The Static Correspondence (Slender Man story)

3.

Glass.

The shards of the broken glass that lay scattered on the tile floor gleamed profusely in the dappled moonlight that was bursting through the fractured, glass windows. On the larger, sharper pieces that lay uselessly on the floor, I saw my myriad, distorted reflection.

The reflection of a cloaked murderer was not supposed to be associated with me.

But the term murderer is so...common. So cliché.

I would prefer the term path-clearer.

But somehow, I found myself admiring the shattered irregular pieces. This only showed a part of me that remained hidden...which was not supposed to be witnessed by pathetic, 3rd world eyes. This is a part of me that I never showed to anyone, even to my best friends.

A fragment of the sparking madness, and my obedience to His orders. My willingness and submission without questions to His words.

 It was my gloved hands that craved for the blood of the sacrifice. They actually shivered in anticipation. A surgeon's hands must be precise and accurate. On the oath that I had sworn, I shall never dare to displease my Master.

The ruckus of breaking a window in a sparsely decorated  room will surely arouse the inhabitants awake. It never took long to confirm my assumptions, I heard series of cursing on the other side of the door. I kept my calm gaze on the enormous slab of wood, until it opened up, and a man emerged from the darkly lit corridor, and tottered inside, obviously drunk.

"Aren't you going to question me who this man is, my child?"

Static.

It buzzed constantly in my ears, a chaotic reverberating hum that hung in my head like a hazy veil...the one that I'm only rendered to feel.

The indication that my Lord was always watching...always near.

"I would rather have You tell me than to question You, my Lord," I answered in a soft whisper.

"My preciously obedient youngster. It's all up to you now, my dear."

I found myself breaking into a smile underneath the triple layers of fabricated surgical masks that covered the half of my face.

As the man went to my direction, I got the glimpse of that bespectacled elderly face--a robust man about his early fifties, with dark tousled hair, its color barely distinguishable in the moonlight that offered its peaceful witnessing silence. We remained momentarily staring at each other. The deliverer of death, and the prey, sharing the uncommon bond in a short space of time before the next unpredictable moments.

It was undeniable in my part that I don't want to break this reverie, because if I did, all hell will break loose. But this sincerity was short lived, when he took out something from his back pocket. It was a familiarly shaped dark thing that easily fit into those meaty hands of his. He grasped at the gun dependently with shaking fingers, as if his very life depended on that pathetic object...a weapon that won't even save him now.

I moved in forward as fast as my own feet can carry me, fueled by the determination to finish this flawlessly. I feigned left, and backed away just as soon as I heard that sickening crack of the bullet being fired from the pistol's chamber. The aim was off, shattering a huge vase that was located just above the table. Bits of porcelain splintered in all directions. He aimed at me again, this time finally getting a good grip of his gun and aiming it clearly to my chest.

If I die tonight, my existence is worth it.

I clearly saw that he pulled the trigger. I prepared to feel the pain that will suddenly bloom in my chest, or the loud crack of the bullet, but all I heard was a single, faint click.