The scarlet handprint stood out against the rest of the room. Trails of blood dripped down the wall like a burning candle. Blood, there was so much blood, splattered everywhere, droplets of red dew spread across the small part of the floor left unaffected by the giant pool around the girl's body. A strong coppery, scent filled the air, like the world's largest penny had just been rolled into the room. Messy, it wasn't supposed to be like this, she shouldn't have suffered. She didn't deserve that. Yet she had fought back, in fact, I had almost let her overpower me, but I needed the money desperately. At this point, I'd be lucky if the client payed me half of what I asked for. I had gotten too messy, all this blood would be almost impossible to clean up. I regarded the room with a somber tone, my passive face turned to a frown as my phone rang. I pulled off a glove, and retrieved it from my pocket. I quickly glanced at the caller id, the client, I paused before hitting accept, then put the phone to my ear, "It's done." My voice echoed against the wall, deep and formal. I hung up, and turned back to the mess before me, they weren't gonna like this at all....

I once knew a Jerry

We met once long, long ago

In a field of Cynthia and berry

It was spring but with winter’s blow.

The air was crisp as the dew drop

I stared at him and him at me.

Flowers of red flames heard from above with a loud pop

Residue came down around us with a constant rain of debris

It was a spectacle like no other.

We knew each other without ever speaking

He was a man; a lover; a son; a father and a brother

All of which he carried on in his being.

No man knew him better than I

We stood opposite each other in our own colors

He in black and I in white ordered to say goodbye

For we were just numbers

As we enclosed the distance

Our breathing in unison

Hopes of peaceful coexistence

Our minds had spun.

Our handshake was hammered steel

Our introductions were muffled in harsh grunts and screeching

We were locked until one of us would keel

And forced to the other beseeching.

Jerry was a strong man

But I the faster

Two of us entered that empty span

Though only I would hear again the sounds of laughter.

We met once more many years later

In a field of stone and holly

I looked at him and at me through eyes of aster

If not for fate, we could have been friends gladly

I once knew a Jerry

Who was a good honest soul

A man who I’d share a cup of coffee

But here I stand, and there he lay; Me on land and he in a hole.

He had to die. I killed him. He had to die. I killed him because he had to die. Life is meaningless, I told myself. I told myself over and over so that I would continue to believe it. But killing him had awakened a feeling in me that challenged my long held philosophy of life. That is, if life itself was pointless and therefore killing him was no loss or gain, why not allow him to live out his existence in the loveless void. And why be so motivated to take something that returned me no reward. I existed in pointlessness before I killed him and I exist in pointlessness now.

Did I feel guilt. No. Guilt is pointless because his existence was pointless. Yet I felt something. If his existence had been pointless why did I now convince myself to suspend my belief that his death had been a waste. That was surely a form of guilt. A regret. What other reason could I give for killing him but that I had no reason.

I woke up to my hands drenched in sweat, and a pounding headache.

The room smelled of rotting wood, the walls likely damp from the humidity of the air. There were no lights, just the dim presence of a lone moon shining behind the dirty window.

I blinked a few times and tried to get a grip on my surroundings, my sense of reality had not returned to me. I still felt stuck in a dream.

I rubbed my eyes a bit, only to feel them stinging from the residue I now realized was too thick and sticky to be sweat. Stumbling to the window with blurry eyes, I raised my palms to the light.

A soft voice purred from behind me then, but I was too disoriented to react in time.

The knife was across my throat before I could remember whose blood was spilled on my hands.

<Leaves rustling in the cold wind.>

Street lights flickering down all the way from the crossroads to the bend of the road leading to the small marron brick house.

There in the shadows I lay waiting, and watching for the right moment....to strike. The old lady had not locked her front door, or any of her windows for that matter. She simply placed a tiny mat under the space of the main entrance.

I tip-toed into her home and made sure that I did not make a sound.

Then I found her fast asleep on the sofa in her sitting room. A car alarm went off outside and that woke her up. I dashed to the corner of the living room and blended into the shadows.

She got up and went to the kitchen. I followed her in there. The elderly woman was still not fully aware of my presence.

All she had was a glass of chocolate milk and then she proceeded to her bedroom. As she left the kitchen I said- "Goodnight." And she replied, "Good night."

At that second- she paused and looked behind her. I quickly ducked under the giant kitchen table and nearly hit my head when I bent closer to it's edge.

She sighed and told herself that it had been a long day, maybe it was time for her to rest for sure.

Once I heard her close her bedroom door, I took a quick glance in her house and observed the area. While I did that I enjoyed a cup of chocolate milk. It was so tasty. I felt like I could finish the whole gallon in one night.

I stopped playing around and went into action.

This was not something I wanted to do, but this elderly lady had something that belonged to me and I was going to have it in my possession once more. She thought she could take what did not belong to her and not pay the price. Well, the same thing she had taken from me- I would use to take her breath away. Au sens propre.

Slowly, I opened the door to the bedroom of my unsuspecting victim. I noticed that she had so many pillows on her bed. She must have been uncomfortable. I toss some of the pillows to the floor.

A slight shimmer of light reflects in the room and I spot where it is coming from. A diamond necklace by the night stand.

I hold the jewelery in my hand and feel it's texture. Soon I have no control over my next actions. The necklace finds itself around the old lady's neck. She wakes from her sleep, and tries to loosen my tight grip on her. But the more she fights with me- the tighter my grip becomes.

After all the squirming is over, I lay my victim back carefully to bed. And tuck her in and place all her pillows back in their former position.

____________________________

The following morning- the old lady's neighbors come to check on their close friend. They find the front door open, and call her: "Madame Hurtain...."

