Jack sighed happily, safely nestled in a tree and without a care in the world. Well, not really, he was just pretending it was that way. He wasn't relaxing, he was spying. On a murderer, no less.
Jack himself was no saint, but on a good day he didn't kill anyone- only borrow a few unneeded organs. He wasn't sure how his mind put it as 'borrow', since he never returned anything. He ate them because he got a hunger. It was no human hunger, of course. He didn't even have to eat at all normally, not until he felt it. Why of all things, was it for human flesh?
It was something out of a terrible horror movie, the need for a different kind of meat that clawed at his insides and caused him to go mad. Eyeless Jack, they called him. He gladly embraced the name, not having anything else to identify himself with- although that made it sound like he went around introducing himself in the first place, which he certainly did not. Not usually, unless faced with a more peculiar situation.
This was probably one of those situations.
Wandering was the norm for Jack. He had a remote cabin of his own he would stay in sometimes, but his way of living called for something a little less permanent, and so left him dragging himself around constantly. For the time that wasn't spent seeking those poor people he could end up traumatizing or even killing, he looked for some kind of clues as to what he was and what the hell he could do about it.
In his blind searches, he didn't discover answers, but stories. Stories about people and the strange occurrences that went on. Some things were merely curious, while others had made even someone like Jack want to be sick- although the best he could do was choke out some black sludge, another thing Jack wanted answers on. The dark disgusting slime that dripped out of his mouth and eyes constantly, leaving a never-leaving bitter taste in Jack's mouth. He had learned to live with it, but it was never truly comfortable.
The things these stories told of were horrifying, and not unlike himself. It was a start, if anything, to investigate these things. Although he felt he was pushing himself into a dead-end again, he had to try. It felt stupid, seeking out monsters that seemed far worse than himself, but anything to hold onto was worth a try, and Jack had plenty of time to spare.
That was what lead him here, creeping around in hopes of what, to talk to a serial killer? A nice, friendly chat? To feel some sort of special connection, like in any cheap romance? Yes, that was exactly what Jack wanted, it seemed. Too late to turn back now, right?
So he watched the small man with the terribly mutilated face do his work, slicing the innocents up in every way you could think of. A vague voice pushed in the back of Jack's mind, telling himself that if he really wanted to, he could've stepped in- saved the humans. This guy may be skilled, mainly for his seemingly strong amount of passion in murder, but Jack never felt a bit of pain and healed himself instantly, and would possibly be able to overpower or at least outlast the other.
But then he would he a hypocrite, wouldn't he? Jack shooed away the guilt threatening to weigh him down, instead offering promises of answers or companionship in it's place.
No, no, not companionship. He did not need to become good pals with a psychopath with a strange face. But then again, Jack was also a psychopath with a strange face. The hypocrisy returns.
After decidedly everything that moved was dead, the man stood in silence among the bodies, perhaps taking the time to appreciate his work. What is it one would think at that point, anyway? 'Job well done that is, stabbing all of these innocent civilians,' and then they give themselves a pat on the back? Or is it something more along the lines of 'Ah, the blood of the innocents... I will now drink it and pray to the dark lords...'?
Right, no. Jack will never ask that question to any actual psychopaths, his pondering ends up with stupid things sometimes. Only sometimes? No, correction, most of the time they do, but that happens when you've been alone for so long.
The last time he had looked the man had been seemingly admiring the death his actions had so purposefully brought, but Jack realized he had turned and had been staring almost straight at him for more time than felt comfortable. It wasn't as though he saw Jack, it seemed, but he knew something was there. Knowing that permanently etched on smile and unblinking eyes had been directed so close to him sent a shiver of discomfort, but also a spark of interest. The contradicting feelings settled finally on the refusal to back down from this terrible idea, as Jack dropped himself from the tree at last.