Clayton remembered every person he killed. His first murder, especially. He remembered the way the swiss army knife felt in his palm, the low beat of adrenaline that swept through him. It was a game, one that he would always win. He found his first victim in an alley way, one situated a fair way away from the main streets - although there never was a lot of nightlife in the town. She was smoking a cheap cigarette, wearing stilettos that she could barely walk in. Clayton remembered wondering if she was a prostitute. It didn’t matter either way.
Stretching out across the stiff bed in his assigned room, Clayton idly counted the cracks running across the roof. This place was a shit hole - and he’d spent the majority of the past year hanging around a goddamn sewer. He was bored - he had a feeling he was going to feel that way until he got out of this place. There was nothing to do, except sit around and wait for them to call you up for one of their ‘experiments’. The experiments didn’t bother Clayton that much: they were annoying, and pointless more than anything. At least it was fun to fuck around with the doctors, make them think something was working. It was amusing to watch them scribbling furiously on their little clipboards, when he knew everything they were recording down was bullshit.
Sighing, Clayton pushed himself up from the bed, the springs creaking as he shifted his weight. Wandering the corridors might lead to something a little more interesting than counting cracks on the ceiling. Somebody might have cigarettes - he wasn’t even a smoker, but it would keep him busy for a few minutes. Walking out into the hall, he headed left, itching for something - anything.