All A Blur

It was all a blur: the fans, the fame, the flashing cameras. But what star-blogger Katrina didn't realise was that he was watching. Silhouetted against a screen, he was searching. And soon, she was going to have to start running... *For the Solitaire competition*

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1. Prologue

The keys rattled under his pale, elongated fingers, the sound almost reminiscent of a rat's claws scrabbling against harsh tiles. Words were appearing on the screen at a pace that would match the rodent's speed, but they would deliver even larger a bite to their unsuspecting victim. 

The man himself held a rather rat-like composure - hunched back, slick, greasy hair and beady, black-pit eyes - but his personality, hidden beneath the unpleasant exterior, was more like a Praying Mantis: a creature stalking its prey, camouflaged by a computer screen. A predator. 

His name was known only to his birth parents - although he'd made sure they were rotting in their grave at twenty-two and twenty-five after all they'd done to him. Instead, he went by his username at all times:

'Bullseye'. 

It had been a difficult decision, his name. What impression did he want to give? Should it appear friendly? Should it fill the reader with dread? Or should it simply slide into the background along with all the other childish titles? 

Deep down, he knew he should have chosen something completely opposite to him. Perhaps 'sunshineforever' might have been more obscure. But once he had thought of Bullseye, he knew that it was perfect. 

The word itself, he'd read in a dictionary, in context meant a missile that hits the centre of the target. He was, or at least his words were, a deadly missile: once he'd locked onto his target, there was no escape. He never missed. Just caught them bang in the centre. 

Bullseye. 

Smirking, he sat back in his chair, re-reading his latest message. It was written to some annoying YouTuber, who was fighting against Anti-Bullying. Which, of course, meant they needed to be taken care of - and was there a more ironic way to do it? Just send them blackmail messages and they'd be long gone. 

He wouldn't even have to follow it through.

The message before him, about to be posted in the 'Private Comments' section, read:

Bullseye: Stop. Stop what you're doing immediately. I have your house number. I have your work office address. I have your parents' house number. I have your daughter's school address. I have anything I want at the tips of my fingers. I even have guns in my reach. 

If you fail to comply - and by that, I mean delete every trace of yourself from every site you've ever touched - and I hear of you starting things again, I'll remove you from the world.

Don't bother reporting me: I think you can figure out the consequences. 

Ta ta for now,

-BULLSEYE-

Chuckling to himself, he pressed send. It had always amazed him how little it took for people to do what he asked. How little it took for them to pack up their puny little blogs and run like hell. 

He licked his crooked teeth, running his tongue over the sharp canines. It felt so good: the harsh, angular edge of the enamel against the smooth, wetness of the muscle. Sometimes, he liked to imagine himself like that - a dagger-like point digging into the flabby, weak minds of his targets. He hated them. So, so much. They had it all. Fame. Money. A reason to live. 

He'd had that all taken from him. And someone had to pay, didn't they? People might have argued that they were innocent people, but he'd been innocent. He'd been small. He'd been good and kind and happy and it had still happened to him.

So why not them? Why not the ordinary people? After all, it was an ordinary person who had turned him, so it was ordinary people who should have to pay. 

And anyway, he loved to watch them flee...

 

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