The morning was unusually cold, and the light filtered into the classroom dimly, almost hesitantly. The students' voices mingled: fleeting greetings, short laughs, conversations that lasted no longer than the moment. In the corner near the window, a solitary boy sat, sharing nothing with anyone, staring at the glass where the sky shattered in a pale reflection.
"What's wrong with that stranger?" a student said to his friend, glancing at him. "Leave him be," the other replied indifferently. "Percival's always like that. He thinks he's better than us because he's so high up."
Percival didn't turn around. His true voice was within him.
Here I am, alone. But I prefer solitude. It gives me space to think, to see myself without noise. I look at them: laughing, dispersing, pretending their friendships are genuine. All disguised self-interest, borrowed laughter, feigned sorrow when a favor is required. Lies breeding lies.
He clenched his jaw. One name floated like a thorn in his mind: William.
I want him to disappear. The thought of killing him visits me with a chilling coldness. Then I snap out of it: What the hell am I thinking? And even if he dies, what will change? The wind won't stop, the sun won't withdraw from the sky. Those who feign concern will weep, then replace it with another face. Graves are all shapes and sizes, and visiting corpses is a meaningless ritual.
The bell rang. Finally.
In the hallways, the school was one moving body. Many bodies, few eyes. William approached and nudged Percival with his shoulder.
"Ah, excuse me… I thought you were trash."
They laughed. Percival composed himself, swallowed the insult, and walked on.
He deserves to die… but if I do it, I'll be the prime suspect. Unfortunately for me, and fortunately for him.
He returned home to no one to greet him. No mother's voice, no father's presence. Only his little sister, ten years old, ran to him and hugged him.
"I missed you, big brother."
He smiled faintly. "Me too."
His father, Edmund, was a successful but cold pharmacist, absent even when present, betraying others silently without ever offering an apology. His mother, Alana, a brilliant surgeon, narcissistic to the point of cruelty, wore her Oxford degree like an eternal badge of honor. They married for similarity, then separated in spirit.
On the television, a news item kept repeating: a serial killer was roaming the area. Fifteen bodies… maybe more.
Who could it be? Percival wondered. I wanted to talk to him. Just talk. Someone who understood me, not someone whose only concern was sleeping with his colleague.
He went up to his room and studied. The hours dragged on.
"I need air."
His mother didn't stop him, even though it was nearly ten o'clock, and even though the news said the killer came out at night and didn't kill children.
Percival went out into the streets, carrying a glass bottle of water. He remembered William's words. His eyes filled with hatred, and his body heated up. He squeezed the bottle, and it shattered, and blood flowed. He didn't scream. He didn't wince. He watched the blood calmly.
Suddenly, it started to rain, and thunder split the sky.
"Wonderful… my day is full of surprises."
On his way back, he passed a tree. He saw a man on a ladder, as if he were cutting branches.
He moved closer.
They weren't just branches. They were wrapped around the naked body of a man, hanging from the tree. His eyes were missing. Around him were aconite flowers, beautiful and poisonous.
A shiver ran through Percival.
So this was the killer.
The man turned; he heard his footsteps. He came down from the ladder. The rain lashed them, the lightning revealing the details. He was wearing a transparent raincoat.
For the sake of DNA… clever.
The killer didn't speak. Didn't attack. Looked, then moved on.
Why did he leave me? Percival wondered. As if he were sure I wouldn't report him.
He approached the body, staring for a long time.
Isn't this… William's father?
At that moment, he felt neither gloating nor fear. He simply felt that something had begun.