I’ve been following his trail for two months now. I know I’m getting close; I can feel it in every bone in my body. His scent is unmistakable now, murder surrounds him, offering in homage a parade of festering human carcasses. He is the closest being to Him. I know him like I know myself. I am his prayer. I know he wants to die, and I am the one who will make sure he serves my penance with his blood.
My sharp claws anticipate slicing through his flesh. My fangs can sense the impending slaughter. How I loathe him. He must pay! He must die! He is IMPURE!
I’ve tracked him to his home, tucked neatly away in one of the city’s suburbs. He camouflages himself with a matte black raincoat. It trails down to his knees, and he is garmented in black jeans.
Is he hiding himself in the night? Does he think he is immune to the truth of his actions if he kills in the dark, made up as a psychotic Gothic murderer? I will not kill him yet because I want to see his face. I will force him out of fear to remove his white leather face mask so he can witness the visage of true carnage, a reflection of self-loathing he cannot dream of reaching. And when I slice his throat with my claws, he will know true pain, this murderer will finally know what real terror is.
The sidewalk was sparsely inhabited by people this afternoon. Clouds and cold drizzle continue to fall for the seventh day now. Depression setting into the minds of the people no doubt.
A vehement icicle of wind rasps past my cheek, initializing a thought I once had, now fragmented by time’s indiscriminate fangs.
©️ written ~ 2020. Jacob Pickard.2026
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