine layer of dust, and the windows had fogged up from their tired breaths.

Evening was settling in—the sun lazily glided over the rooftops of nearby houses, casting long shadows on the neatly trimmed lawns. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked joyfully, but this lively sound only underscored the still, heavy silence in the car.

Sam rubbed his eyes, nodding at the empty coffee cup for the umpteenth time. His fingers trembled; the caffeine had long stopped working.

"So this is how I spend my time off," he grumbled, barely suppressing a yawn. "Honestly, Anna, the third cup isn't doing anything for me anymore."

Anna, settled in the passenger seat, crossed her legs and rubbed her knees. She wore loose jeans and a windbreaker, but even through the fabric, it was clear her legs had gone numb, as if she had become a part of the car.

"I didn't imagine surveillance would be like this," she mumbled, massaging her calves and glancing at the Farrow house. "In the movies, something actually happens, but here…"

"Remind me whose idea this was?" Sam raised an eyebrow, casting a sidelong glance at his partner. "Now that your precious backside is aching, do you realize what a brilliant idea it was?"

Anna rolled her eyes, smiling wryly. "Alright, I confess, it was a terrible idea. But who could have known this guy would be so boring? I thought he'd at least go out for pizza in the evening…"

"I doubt he even goes to the bathroom," Sam scoffed, adjusting the cushion behind his back. "It was clear from the start that he's the type who only leaves the house when absolutely necessary."

Anna smirked, looking at the neat facade of the house. A pot of blooming petunias swayed on the porch, and a shadow flickered in the window on the second floor. The house was large and well-maintained, with a tidy fence and a carefully laid path.

"Honestly, if I had a house like that, I wouldn't want to leave either," she admitted, examining the garden where a children's swing stood on the lawn.

Sam reached over and, without asking, grabbed some chips from Anna's bag, stuffing a handful into his mouth.

"It's tough for the rich too," he joked with a mouthful, grinning broadly.

Anna feigned indignation as she took the bag back and playfully slapped his hand.

"If your mom were a doctor and your dad a mechanic with his own shop, you'd have grown up with a silver spoon in your mouth… or somewhere else," she quipped, crossing her arms.

Sam theatrically sighed, leaning back in his seat. "I wish I had been born into such a family. Though, I suppose it's hard to live with two sisters. I'd go crazy with brothers, let alone sisters," he said, making air quotes. "Girl solidarity and all that."

Anna snorted. "There's no worse enemy for a woman than another woman, especially if she's prettier. By the way," she nodded at his nervously biting lips, "you'd be better off chewing gum than dreaming of a smoke."

Sam looked at her with the wounded expression of a schoolboy. "No, thanks, dear, I'm fine as is," he teased, pretending to wrap himself in an invisible robe. "You don't need to worry, wifey."

Anna smirked. "I wonder what Mari would say if she heard you right now?"

Sam rolled his eyes, snorting. "She'd say I'm eating fast food again and spending too much time with, as she likes to call you, that tall cow Anna."

They both burst into laughter, nearly spilling the last of their coffee.

"Alright," Anna said, regaining her composure. "Let's take turns. It's my shift to watch now, so you try to get some sleep. Just don't snore, or we'll get caught before Farrow shows any signs of life."

Sam nodded, pulling his jacket under his head and closing his eyes, muttering, "Wake me if he starts tossing bodies out the window."

Anna smiled and settled in more comfortably, resting the binoculars on her lap. She knew the night would be long and likely very boring.

******

When the clock hands aligned at nine in the evening, William finally made up his mind: it was time. His heart thudded dully in his throat, and his palms were sweaty despite the cool air. He cautiously opened the window in his room to slip outside, and at that moment, a night breeze hit his face. A chill ran down his skin, and the scents of damp foliage, wet earth, and something sweetly acrid—perhaps flowers from a yard across the street—filled his nostrils.

Suddenly, he caught a few sounds nearby: a heavy leaf fell from a tree, and a little further away, a dry, almost painful cough echoed, typical of old smokers. Following that, muffled voices emerged, with someone arguing and interrupting each other. William froze, tense as a small animal in an open space.

He cautiously peered out onto the street, squinting at the streetlamp. His gaze caught on a gray sedan parked a little way off in the shadows. A silhouette flickered behind the glass, and panic washed over him. His temples throbbed: "Damn, they're watching me!" He involuntarily bit his finger until it bled, tasting the metallic tang on his tongue.

A dark, raspy voice whispered in his mind, as if it were foreign: "They're closer than you think," the inner beast hissed. "If you don't get rid of them now, your peaceful life will be over."

