Confessions of a Madman

Chapter Two: Introductions

This time, I was moving through a crowded street. The paved road was illuminated by the yellow light of nearby street lanterns. I kept my head low and my hands in my coat, rushing through the street at a stern pace, wearing a purposeful, yet stunted gait. About me, the crowd moved either in solace or in drunken company; men stumbling and looming tipsily over giggling women, zigzagging their way across the road, narrowly avoiding collision with other passersby. There were no steel tracks in the paved stone.

I was nervous, agitated, drowning out the noises of the midnight street, hearing only my own uneven and ragged breath. Deluded with fear of something unseen, I looked back, then forward again, tearing my gaze both ways several times before tearing myself to the right, diligently walking along the sidewalk. My breath grew more ragged and my step more urgent, and as I turned, I saw a new face in the group behind me. It was covered mostly in darkness, temporarily illuminated every few steps by the yellow light of the street lanterns. The glimpses I got were short and far between, but with each glimpse, my pursuer's face became larger and larger as he began catching up. I could feel my heart beat faster as my legs moved quicker, and with each step, my breath became more and more exalted, to the point where I began gasping hurriedly for air as I jolted between approaching crowds, taking sharp turns to avoid whoever was stalking me. 

But the further I ran, the less crowded the streets became, lanterns becoming less and less frequent, their light shining less and less bright. Eventually the road I followed led to an alley with a set of stairs and a cobblestone archway, and as I turned to inspect the road behind me, I saw the man who had been following me, his face illuminated by the last of the street lights. He was tall, with a hunched back and a furious grimace. His nose was large, and broken several times over, and accompanying it was a ragged and poorly shaven face, his angry eyes completing a look of rage. He moved towards me as I moved down the stairs. Then, instead of running, I turned and hid in the total darkness. I heard the man as he hurriedly stomped down the steps, each step echoing across the alley. My chest rose and fell as I took in deep breaths. But they weren't gasps of exhaustion. They weren't gulps of fear. They were breaths of excitement.

As the man took his last step into the dark, I felt myself pivot up to meet him, my entire body fueled by some wicked sort of passion. I tore a knife from my inner coat, and plunged it deep into his belly, glaring as his eyes widened and narrowed with each satisfying jab. Warm blood pooled onto the floor and soaked through my gloves, and the man's ragged breaths turned to half-hearted gasps for life. I took a step back and watched as he fell on his knees, staring into the pitch black night, his eyes reflecting what little light and life the alley possessed. I moved towards him again, holding his head back by a tuft of his hair, and slit his throat. Blood erupted from his mouth, then poured from the wide gash in his neck, drenching his clothes in a deep dark scarlet barely visible in the shadows. My heart was now nearly beating out of my chest, and my eyes were fixated upon the blood as my mouth went dry with shock and admiration. With his last bit of strength, the man pointed to something inside his coat, and collapsed upon the paved floor. I knelt in his blood, taking no more time to reflect or contemplate, and simply did as I was instructed. I took the piece of parchment as instructed and unfurled it, reading the mechanical typography. My former self let the words pass through his lips as he read, and I simply looked on nostalgically, remembering that night.

"You Have Been Promoted.

Meet me by the east bridge in the Fishery District, three strikes past noon. Do not be late."

I opened my eyes again, my heart still beating as calmly as it had moments before. I blinked, and tasted the foul taste of sleep in my mouth, grimacing as I twisted my neck to stretch. Turning my head up towards the concealed ceiling reminded me, however, and I slowly shrugged back into a relaxed poise, sighing. For a few moments, I contemplated calling out, but decided not to. Instead, I recalled the man's face again. He was my first kill, murdered on anonymous orders. I remember the blood, the knife, the satisfying gurgling and the sound as his body sacked towards the floor lifelessly, after going rigid and frozen. I remember his eyes; the shock within them, and the look he had when that shock was replaced by vacancy.