The nighbors check all the rooms until they find the elderly lady still asleep in her bed. They smile and approach her. The closer they get to her- they notice something odd, her neck has a scarlet marked line around it. It looks like she was strangled and when they check for a pulse- sadly there is only the sense of cold ice. She had been dead for several hours now...or more.

It’s not that I don’t want to.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to.

There is this certain palpable radiance when it happens.

It’s unexplainable, really.

Like a spiritual and sexual experience in a confluence....like converging chaotic rivers.

I wish it were easy to dissect.

It’s not.

You see, I understand this for what it is.

I see the moral tangibility to it all.

I see the aura in its hues of light to dark, yellow to red.

It’s not that I don’t know what i’m doing is wrong.

I know it is, I need it to be.

There is a symbiotic relationship between it being so wrong, but feeling so right.

It’s God-like, you know?

Life becomes contingent on my decision.

What I understand most is the human condition.

And how some people don’t deserve theirs.

Which is another pillar to my reasoning.

I don’t need any motivation, it’s my euphoria, my dopamine......my pleasure.

There is no anger associated to them.

I am methodical, and precise.

I leave nothing.

I don’t hide them because I don’t need to.

My profession allows me discretion, and the ability to quantify a carbon based life.

Quite lovely understanding chemicals and the bag of chemicals that is our bodies.

I am nothing glamorous.

I am quiet and unseen.

Extroverted enough to be loved.

Introverted enough to considered a madman.

I will say this, as I only have 13 minutes before I meet my next....victim if you want to call them that.

I have only one haunting aspect to all of this.

Their eyes.

I still see everyone of them.

I still see the shock and fear.

All 46 pairs, as clear as sunlight.

Every color, every shape.

In my dreams, in people I see on the street, when I close my own eyes.

I see them, incessantly, shaking sometimes in violent vibrations.

Truthfully, it may be my death one day.

And rightfully so.

They will come for me, they always do.

I will greet them as old friends coming to welcome me to my hell.

Uh oh, 13 minutes is up, I am meeting her at the corner coffee shop.

I am always early.

Number 47.

He wasn't suppose to look surprised.

This filthy begger had been perched at this alley every day for years. I passed him every day; everyone passed him every day. Everyone turned a blind eye, avoiding his pleas like the plague. These rich and powerful people shying away from a peon, disgusting. It needed to be remedied.

The idea started as a passing thought, a daydream to occupy the time during useless meetings. For months it had consumed me. I dreamt of it many times. I always imagined fear in his eyes, an ignored plea for mercy upon his lips.

The damn vagabond was suppose to be afraid. He was suppose to look at me like Death incarnate, God almighty!

HE WASN'T SUPPOSE TO LOOK SURPRISED!

I did everything right. Everything! I bought the gun with cash out of state. I rented a car under a fake name in a different city and parked it a block away. It had a license plate I stole from a junkyard. I was prepared. And he looks at me in mere surprise! Gah!

Did he not realize how much effort I put into that moment? Did he not realize the time I spent on his worthless life?

He just sat there, cup still outstretched begging for change. The pistol and his life rested in my hands. His lips formed a perfect 'o', eyebrows raised. Not what I imagined.

The rush faded. I almost didnt pull the trigger, almost. I shot him more out of obligation than hate. After all, he had seen my face. I emptied the entire damn clip into him with all the rush and joy of taking out the smelly garbage.

Well laid plans led me away free and clear. I walked past the alley the very next day, cops and yellow tape marked the place. I paused like so many others to see the scene. A detective picked up the a bullet casing, examining it in morning light.

"I think there is a print." he said.

A cold hand clutched my heart. My breath grew shallow and my eyes widened in alarm. I turned to walk away shaking my head in disgust. I wasn't suppose to look afraid.

I don't remember grabbing the knife from the kitchen drawer. I just remember hearing whimpering coming from Kayla's room, and seeing his figure looming over her, his hand creeping under her blankets, and then rage. Hot, trembling, blinding rage. Not her. Not like me.

It happened in mere minutes. I caught a glimpse of Kayla's face, twisted with dread and fear like mine had been so many times before. Then something took over me. I wasn't myself anymore, just bloodlust and adrenaline.

The next thing I saw was my own white-knuckled fist plunging the knife into his back. He screamed. I screamed. Tears clouded my vision as I yanked the knife out and drove it into his shoulder, then the side of his neck, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears that I could barely hear his screams.

Then, it was over.

He lay slumped over on Kayla's bed, a crack of light from the open door falling on his still figure and the pool of crimson spreading rapidly beneath him. Kayla cowered in the corner, weeping.

The room began to spin around me and I dropped to my knees. I looked down at my hands in disbelief, unsure whether they were the same hands that had just taken my father's life.

He'd stolen my innocence and stained my childhood, yes, but did I really just kill him? Had I just taken a man's life? What would happen to me? To Kayla?

I felt hot and sick and my hands couldn't stop shaking, but the smallest hint of a smile crept upon my lips despite myself.

He couldn't hurt us anymore. Never again.

Another drink

The usual

Scotch neat, disguised

In coffee mug

While hawking up

Phlegm built up

In pickled lungs

I pour clog solution

In and wait for

His last gulp, breath

Free passage, clog

Dissipated

And, as he lay

Mug shattered

Truth spilled

I spin a story

To shout to my girl

We are free

Walking through the streets

Unsuspecting, safe

Feeling a chill in the air

Knowing someone is there

But seeing nothing

Walking faster now

Weary, yet safe still

Feeling a shiver

Looking for me

But seeing no one

I appear suddenly

A scream escapes

A tight embrace

I bow my head, sinking in

Pain, and I drink deep

Red hot blood flows

My veins burn

Each heartbeat

Resounds in my ears

Drowning the screams

And bringing me peace

The heart slows

The drums cease

I finish my feast

Look down at such beauty

And drop you to the ground

I walk on