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the intrusive thought away. "Maybe I shouldn't panic? Just sit tight until they leave," he reasoned with himself. But the anxiety grew, filling his chest with a sticky, heavy mass.

"Don't just sit there, you fool!" the beast inside growled, cutting through the remnants of reason. "The longer you wait, the less time you'll have!"

William clenched his fists, abruptly closing the window and whispering through gritted teeth, "So, the front door is out… the window isn't an option either… That leaves the basement! Yes!"

He quickly pulled on a black hoodie with a hood and checked his pockets—everything he needed was with him: gloves, flashlight. He looked around; the house was quiet, only the stairs creaking as he cautiously descended, holding his breath. His heart pounded so loudly it felt like it could be heard.

The basement door was heavy, with a rusty handle. A musty smell and dampness wafted through the crack. William carefully opened the door, trying not to make a sound, and slipped inside.

The basement greeted him with thick darkness, smelling of mold and old wood. Somewhere near the ceiling, a rat scurried, or maybe it was just his imagination. In the far corner, under a layer of cobwebs, an old hatch leading to the sewer was visible. Why the previous owners had decided to install such an exit was a mystery, but for William, it was a chance.

"I'll have to get covered in filth to avoid drowning in deeper crap," he joked grimly to himself, clicking on the flashlight.

He pushed aside the heavy hatch cover, and a wave of stench immediately hit him—so thick that his eyes watered.

"Damn it!" he whispered, recoiling. "I wish I could smell nothing right now…"

Covering his nose with his sleeve, William carefully descended the slippery metal ladder. Water mixed with debris sloshed beneath his feet. From time to time, he gasped for air, trying not to inhale too deeply.

"How can people even clog the sewers like this?" he muttered under his breath, suppressing the urge to vomit. "Who eats so much Chinese food in this neighborhood…"

In the darkness, it felt like someone was following him. Every splash of water echoed ominously in his mind.

"Don't you dare look back," William reminded himself, quickening his pace.

It took him at least twenty minutes, soaked to the bone and smelling so foul that his head spun, before he finally located the right hatch. With one last effort, he pushed the cover aside and emerged into the fresh air.

"Thank God!" he gasped, breathing heavily. For the first time in what felt like ages, his lungs filled with the crispness of the night, and he squinted, blowing his nose right onto the asphalt.

William looked around: he had found himself on Red Squirrel Street, exactly where he had hoped to be.

"Faster, just head west now, and I'm out of danger," he whispered, wiping his face with his hand.

He quickly slammed the hatch shut, covering it with a layer of dry leaves. "I'll need to stay in the shower until morning to wash all this off," he grimaced, feeling the stench clinging to his skin and hair. "If anyone sees me after this, it'll be the sanitation department…"

William hunched his shoulders and, trying to walk confidently, made his way toward the western part of the city, constantly glancing over his shoulder, just in case.

******

To frame the Heart-eater and finally make the police back off, William needed to find a victim who perfectly fit the profile of their legendary killer. A victim with a criminal past, preferably someone who wasn't exactly an innocent lamb. This was somewhat of a relief for William; it meant he wouldn't have to harm those who didn't deserve it—at least that's what he told himself.

"I've never harmed the innocent before," he muttered under his breath as he navigated the dark alley. "Those two… I was just defending myself. Self-defense, even if I had to stretch the truth a bit." The voice inside him, that same raspy beast, snorted in dissatisfaction but didn't argue.

But this wasn't the time for self-flagellation; freedom, family, and life were at stake.

"No matter how the world judges me, the main thing is to survive," he whispered to himself. "The rest will follow."

Online, he quickly found a suitable candidate for a victim: Mateo Smith. A guy with a murky reputation, several allegations of rape, but he had been released due to lack of evidence. One of the victims couldn't identify him during a lineup.

"Perfect," William thought with grim humor. "Mateo, congratulations, you've just passed the interview of your life."

He pulled up his hood, concealed his face with a mask, and quickly crossed two streets, checking his map. The address turned out to be surprisingly easy to find: a red-brick house with peeling white shutters, faded with the number "3031." The lights in the windows were already off, but a dim lamp flickered on the porch.

William stopped in the shadow of a large maple across the street, his heart racing.

"And now what?" he asked himself. "I can't just barge in on the guy in the middle of the night and ask, 'Have you prayed for forgiveness today, Mateo?'" He snorted, trying to relieve the tension.

Doubt gripped him.

"What if he really isn't guilty?" he whispered, staring at the serene facade of the house. "What if the court was right, and I'm about to decide a man's fate without knowing anything? Am I an avenger or just a murderer?"

The whisper inside hissed: "Not your concern. He fits the profile. He deserves it."

"Shut up," William exhaled. "I'll find out everything first. I'll just observe."

