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It was about three years ago when the initial itchings of him evolved within me, always while I slept.

I was searching for something in the remnants of a burnt-out home. It had rained that night. Damp carbon fumes permeated the space with a sickly odor. The kind of smell that welds itself onto your memory for the rest of your natural life…..for some of us.

My search was not frantic, it was at a cold pace. There was no anger inside me, but a quest.

His fangs become more tense as the time passes. The sharp curved claws protruding from my slender fingers twitch in anticipation of the kill I will make tomorrow night.

I have fully prepared for my sacrifice’s slaughter. I know that I sin; there is someone watching me. A person who understands my actions, but he is alien to me, and I loathe him.

Could I exact my penance on them, or have I already begun?

Or is he my first victim?

Or am I his victim!

Self-loathing, hate, has risen from within me, becoming his own being.

This split has taken a part of what made me distinct, what made me human.

I must find this hate and absorb him back into me, but I don’t know how?

I don’t even know where to start?

©️ written ~ 2020. Jacob Pickard.2026

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

I woke up on a street bench this morning, no surprise though, my loss of memory has been more frequent these past few weeks. I can only attribute this to him, the other side of me, my constant companion and most distant enemy.

What does he do?
Who is he?
Why is he changing me?
Does he want to have control over me?

I will not let that happen. I took the fifteen back to my hovel. It took an hour instead of the usual thirty minutes because of stupid fucking slow-ass sunday drivers.

One thing I do remember is that I did drink myself into oblivion last night. I just blacked out.

My loft, eaten by the sickness of decay,, swirls with drafts whisked in by the cracks in the sills. The once beautiful oak trim and wood floor are painted over with ugly drab white paint; a cheap technique used by landlords to rent their properties quickly. They have no respect for old homes. They respect only their pocketbooks.

I did succeed in getting a hangover. I wonder if he was drunk also?

My dehydrated body needed water, which I greedily sucked down—two cold glasses—while turning on the television. It was too late to go back to bed and I decided to watch the a.m. news.

“…Russell and Barbara Shenick are two more victims to be added to the long list compiled by the city’s latest serial killer,” the local news correspondent typically ends her sentence, displaying a sickly form of sensationalist journalism hyped by local media.

The camera pans back to reveal a middle-aged man, hair chopped to a fine widow’s peak, with the blonde correspondent outside the crime scene.

“With me is Detective Shadowould of the,” She pauses.

“Thank you for being on the show,” Melanie greets him with a smile, making a mockery of the situation.

“You’re welcome,” he replies slyly.
“How many victims has this one killed?”

“As of this moment he has killed seventy-seven residents of all races, genders, creeds, and colors.”

“So he will kill anybody,” she adds with a look of fabricated TV concern.

“Yes,” the detective counters with a solid reply. “An equal opportunity serial killer.” The detective grins as he is obviously pleased with his response.

“Do you have any suspects?” she asks.

“You are following up on leads…”

“Stupid fucking bullshit,” I say out loud as if I’m in an argument with them. They don’t even have one lead. They never do, the corporate murder industrial complex demands it!

©️ written ~ 2020. Jacob Pickard.2026