The Hollow Man

The Hollow Man

The blood is still warm on my hands. It seeps into the cracks of my skin, staining my fingers like ink on old parchment. I rub them together, feeling the stickiness, the weight of it. The body behind me—cooling, empty—is nothing now. Just another ending. Just another moment slipping into the past.

I turn and walk away, my heartbeat steady, my mind clear. The city swallows me whole, neon lights flickering above as I blend into the shadows. No one looks twice. No one ever does.

1991

"Shut up, you little bastard. Go make yourself useful and find me something to sell."

I was five the first time my father sent me out to steal.

He was hunched over a dirty spoon, burning away whatever poison kept him alive. His eyes—yellowed, sunken—never saw me. Not really. I was just another thing in the house, another mouth to feed, another problem to ignore.

My mother lay sprawled on the couch, half-conscious, a vodka bottle clutched in her hand. The stench of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke filled the room, wrapping around me like something alive.

I used to ask for love. I used to cry.

But after the first few times my father threw me into the walls, after the first cigarette burn, after the nights spent outside in the cold because I wasn’t wanted inside, I learned.

Love wasn’t for me. Love was for the lucky ones.

A siren wails in the distance, but I don’t react. I keep walking, my hands in my pockets, my pace unhurried. The blood has started to dry now, darkening at the edges. I’ll clean it off soon, but for now, I let it stay. I like the way it feels.

There’s something real about it.

1997

"You think you’re better than me, you little shit?"

I was eleven the first time I fought back.

He had me pinned against the kitchen counter, his breath thick with whiskey, his hands searching for something I didn’t want to give. His fingers dug into my arm, bruising, pulling.

I don’t remember thinking. I just remember acting.

The broken beer bottle was in my hand before I even realized it. I swung hard, slicing across his cheek. Blood poured down his face, a deep red river. He howled, staggering back, hands clutching his skin.

For the first time, I felt something other than fear.

I felt power.

But my mother? She didn’t care. She didn’t scream. Didn’t check if I was okay. She just grabbed a frying pan and swung it at my head.

When I woke up, I was in the basement. No food. No water. Just darkness.

Three days later, they let me out. No one spoke of it again.

But I knew.

I knew what I was that day.

A survivor. Or maybe a monster in the making.

I slip into the underground tunnel, the flickering lights casting long, trembling shadows. The air is thick with mildew, damp and suffocating. I think about the girl.

The way she begged.The way she pleaded.The way her pulse fluttered against my palm like a trapped bird. I think about how she reminded me of someone.

Someone small.Someone afraid. Someone weak.

I gave her the only mercy I know.

And I watched the light leave her eyes. It’s always the best part.

2005

"You don’t have to be like them."

I was nineteen the first time someone believed I could be saved. Her name was Evelyn.

She was in my psychology class at the community college I somehow scraped my way into. She was bright, soft, kind. She asked me questions no one ever had. What do you want to do with your life? What makes you happy?

I didn’t know how to answer. I had never been allowed to dream before.

She touched me once, just a brush of fingers against my wrist, and I flinched. I will never forget the look on her face—pity, sadness, something close to grief.

“You don’t have to be like them. You're better,” she said after I shared what my parents were like.

For a moment, I believed her.

For a moment, I wanted to believe her.

I reach my apartment, locking the door behind me. The city is shut out. The world is silent.

I strip off my jacket, my shirt, watching the last traces of her fade from my skin. But it’s never enough.

Because the hunger? The need?

It’s still there.

Waiting.

2006

"She saw something in you. She cared for you."

That’s what they told me at the funeral. Evelyn’s funeral.

The police said it was random. A robbery gone wrong. A tragic accident.

But I knew better.

I knew what really happened.

Because I was there.

Because I was the one who watched the life drain from her eyes, just like all the others.

Because when she touched my wrist that day, when she looked at me like I was worth saving—she made a mistake.

She made me want to be someone else.

And I couldn’t have that.

I step into the shower, feeling the water wash over me, turning pink as it swirls down the drain.

Somewhere out there, another one is waiting.

A girl walking home alone. A man leaving a bar too late. A stranger who won’t even see me coming.

They won’t understand. No one understands.

Because once you’re broken—

Once the monster is awake—

There’s no way back.

------------------

Dr. Samuel Whitaker exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair as he stared at the open case file before him. The dim glow of his office lamp cast deep shadows across the stacks of reports, crime scene photos, and psychological assessments littering his desk. He rubbed his temple, pushing away the exhaustion creeping into his bones.

This one was different.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

Maybe they were all the same.

He adjusted his glasses and picked up his pen, his handwriting sharp and precise as he began the final notes for his report.

Behavioral Analysis – Case Report | UNSUB Profile

Agent Name: Dr. Samuel Whitaker

Date: [Redacted]

Subject: UNSUB Profile – Active Homicide Case

"The suspect is a highly disturbed individual, molded by extreme neglect, abuse, and prolonged exposure to violence. His background suggests a complete lack of emotional attachment in early childhood, leading to severe antisocial tendencies. He exhibits high-functioning sociopathy, an absence of remorse, and a methodical approach to murder. There is no doubt that this individual has been killing for years, refining his process, escalating with each act. The compulsion to kill is no longer just a need—it is part of his identity.

He will not stop. He does not want to stop.

This case is a reminder that monsters are not born; they are made. And once they emerge, there is no undoing the damage. Rehabilitation is not an option for someone like him. His sense of power comes from destruction, and without intervention, the cycle will continue indefinitely. His victims will keep appearing, their final moments spent staring into the eyes of a man who feels nothing."

Whitaker set his pen down, rubbing his tired eyes. It never got easier, no matter how many years he spent staring into the minds of men like this.

He flipped to another page in his planner, jotting down a note under tomorrow’s schedule.

Seminar Topic: "Protecting the Future – How Childhood Trauma Shapes Violent Offenders."

Below that, he underlined a single sentence.

"This is why we must protect children at all costs—because everything starts at the beginning."

He sighed and closed the file. Another monster out there. Another victim waiting to die.

And another night where sleep wouldn’t come.

The Hollow Man