19
Epiphany
Grayson
Every life follows a pattern.
Just as a killer has a signature, there’s a clear design within each life that makes it inherently ours. Unique.
History repeats itself.
It’s a clichéd saying for a reason. And it didn’t take me long to understand that, even at a young age, I could see the framework. The structure. I could suss out the sequence in the puzzle and anticipate the next piece. I knew what was coming.
From my earliest memory, I remember the fear. As I looked into my mother’s eyes, I saw my future, the inevitable trap. My trap. The finality of me…all in her deranged gaze.
Of course, I tried to escape. I’ve been on a mission to escape that fear my whole life. Pick one lock only to be captured and locked in hell all over again. A never-ending cycle.
Part of my pattern. My design.
I inhale a deep breath, tasting the rain-covered asphalt amid the humid night. I stop walking when I hit the back entrance to the alley near the Refuge. I want to savor this moment.
A person’s pattern is nearly impossible to break.
Like I’ve said before, I was able to endure a couple years before the compulsions started to drive me mad. Then like winding a watch, I’d turn back the hands, resetting the countdown with every kill.
But that only buys time. It’s hardly a healthy treatment plan.
I’m only escaping from one form of prison to the next. Over and over. Until the second hand stops ticking for good.
I bury my hands in my pockets, touch the switchblade. Comfort. Then I turn into the alley. I walk the long stretch with a single thought beating against my skull. I could’ve killed Detective Foster and Agent Nelson. It would’ve been the simplest solution.
Once I knew undoubtedly that the copycat killer was one or the other, once I had them both in my city, I could’ve easily offed Foster before he tracked me to London’s office. And Nelson? London could’ve effortlessly led him to a private location where we both could’ve taken our time and enjoyed the kill.
But like a puzzle demands to be completed, a game has to be played to the end.
London may choose to believe that I took the game too far, my disorder ruling over intelligence, the compulsion to create an elaborate disaster and witness the turmoil, to snuff out the chaos, too great to overcome. That I jeopardized us both.
There is that…to some extent. It’s why I’ve been caught before. The more elaborate the trap, the greater the risk.
And then there’s the issue of my pride. The Y chromosome dictating my actions, the thought of the world believing the copycat murders were done at my hand—destroying my work, a mockery.
I really do loathe the bastard for that.
But in the end, it was none of these things. She’s always been my goal, my purpose—even before I fully realized it for myself.
London was my epiphany.
It’s such a beautiful word. Epiphany. Just the sound of it, the taste of the syllables curling over your tongue, the puff of air across your lips. The moment the word is uttered, it’s like a striking realization descends, as if some powerful force beams sheer enlightenment into your head. And for a single moment, everything is clear.
Perfect and pristine.
Every single misstep and tangled web woven was for her.
So she could follow the clues, piece together the puzzle.
She’s my key.
There’s a pattern to life, and my pattern was designed the moment my mother spit me from her rotten womb. A bond steeped in madness—a prison I can’t escape.