He looked around; an old oak with sprawling branches grew in front of the house. Without hesitation, William nimbly climbed up, hiding in the thick foliage. From above, everything seemed different. Mateo's windows were like open books, a black Toyota stood in the driveway, and an empty cigarette pack lay on the porch.

"I swear, if it weren't for these bursts of anger and sadistic tendencies, these abilities could almost be considered a gift," he muttered, getting comfortable on a branch.

After a few minutes, a figure appeared on the porch: a tall guy in sweatpants and a T-shirt, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He paced nervously back and forth, glancing around, then abruptly extinguished the cigarette on the railing and disappeared into the house.

"Well, Mr. Smith, who are you really?" William whispered, biting his lip.

He listened as bushes rustled in the yard, and the buzzing of cicadas filled the air. William held his breath, peering into the windows.

In one of them, Mateo flickered into view, talking on the phone. Through the slightly open window, fragments of phrases drifted out:

"…who are you telling this to? Didn't you learn from last time!?—his voice broke into a nervous rasp. "I'll slit your throat…" Mateo slammed the phone down on the table with force, rage washing over him. His hand instinctively clenched into a fist and crashed against the wall with a dull thud. Dust fell from the shelf, and his knuckles turned white. He cursed, roughly, almost growling, not caring if anyone heard.

At that moment, a woman approached him from behind, her long silky hair cascading over her shoulders, wearing a crimson dress that barely concealed her curves. She slid her hand along his back, tenderly, as though trying to calm the storm.

"Tranquilo, cariño…" she whispered softly. Her voice was smooth as velvet, though the words came out choppy and unfamiliar.

Mateo flinched but, without looking back, grasped her hand and turned to pull her close. He replied in the same language, hurriedly, his voice breaking, gently kissing her temple. "Hoy te haré una sorpresa," he whispered in her ear.

William, hidden nearby, strained to listen, but the meaning slipped away like sand through his fingers. "Damn, why did I skip those Spanish lessons?" he mentally cursed, forcing himself to focus; what was unfolding promised to be intriguing.

Meanwhile, Mateo tenderly caressed the girl's back, their lips meeting in a kiss, passion igniting between them instantly. She laughed softly, throwing her head back, while Mateo held her tighter. At first, everything seemed perfectly normal—a couple lost in their feelings. William felt awkward, like a voyeur, a powerless peeping Tom.

But suddenly, everything changed. Mateo's expression twisted, his eyes darkening with malice. His hand darted like a snake to the woman's neck, tightening around it in a steel grip. The girl gasped, her legs trembling as she struggled to break free, her nails digging into his wrist.

"Suelta… por favor…" she managed to choke out, her eyes wide with terror.

"What the hell is happening?!" William muttered, his heart racing.

The inner voice screamed: "Come on! You're not here for nothing!"

Without thinking, he lunged forward and jumped straight through the window—glass shattered in all directions, shards embedding in his skin and clothes. With a crash, he landed in the middle of the room, his boots leaving muddy prints on the floor.

Mateo, startled, released the woman, who collapsed to the floor with a dull groan, gasping for air. He turned sharply to face the guy in the black hoodie, bloody glass fragments protruding from his sleeves and pants.

"Damn it," William grimaced, wincing in pain. "What kind of glass do you have, psycho?" He pulled a long shard from his thigh, blood quickly pooling beneath his skin.

Mateo stared at him in shock, frozen for a moment, then suddenly dashed for the door.

"Hey, stop, you jerk! I'm not done yet!" William shouted and limped after him.

Gasping, Mateo burst into the bedroom, pulled a gun from under the pillow, and aimed it at the intruder. "Back off! Or I'll blow your head off! Who the hell are you?!" His voice trembled, fear and uncertainty flashing in his eyes.

William raised his hands, trying to appear harmless, though inside he was boiling with rage and excitement. His voice quivered, and a certain thrill sparkled in his eyes.

"Hey, take it easy, buddy! Don't freak out, okay? I'm not your enemy… I was just, you know, walking by, saw the window open, thought, why not come in?" he attempted to joke, cautiously stepping forward. "You could say I fell from the tree. Ha-ha…" He forced a smile, his fingers twitching nervously, as if waiting for the command to act.

Mateo wasn't buying it. His grip on the gun was so tight that his knuckles turned white. In his eyes, fury and paranoia boiled.

"What the hell are you doing crashing through my window, huh? Speak, you bastard!" he shouted, his voice sharp as a whip.

But William didn't back down. He slowly approached, keeping his gaze locked on Mateo, and suddenly asked quietly, almost venomously, "Do you even sleep well at night, Mateo? Do nightmares haunt you? You know what I'm talking about."

