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Killing someone isn’t just about the taking of a life. It isn’t about the murder itself, let alone the power you feel with each intake of the smell of blood.
It’s about the heart. It’s about being able to hold that person’s ability to live in the palm of your hand. You have the decision to take it away fast or do it as slowly as you possibly can. Either way, you can watch the person take staggering breaths, clinging to this life that we know. You can see the fear in their eyes, and that, that my friends, is something special.
The ability to just see what a person is really like at their time of death, it’s amazing. There are two kinds of people when you take a knife to them: They’re either the ones that will beg and plead for you to not kill them, because, after all, they have so much to live for. They’ll cry and whimper like children and they won’t even put up a fight. Once you get a few good jabs into this type, they’re yours to do with whatever you like. Now, as for the other kind, they’re my favorite. Instead of sniveling, they’ll actually put up a brawl, thinking that, instead of me, they have the power to win. But, what they really don’t get is, is that I know them. I know them better than their mothers or fathers ever did. I know what each one does in the privacy of their own home, what they do in their spare time, how they talk to their friends on the phone. I know everything. And this, this is something that causes the fighting type to lose. What they think is they’re realm of safety is mine to control. And, with that, I have the dominance. In the end, when they know that they’ve lost, they give up and taking their life is a breeze.
Each and every one is special. I never kill for pleasure and I never kill for the thrill. I just, do it. Simple as that. Every person I choose has some type of meaning, whether it’s the way they look at me at the supermarket, or whether it’s the way they just simply talk. Either way, it doesn’t matter what they do. They’re life is in my hands. I am their God.
And they know that. The moment they see me coming, they know. They scream for leniency, for forgiveness, for me to just let them go. You never hear them calling out for the Big Man. It’s me they call out to. Me.
But I am not a merciful god. I don’t care what they want, I don’t care for all the good things they’ve done. Hell, I don’t even care about the bad things. Funny, that most of my targets think that’s the reason I’m killing them. If only I had the ability to tell someone the true motive behind my antics. Would they listen? Or would they just only pretend to, thinking that if they do I’ll have pity and let them go? That’s the thing about people. They’ll do just about anything to survive.
I traced the blade over the glass, hearing the scathing sound creep through the silence. The glint of red on the metal caught my eye and I stopped.
The smell was there. Her heartbeat was still there, beating loud and clear. It was slowing down, but it was still there thumping and striving to live.
I pulled the curtains back over the window, shutting out the streetlights and the passing cars.
The smell was overwhelming now.
I brought the sharp edge to my face, inhaling the scent, the scent of a life. I ran it over my tongue. The taste of a life.
A cough broke its way through my thoughts and I turned around.
“Please,” she whispered, her fingers gripping the stained carpet, “please…”
I kneeled beside her and ran the knife over her cheek. Cut. “Please, what?”
“You don’t…have to…do this. Please.”
I placed a finger over her trembling lips. “Hush, now. And don’t worry,” I smiled and tilted her face away from me, just so she could see her dying reflection in the mirror she had managed to push in front of me before I broke through the door. “I forgive you.”
A trickle of blood seeped past her lips and onto the carpet. The wounds on her abdomen pulsated through her ripped t-shirt. It wouldn’t be long now.
I brushed a strand of her dark hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear, being careful to not get it tangled in the multiple piercings. I then moved behind her head and placed it in my lap. “Tell me something, Zoe, are you afraid to die?”
She closed her eyes.
“Well, are you?” The heartbeat was slowing more, now.
Whatever her answer was, she wasn’t able to say it. Instead, she let blood leak from her nostrils and I suddenly felt its warmth on my thigh.
I gently placed her head back on the carpet and positioned myself next to her. I rested my hand where her heart was. Thump. Thump. Thump. Pause. Thump. A longer pause. Thump. My smile grew wider and I took a strong grip on the hilt of the knife.
And, then, in one quick motion, Zoe was dead and her heart was silenced.
I pulled the knife from her, relishing the calm and clarity that came with this passing. I wiped her blood on her arm and got up. “I don’t forgive, Zoe. Underestimating me was the last thing you should’ve thought about doing.”
I then stopped every clock in the house, just like I had done with all the others.
I had entered Zoe’s home at eleven fifteen. I was leaving at eleven thirty-two.
The man with the mask was back. All I could see were his eyes, this soulless icy blue. And his smile, I could see that too. His teeth were hanging loosely in his gums, some of them yellow, some of them decaying away.
“Did you do it?”
I picked up one of the magazines I kept on the table in front of the television. I flipped it open. “Yeah I did it.” I let myself scan over the table of contents. “Why? Did you not think I would?”
He moved behind me and placed a leather gloved hand on my head. “Of course not.” That hand began to stroke my hair. “You’re special. And I taught you well.” He then kissed my cheek. “You’re my little princess.”
I looked up and faced my reflection from the television screen. Doing so, I came face to face with the same mask the man had been wearing. Only this time, I looked like the terrifying laughing clown, while he watched on with the color of red on his face in a suit and tie.