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CHAPTER ONE.
❝ You write me up and say it's love. ❞
¨. ༢ ͎۪۫ . ... ❜
Aris loved murder. He would borrow books that included murder.
Murder was his comfort, murder was his love, his life.
Hell, he hated those cliché books that only talked about someone stabbing someone.
Those where boring, he enjoyed the ones that described the scene perfectly.
The way the murderer would cut off the victims head and stuff it into a stick pole. That was a sick idea.
Everyday he read or watched a murder movie, he would jot down in his little journal how the murderer would specifically dismember their victims.
He would also write the way the murderers escaped the police without being suspected. The items they bought like bleach, gloves and more cool stuff.
Aris had a bag underneath his bed, that no one was allowed to touch, expect him.
Every week his mom gave him £50 for doing his chores. He ended up wasting his money on cleaning supplies.
He also had written down on his journal the court sentences for each crime.
Aris had found out people could get a lighter sentence if they plead insanity.
If you were to ask Aris, what's your dream job?
He'd probably reply like any teenage boy would. A footballer.
But deep down he wanted and still wants to be a murderer.
Aris was jotting down on his journal, a smile spread around his face. He stopped writing and checked all the pages.
His journal was almost full now and he needed a new one.
He sat up and look across the room at the mirror who was staring back at him, gloomily.
Aris' style wasn't unique. He had light brown hair. His brown hair in the front was cut into uneven choppy bangs, that covered his forehead. His olive emerald eyes blinked at the mirror. And a huge scar that cut through his left eye.
He was wearing Horrid Henry themed PJ's. He rubbed his eyes and stretched.
Aris pushed his bangs out of his eyes, and smirked, "who's this diva?"