Mateo flinched slightly, furrowing his brow, but he didn't lower the weapon. "What the hell are you rambling about?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"About those girls," William continued, his anger escalating. "About what you did to them. Were you happy to see their faces in court? Happy that you were acquitted? Or do you enjoy it when they cry because of you? Monsters like you quickly forget about other people's pain…"

Mateo suddenly froze, then smirked, his lips stretching into a grotesque grin. "Oh, so you're the brother of one of those bitches? Or maybe you banged your mom?" He stepped forward, advancing on William, his voice rising to a shout: "The sluts couldn't do anything to me, so they sent their savior? We had everything consensual, and those bitches just wanted to get more cash! You pathetic loser! This is my house, got it? Even if I shoot you, nothing will happen to me! No one will know!"

He raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The deafening bang shattered the air, the bullet whizzing into the wall and knocking out a chunk of plaster. Mateo cursed, his hand trembling for a moment—this was what William had been waiting for.

William lunged forward, knocking Mateo to the ground. The gun slipped from his hand and rolled away. William pressed Mateo to the floor, using his body weight to hold him down, and tightened his grip around his throat, squeezing harder.

"Well, this isn't so fun now, is it?!" he hissed, pressing his knee into Mateo's chest. "Feel what it's like to suffocate, to be weaker than someone else?!"

Mateo gasped, his fingers desperately clawing at William's hands, his nails scratching at his skin, but the grip only tightened. Tears streamed down his cheeks, whether from pain or fear.

"Oh, yes!" William exclaimed with a twisted smile.

"You… psycho…" Mateo croaked, his eyes rolling back.

"Maybe," William snorted. "But you're my ticket to salvation!"

William didn't hold back; he released his sharp claws and plunged them into Mateo's flesh with fierce precision. The man howled, choking on his cries, writhing beneath him, but it was futile; each new wound added to his torment, and crimson streams pooled on the floor. The air filled with a sharp, metallic scent that tickled William's nostrils and awakened the beast within him. His eyes narrowed, pupils stretching into thin vertical slits, ignited by a yellow, inhuman light.

"Come on, come on, keep going!" the inner voice echoed in his head, triumphant and hungry. "Show what you're capable of, prove you're stronger!"

Realizing who he was up against, Mateo began to choke on fear. He tried to cover his face with bloodied hands, but William's claws found their mark again and again. His screams grew quieter, turning into pitiful sobs.

Suddenly, William froze, staring at his crimson, blood-soaked hands. They seemed not his own, but the paws of a beast that had once broken free and taken lives before. He felt it—the monster in the dark alley, tearing apart and devouring defenseless people—others' moans, screams, and pleas merged into a terrifying cacophony in his head.

"Damn, what am I doing?" he croaked, retreating from Mateo, breathing heavily. "I'm not a killer… I shouldn't be…"

An internal struggle engulfed him; the beast clawed to get out, demanding blood, but this time his conscience proved stronger. Gritting his teeth until they cracked, William forced his claws to disappear, bowed his head, and took a step back, preparing to leave.

At that moment, a searing pain shot through his shoulder—sharp, like a lightning strike. He was thrown aside, blood pouring down his shirt. Turning, clutching his wound, he saw the woman—the one he had just saved. In her hands, a trembling gun, her face twisted with a mix of fear and fury.

"Vete de nuestra casa! Get out! Monster!" she shouted in Spanish, her voice trembling as she added in English, barely holding back tears.

In William's mind, a mocking, grating laugh echoed.

"Always the same," the inner voice sneered. "You save someone, and they shoot at you. Life teaches nothing, huh?"

"Are you out of your mind?" William growled, feeling the wound on his shoulder closing before his eyes. "I just saved your life!"

The woman, trembling, attempted to fire again, but William was quicker. He lunged at her, dodged the bullet, slid to the side, and yanked the gun from her hands. She screamed, but before she could retreat, his palm struck her cheek with a loud crack. The blow was so powerful that she flew against the wall, collapsing to the floor with a dull thud and falling silent.

"Don't meddle when you're not asked!" he spat, breathing heavily.

He turned to Mateo, who was trembling and trying to crawl toward the door, leaving a bloody trail behind him. William approached slowly, step by step, like a predator.

"You know," he said in an icy voice, "I was actually going to spare you. I thought I'd let you live, suffer with your fears. But your loyal bitch changed my plans. So, when you find yourself in hell, thank her for it."

Mateo choked on his sobs, raising his bloodied hands in a pathetic attempt to shield himself.

"No… please… don't… I… I'm begging you…"

"Too late," William said, his voice devoid of pity or doubt.