I was eager to continue my work and play out my turn, but I had to wait. I had to be patient, I had to be careful, and no matter how fun it is to play out your most inner desires the moment they hit you, sometimes, it is the wait that makes it all worth it. And so, I waited.
The next day was a Friday. The last day of the week when counting the days you have to spend in a box of unfun work and uninteresting obligations. The whole department was in a festive mood, as they always are on this particular day of the week. Someone had even, in order to celebrate some whatnot or another, brought in a cake. It was a very tasty cake, but I didn't get too much. I talked some with the one man in the department I sort of kind like if you don't count the bottomless love I hold for my Brother, Augustus. He works in forensics with Victor, but he's not on the same level when it comes to forensics. And so, I spent an hour or so discussing whom the most notorious – or as I like to call it, accomplished – serial killer was. He argued that it was Ted Bundy due to the sheer brutality of what he did and his astonishing character that inspired many, many serial killer stories and how the public eye judges them. I did not agree, as I thought it is not the character of his kills that make it what it is but instead the amount, and thus I argued that the Bay Harbour Butcher was far more accompl-, eherm, notorious, as he killed far more people and with far more of a grudge. Augustus did not agree, but he respected my opinion and my reasons for believing so, and as one does, I respected his too.
And so, the day trudged on with increasingly uninteresting events taking place. Lunch was a simple meal at a nearby restaurant, a very old place the departments been using as a gas station since it opened – whichever it is that opened first – which serves European style food. Me and my small group of friends, my Brother, Augustus, Victor, my Brothers equivalent to Augustus: a large man named George and my Brothers equivalent to Victor: a skinny yet tall man whom nobody knows the name of, but everyone calls him Quick. The six of us stole a booth from under the nose of another large group of cops, and after a depressingly hurried meal, we were off, back into the office, back into an uninteresting life that only exists to nurse my far more interesting life in the shadow of the midnight moon.
The day continued to pass uneventfully. What I did was so uninteresting I fear that if I were to admit I did it it would make the question the use of writing another. The day concluded with my little group of five close friends going to a newly opened restaurant downtown and eating a rather expensive meal. I cannot confess that it was worth the uninteresting work I traded for the sustenance. Sometimes, you have to wonder whether a communist revolution truly is such a bad idea after all. However, was was in store for me this night was not a communist revolution, but instead something far more interesting and far more fun, and it would happen soon.
The six of us exited the restaurant and split into three groups, one containing George and Quick, one containing Augustus and Victor, and the final one containing me and my Brother. The moon already hung low, swinging softly against the cotton clouds trying desperately to hide it behind a veil of ignorance. I bid my Brother farewell, as I had other things to do that night than sleep. My Brother was a little confused, but he bid me farewell without any further question. Another one of the many reasons I love him before myself. We parted ways, my Brother moving down the streets keeping under the light of the few lamps trying desperately to keep the darkness at bay while I moved in the shadows, circling around the lamps in an attempt to remain in the darkness that the night so gleefully provides without interest. I soon moved away from the light struck main streets and into an alley shrouded in darkness as thick as oil. The alley was filled with garbage and trash and all that society leaves behind, and yet, I stalked through it with such swiftness a cat with its ears peaked high wouldn't be able to hear the crumple of paper or the squish of something old and moldy, as there was nothing like that. There was no sound to be heard from within the alley except for the sound of leaves fluttering through the sky and the wind stirring up the dust.
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Like this, I moved. I almost broke out in a sprint, but I never did. I was always simply walking quickly, and if anyone ever had the godly attentiveness to catch my movements as more then simply the wind running through the alley and spreading its wings, they would simply see a man, returning from the office, trying to take a shortcut through the alley as he was in a bit of a hurry. Nothing more, nothing less. The bag I held in my hand – a bag I had picked up in the alley right where I had put it – was to the trained eye simply filled with documents, papers and nothing more. And that is a good thing, for if they knew what it was that made the bag sack and hang low with weight, they would run the other way. After a few alleys and many times blending with the darkness to become nothing, I was finally there.
The house was very large and placed right by the street, however, I had approached it from the back, trough the dark alleyways that make up the backstreets of this rather large and unassuming city. The house was guarded by a large hedge stretching itself out around the house, but I knew how to get in. the hole in the back of the fence I had cut open and covered in leaves was gaping wide open like the maw of some horrid beast. I flinched. That hole was not supposed to be open. I cocked my head and let it scan the surroundings. Not a sound could be heard, not a movement executed. I cautiously entered the back garden through the maw and was faced with a strange scene. The garden was dimly lit, yes, but it wasn't how it was supposed to be. A garden chair had been toppled over, the movement detectors I had been so cautious of were covered with some sort of clay, an urn here or there was crushed as if stepped on and the lilies that had been growing so beautifully in the corner of the garden was crushed as if someone had detested even the sight of them.
Someone had been here. It had not been me.
I moved slowly, slowly towards some window to the house, making sure not to accidentally create a sound. A window was opened wide with a view of the garden, and I could see something moving within. I slithered my body around to the side, approaching the window from the blind spot and soon I was there. I cocked my head to the side and peeked inside with weary eyes.
Someone was standing bent over a large wooden table, their back turned to the window which is probably why they had yet to notice my presence. In their hand, they held a scalpel gleaming and glittering with something red. On the table, I saw something large and beige and squirming and red.
A human.
A prey.
MY prey.