hitman scene 2

hello again another scene of my story - there's a bit of bad language I've asterixed it but thought i'd warn ya anyways (there's also mention of torture).

still haven't come up with a good name for it so i'll keep titling scene 1,2,3... suggestions would be amazing if you want to

this carries on a while after the last scene, where simon has now made his deal with markus and he's putting up with his violence. enjoy and please comment on what i can improve on!

Scene 2

You sadistic c**t.

Marcus chuckled and waved the paper in front of Simon’s face. “Now now, Simon, what if your dear sweet sister heard you talking like that!” his eyes alight with glee, every word dripping with heavy sarcasm. He folded the contract back up and stuffed it into his frayed denim shorts.

He handed him the fluffy bunny ears.

Stuffing them onto his head, scowling at Marcus, the scabs on his fingers and arms cracked and oozed fresh fluid. At least embarrassing headwear was better than Marcus’ usual commands. As if telepathic, Markus pulled the scalpel from his pocket and twirled it through his fingers non-chalantly. “I like you Simon” he admitted “you’re such fun. A little sister’s life for your own freedom. Usually the contracts are for people a little less selfless than that, if I knew how, I would probably respect that” he said whilst absent-mindedly scraping at Simon’s fingertips with the scalpel, who simply winced and let a tear trickle down his cheek. Markus grinned again and dug around for the contract in his pocket. He scanned through the list of agreements, scalpel in hand. “Yup it’s all here, I got you for five whole years in which I can do whatever I like with you, and today my dear friend; I want you to wear these bunny ears”. He smirked as he neatly put the contract and scalpel away again. Relieved, Simon sighed slightly louder than he had hoped to. Marcus didn’t appear to notice, but the slight twitch of a smile made Simon doubt it.

***

Walking down the street. Eyes focused on him. Why was this so difficult? He should be glad this was all Markus had planned for today, but he still couldn’t bear the attention.

Simon was the sort of person that no-one notices until their grizzly suicide is plastered across the papers for the shock factor when there is nothing else available to provoke mild intrigue. Simon liked that, because he didn’t like people. People in return didn’t like him, or at least they wouldn’t if they got to know him. Mostly people just refused to acknowledge his existence and Simon was very happy with that. Until now.

Now people were looking at him. They were taking notice and were interested in him. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted to run and get out of public view but that would only create more of a scene. Why were people only interested in him when he was doing something embarrassing that could make them feel superior? Turning up in class with red, weeping flesh on his arms and hands because Markus had been having fun with knives attracted a single worried glance from a teacher who then saw his black hair and immediately dismissed him as another idiotic emo whose only true problems were what other’s thought of his eyeliner and his sexual orientation confusion.

Simon wasn’t an emo; emos in his class were identical pale clones, pedantically clothed in their morbid uniform of converse, band tees that were pretentiously picked to be unknown to others and skinny jeans that strangely were still baggy at the back but thankfully so tight at the front they had no chance of procreating and producing more pathetic wannabe Goth spawn.

Simon wasn’t Emo, Gangsta, Skater, Scene kid, Goth, Jock, Prep, Stoner, Punk, Hipster, Cheerleader, Nerd, Hardcore kid, Metal head, Hippy, Poser, Playa, Artsy, Wannabe, Mosher, Mod, Indie kid, Townie or Chav. He couldn’t be happier. He hated them all. He hated everyone. He hated himself. But he loved Jenny.

Then again, self-disgust and self-obsession are virtually the same thing, how could he continually obsess about his own self-hatred and then criticize others for being vain? He shuddered and wondered why this was such a big deal. Why was he only beginning to feel like an outcast now? He couldn’t understand why confronting his hatred of everyone and his feelings of isolation was more painful to him than Markus’s usually fun of talking off a strip of skin bit by bit, shaving of the flesh of his fingers so only pulpy meat and bone remains, left to heal and then slowly stripped away again.

Somewhere far away Markus snickered to himself, the thought of Simon torturing himself with his own exasperately misanthropic brain made him want to giggle. So he did.