“They found two more bodies.” Anna told me.
“What?” I asked. Anna tossed a newspaper at me. I looked down at the headline announcing two girls, sisters, were found, throats slit, in an alley yesterday night.
“Wow,” I said.
“Yea, I know,” Anna said, gripping her books closer to her. “They have found several like this, but lately it’s increasing. It has to be the same person, their all murdered the same way. Just be careful, okay? It could be anyone!”
“I know!” I said, then turned away from her and smiled to myself.
Tonight was my night. I pulled my hair back, smeared on some lip stick, dressed all in black. I looked out at the night sky, it was darkening. I grabbed the razor out from underneath my mattress.
“Mom,” I called down the hallway, “I have a ton of homework to catch up on I’m going over to Anna’s!”
“Okay, honey, be home by ten.” I walked out the front door and began walking the streets, looking for my next victim.
Sometimes I asked myself why I never wanted to cry, why I never felt anything but anger, then joy slicing open a throat. I smiled when I thought of it. How come I never had emotions? Why I never felt sadness, guilt, remorse? I don’t know, but from a very early age I learned this wasn’t normal, when I first remember seeing my mom cry over her mom, my grandma, dying. I didn’t feel bad, but I trained myself to appear normal, to take on emotions, but only in front of people. My mother never suspects, my best friend, Anna, doesn’t suspect. If you can even call her a friend, I only have her, like I said, to appear normal. I don’t need friends, I don’t need anyone really. I would kill Anna, if she deserved it.
I would kill anyone.