He could feel the eyes on him even before he stepped out of the house. Cold, dead eyes, each one watching. No one ever looked at him like they cared. Not once, not ever. All of them just...waiting. Waiting for a crack in him, some sign of weakness, some moment when they could take their shot. But he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Not anymore.
In the front yard, the broken swing groaned in the wind. The chains had rusted long ago, and the seat dangled, swaying like a body just out of reach. A child's relic, yet not a single child had played here in years.
They never came around. Not after what happened. Not after he made them all see. Or killed them all, depending on how you wanted to put it.
He'd been hearing the voices for months, the ones telling him to do it. At first, they whispered. Quiet, barely a breath against his ear. He ignored them. But then the voices grew louder. They were constant now, urging him to act, to do what he knew he had to do.
They were everywhere. The neighbors, the people at work, the strangers in the street. All of them. Enemies. Their eyes bore into him, always waiting for him to slip up. He was sick of it. The fake smiles, the endless judgments. It had to end.
The house stood behind him, a decaying, lifeless shell. The windows were shut tight, the blinds drawn. No one would come out. No one would stop him. They'd given him space for too long, thinking maybe, just maybe, he'd change. But they didn't know what he knew.
They were all in on it, all of them, playing their part in this sick little game. They didn't care about him. They never had.
The first one was easy. He'd been watching her for days, waiting. She'd always been nice to him. Too nice. He never trusted nice people. They were the ones who stabbed you in the back. They pretended to care, but they didn't. She never really saw him. She never really knew him.
She stood by her car, fumbling with her keys. Her back was to him, so she never heard him approach. He didn't even need to think about it. He just moved, the way a predator moves, swift and silent.
He pulled the knife from his coat, cold steel biting his palm. One step. Two. She turned just in time to see the flash of metal.
There was no scream. Not from her. She fell forward, faceplanting on the concrete driveway. He watched her body twitch, her hands reaching out for something she would never touch. His hands were steady. His mind was clear. He had no remorse. She was just one more enemy.
The second one came a day later. He didn't need to think about it, didn't even plan. He just acted. The woman at the coffee shop. She smiled at him. Not today. Today, he smiled back, and that smile wasn't for her.
Her blood had stained the floor in front of the counter. She was on the ground, her face frozen in an expression he could never forget. The customers had run. They always ran.
None of them stayed to face him. None of them ever stayed long enough.
As days turned to weeks, the voices grew louder, more insistent. The third one was the hardest, the one who had been closest to him. He thought, for a moment, that maybe it wouldn't happen. That maybe he could stop. But that was a lie. And lies weren't welcome here anymore. Lies were for the weak. The enemy.
His brother.
They sat across from each other, a cold cup of coffee between them, their eyes avoiding each other's gaze. No words passed between them. His brother didn't know. Didn't understand. How could he? His brother still lived in the world of delusions, thinking everything could be fixed, that everything could go back to the way it was. He didn't see what was coming. He didn't hear the voices.
The knife was in his hand again. He watched his brother for a long time. His chest heaved, his heartbeat drumming in his ears. But he did it. One swift movement. The table flipped, the coffee splashing in a red arc across the room. Blood ran in the cracks of the floorboards. His brother's face contorted, and for a moment, just a moment, he saw fear in his eyes.
"Why?" his brother gasped, his voice weak.
He didn't answer. His mind was clear. The world was a little quieter now.
They had been enemies. All of them. Even him. Even family.
By now, no one questioned it. The town had already begun to fall apart. No one wanted to be the next one. People avoided his gaze. They locked their doors. They knew.
But that didn't stop him. He didn't care. They could cower all they wanted, but he wasn't finished. The voices weren't finished. They were in his head, louder now, sharper. They called to him, urging him on. There was still more to be done. Still more to fix.
One night, he stood on the edge of the town, watching the houses below. The streets, quiet. No one was out. No one ever was anymore. It was all too easy. One by one, they had fallen. It was no longer about survival. It was about what he knew. What he had to do.
The last one. The one who had been the hardest. She was the last of the people who had once cared. Or so he thought. But now, looking at her face, knowing what he had to do, he could see it. She wasn't different. She was just another mask. Another enemy. She had waited long enough.
The moon hung low, casting pale light over the scene. She stood alone on the porch, waiting for him. Waiting for her turn.
He didn't hesitate this time. No second thoughts, no remorse. He could hear her breathing, her footsteps creaking on the wooden floor. He walked toward her, slow, deliberate. Her eyes never left him.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice soft. Too soft. "You don't have to do this."
He didn't speak. He raised the knife. His hand trembled, but only slightly. He was in control. Always in control.
The knife came down, again and again, until the porch was red. She never screamed. Not once. Not as he stood over her, her body lifeless and cold. She had known what he would do. She had known it long before he ever made the first move.
But as he stood over her, the voices stopped.
The silence was deafening. The weight of it was crushing.
And then, like a wave crashing over him, he realized something. The people weren't the enemies. They hadn't been. It wasn't them. It was never them.
It was him.
He stood there in the cold, staring at the blood-soaked earth beneath him. His breath came in short gasps, and his legs shook beneath him. The fog of realization had finally broken through. He hadn't been the hunter. He had been the prey all along. The voices hadn't been his salvation. They had been his undoing.
And now, there was nothing left.
The town was empty. The streets were silent. The people had all fallen. But in the end, it wasn't their eyes that had killed him.
It was his own.