3

Rule #3: Don’t say their names.

Don’t do it. Don’t say their names. They’re always listening. They will hear you. And if they hear you, it’s over.

.........................................................................................................................................

I tried it once.

Tried reasoning with one as he backed me in an alley corner, his breath rancid against my neck.

I remember how I had spotted him across the street as he followed a middle aged man.

I remember how the blood had run cold in my body as I stared at him.

And he stared back.

Because I knew who he was.

And he knew I could see him.

I remembered those eyes.

Those eyes were the last thing my mother saw.

And I snapped.

Dodging through New York City traffic as they honked their horns, not wanting to hit me, but at the same time, utterly indifferent.

I reached the other side in one piece, and he was waiting for me.

Rufus Clemingsworth. 34. Murder.

How ironic that a man who lost his life to homicide would take the lives of so many in death.

My father told me he got a kick out of it. He killed many. Never took the chance to move on, though.

He just kept killing. And killing. And killing.

And I made the mistake of trying to fight him.

As he came at me, I froze.

“Rufus.”

The words left my mouth before I had a chance to speak.

He was on me in a heartbeat.

Slammed my head into the wall.

I tasted the iron of blood.

I managed to get the knife out of my pocket as his hands were at my throat, his inky being cold

and foglike against my skin, pulling me in.

He was gone, but I was injured.

I limped home, the blood running down my forehead and into my eyes, mixing with the tears.

Either no one noticed, or no one cared.