Chapter 1

I killed a man today.

I was walking back from a late movie. The crimson sun had long since crossed its pinnacle and now hung below the mountains. The moon had replaced the day star, providing its meager light to the sleeping world.

The night air was damp and heavy. I wasn't cold, though the dew in the air did make it seem cooler. As usual, my knife was in my hand — it's beautiful, Buck, solid Damascus steel. The handle is three and seven eighths inches long. The blade unfolds to two and three-quarters inches. It locks on the inside with a simple press release. It even has a protrusion for ease of opening. I got it as a gift when I turned ten and it just felt natural in my hand the first time I held it; it hasn't left me since. So anyways ... it was dark after the movie and I wandered the quiet city streets like usual. I knew no one would be around to hassle me. The town rolls up the streets at nine at night and the clock had already hit ten.

I had meandered my way around the side streets that lead to my parent's house. They lived in a quiet neighborhood which rests on a hill top. At the base of the south facing side there is a peaceful park which is filled with vegetation. I often go there at night to see the stars. Street lights blocked the stars from my view most places in town. I wasn't tired enough to think of sleeping yet, and I wasn't hungry so there was no point in returning. I was ... bored.

I walked toward my spot, the full moon providing plenty of light for me to maneuver around the trees. The familiarity of the wood table, worn down from hard use, always puts me at ease. Lying backwards on the familiar bench staring up at the stars always gives me the peace to think, and the freedom for those thoughts.

This park is so different during the day. It is always filled with people, passing moments of their lives. That's why I come at night. I feel so disconnected from other people. I don't understand so many of the normal social courtesies I just feel uncomfortable around them. At night the park is devoid of the social element. I have a site claimed as my own. I come and enjoy its solace and serenity. This night however, my observatory was occupied, sullied.

Lying on my table was a bundle of rags. Ragged breathing and a faint stench billowed off the homeless man fouling my table. Something welled up inside of me, my best guess being curiosity. I approached the display. Common sense dictates that I should just move on. Perhaps even going directly to my so called home. Instead I stalk toward him, my hand unconsciously toying with my knife.

The trees created a secluded atmosphere. I could look up and see the stars through the leaves, but I couldn't see Jefferson Street. The night lights illuminated the body peacefully lying on my picnic table. Had some unknown entity set up this perfect altar for me? Was he sacrificing himself to me?

The ground was soft from the evening dew. The oak leaves were slick, and the dirt wet. I can feel the dampness in the air. My face was flushed and the rejuvenating breeze comforting. I have often felt these sensations, and yet something new now burned within me, a feeling I had never experienced before.

His labored breathing pounded in my ears. His chest rose and fell in a simple, monotonous rhythm. A wheeze escaped through those bloodied, dried lips. The noises of the night dimmed as I focused. My own breathing sped up, a rumba to his slow waltz.

My hand moved from my pocket on its own accord, my knife firmly in my palm. I flicked it open, then closed it. I repeated the gesture, each time listening to the click the lock made as the blade was secured. The subtle, familiar sound as the blade folds closed. It was soothing, a simple cadence marking my passage.

As I neared, another of my senses picked up, I smelled him. Shit, urine, month old grime, cheese burger grease, I couldn't identify half of the smells. I didn't want to identify most of them, though it is curious why he hasn't bathed. Certainly he can smell his own rotten stench. It can't be that hard to find some water.

His smell offended me in a way I don't often experience. This was my table. He was defiling my sanctum with his stink. Would I ever be able to come here again? Would the undesirable reek last forever? Click. How could he?

I was no more than two feet from the head of the table and filled with curiosity, with scorn. How could I properly cleanse my sanctuary? What color would his faded, brown jacket turn when it was soaked in blood? How fast would it take for a flow of blood to turn into a pool beneath the table?

My heart beat faster as I opened and closed my blade. It clicked again and again as my motions sped. Click, click, click, thump-thump, thump-thump, my heart and blade beat as one. Was I imagining it, or could I hear his heart too?

Click. His eyes fluttered.

Did he awake? My heart froze. I held my breath. Seconds dragged by. He shifted an inch and stopped moving with a snort. Breath rushed back into me as he slipped away to sleep. Again my heart picked up its frantic beating.

My blade opened one more time. Click. I reach out and place it just above the bared neck before me. My heart leapt back into my throat. I felt each pound as my skin burned with excitement. My stomach quivered. A shiver rocked my core. I brought my blade to the right side of the body, and slid it across the neck. I didn't stop until there was a curve from one end to the other.

My heart slowed down to its normal calm, unnoticeable rate again, and I knew it was time to go. The night's sky had been ruined. The droll experience I have grown to know as life is broken up by brief moments of wonder I receive from the night. The starts are all I have had in the past. The normal, average emotions of the day don't matter to me. I don't feel good from a hug; instead I look for the trap hidden behind those open, extended arms.

With every passing day I run the risk of exposing myself. I have killed and it felt good, so much better than the night. I cannot stop now. I am truly alive for the first time ever. I will kill again. I have to kill again. The night will continue to come, and so must I.

He was in the newspaper again. "The Klan Killer claims a seventh victim." The Klan Killer is such a stupid name. I should follow his case more closely but to be honest I don't really care. All I remember is that the first victim was posted upright and lit on fire. Naturally the first reporter to get to name him thought of a burning cross and so the name developed. Since the first victim was black everyone assumed it was a hate crime. Humorously enough, the second victim was the reporter who gave him the name so I guess he didn't like it.

I haven't really been paying attention to the works of our modern day artists though. I'm retired. I flipped the page and went looking for the crossword puzzle.

The coffee I had made this morning was reaching room temperature as steadily as I was devouring the crossword. I finished both and continued my morning ritual: standing to my feet, readjusting my robe, refolding the paper and placing it neatly on the top of my recycle pile. The coffee cup needed to be washed. Three times into the hot water, three full rotations with a clean sponge, three vigorous shakes, and the cup was on its way back to the shelf. My usual dance, so routine it could continue even if I weren't around.

When the great grandfather clock chimed nine the phone rang. The eighth stroke, the third ring, I answered it. Jim Doyle, always calls at the same time every day. Call it his way of checking up on me. Since I don't have a family to take care of me he must feel obligated to do so.