Carver looked in the mirror and smiled. Carver. Of course it wasn’t his real name; it was the one he gave himself when he did… what he did. It was his little way of playing a role, just as he played roles as an actor. He studied the crow’s feet under his eyes, the lines in his forehead, the crosshatching on his cheeks from too much sun, and sighed. He didn’t much like his face, and being an actor, he had to look at it more than he cared to. Before shows there was makeup to apply, costumes to wriggle into, wigs and putty and greasepaint. Mirrors were stock in trade for an actor. Because he didn’t care for the sight of his own face, Carver enjoyed roles in which he was able to hide it. He specialized in character parts-disfigured, deformed cripples and clowns, the more bizarre the better. He was never happier than when playing a tortured, reviled loner, feeling more comfortable in costume than in his own identity.
That’s why being Carver was so much fun. It was a part he had invented for himself-a kind of ongoing improvisation where life was the stage and the other actors were his victims. He hadn’t known how much fun it would be-that came as a surprise. Originally he’d been motivated by rage, by desire for revenge, but the satisfaction he got from the deed itself was a revelation. He liked killing.
Of course he was meticulous-the planning, the careful preparation-all of that was important. But the moment of the attack itself brought a thrill, a rush of pleasure unlike any he had ever experienced. Oh, he had killed people onstage plenty of times, but this was different-this was real. He had actual control over his victims-the ultimate power of life and death. It was intoxicating, and he would have more of it, he vowed, no matter what.
He lifted the long blue cloak from the coatrack and wrapped it around his shoulders, admiring the figure he cut in the mirror. The seeds for his bloodlust had been sewn in his childhood-he knew this, just as he knew that he had successfully hidden his darker urges from those closest to him. Even as a child, the injustice of his father’s treatment was clear to him-he alone was singled out for tongue lashing, belittlement, humiliation. Physical beatings were rare, but the emotional violence had done its work. Faggot! Pansy! Girlie boy! His father’s words still rang in his ears whenever he put on a costume or smeared greasepaint on his cheeks-but with it came a grim satisfaction that he was doing what he wanted, his father be damned.
He had been only twelve when he spied on his cousin for the first time, peering through the window of her bedroom while she undressed, and the thought of that moment satisfied him for weeks. Then came the underwear theft-at first from his female relatives, but later on he became bolder, creeping into the girls’ locker room at school, and even breaking into neighboring houses on weekends when they were away.
And now he was playing Carver, the role of a lifetime. He reached down for the sword on the table beside him. He held it up to the light and admired the polished steel of its blade. An appropriate weapon, and one he was skilled in using. His fencing lessons were paying off in more ways than one. He smiled as he slid the sword into the scabbard at his side.