Passion

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Murder. I like that word. Murder. So many times I have heard that word. And so many times I've done it.

It's so satisfying, you know. So pleasing when you take the life of a helpless soul, watching him writhe in his last moments as you stand clutching a knife, his blood drying on your hands. So much triumph. So much to boast over. He dies and you live. You breathe, you eat, you glower over his death as he lies forgotten in a ditch somewhere. It's hard not to grin all the time.

No one understands why people suddenly go missing. Well, maybe they guess it but never know for sure if they should fear an anonymous murderer. You hear it almost every month, on TV, in shops, whispered among people on the street, hushed voices, "Murder. Murder. Blood on the floor, on the wall. No clues." Me, forever unknown.

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Murder. Murder. Murder.

Dagger. Dagger. Dagger.

Little Boy, Little Boy. Little Boy.

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I watch the little boy move across the park, a blue ball tucked under his arm. He looks sad, his blond head cast down, though there is a mysterious spring in his step. Soon, my love, you'll be rid of the horrors of this world. One stab of my dagger, the satanic red waterfall and one more family short of a member.

I watch him sit on a bench as I swiftly move toward him. It's twilight, darkness engulfing the city fast. Street lights flicker far away, lighting the roads, just enough to see silhouettes of cars and people going about their business. The park is almost deserted, a lady watches over her kids playing on the swings on the other end of the playground. Her back is turned to me, just how I like it.

"Hello, little boy." I smile at the child, ignoring the fearful eyes he turns toward me. "Why aren't you playing, sweetheart? Where are you friends?"

"I don't talk to strangers." His voice quivers a little but he tries to cover it up with a weak attempt at putting on a brave face.

I laugh. "But you will have to accept the stranger's gift." I say coldly, the mask of fake kindness slipping away. And my dagger is up, tip aimed at his heart, where it wedges, deep in. Blood spouts around it, as he falls to the ground, his eyes widened in shock. He opens his mouth but instead of words, blood bubbles out trapping his screams inside as I pull the dagger out, mercilessly.

A slow, evil grin spreads on my face, watching the boy twist around in agony, before finally stilling. My whisper hangs in the air, the last words his young ears hear; I take off with impossible speed, away from my crime, once again, success in my hand like a neatly caught ball.

                                          "Hail and Farewell, young master."

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