Stars of Blood

The man glanced up at the stars and sighed, examining the faint twinkle emerging from them. His ivory shirt was drenched in blood and perspiration. His face scrunched up in disgust as his body’s acrid scent wafted to his nostrils. He ignored it and tried to focus on the stars, something he always did after claiming a life. It gave him time to remember if he had erased all evidence that might lead back to him, allowed him to clear his mind and think about his next victim. The people he chose were random, and often he didn’t know them. They would be someone who would yell at him for slowing down the queue, or a person who would accidentally push him and give a casual, nonchalant apology. He despised them, and then, he would kill them. But he needed some space after that, and hence, he would sit on the roof of his gloomy shack and look at the stars. A warped tradition had been born, one that he followed every day.

…

The harsh sunlight escaped through the cracks in the walls, waking him up. His head throbbed, and beads of sweat leaked from his pores. Drowsily, he stumbled over to the kitchen to fulfill the relentless grumble of his stomach. He browsed through drawers, repeatedly opened the refrigerator, and even ferreted through the trash, groaning when he found nothing. He looked down at his clothes, which he hadn’t changed since yesterday, still covered in black, dried blood. A wave of nausea rolled over him as his hunger grew, gnawing through the walls of his stomach. He sighed in submission and pulled off his blood-stained shirt, preparing to forage for something to satisfy his inanition.

…

He covered his eyes, which were blinded by the harsh white sunlight. After carefully locking the door of his shabby dwelling so as to prevent the entire house from collapsing completely, he walked towards the grocer’s in frustration, grouchy and fatigued from his lack of sleep. A knife was under one of the notches of his belt; he was always on the hunt for a new victim. As he walked past a glass door of a butcher shop, he caught a quick glimpse of his reflection. His pale face accentuated his heavy, sleep-deprived eyelids. His dark, gloomy clothes seemed to spite the bright summer morning unfolding around him. Unkempt and disheveled, his ebony hair resembled a small tornado, frightening bystanders, who gaped and stared.

He continued to walk, struggling to stay awake, reaching his destination after what seemed to be an eternity. Pushing the glass door weakly, he entered a small, unilluminated room, not large enough to contain the early crowd it did. After slinking through the room and grabbing a bagel he waited in the line to pay the cashier. As he shook his leg impatiently, he felt a sharp, painful sensation in his foot as someone stepped on it. A woman brushed past him casually, exuding an air of sophistication and arrogance. “I don’t think I should do that,” she muttered to her phone as her shoulders shoved him aggressively, pinning him against a nearby wall, as he weakly crumbled to the ground.

He let out a meek groan, partly a genuine expression of his pain, while also to gain her attention. She looked back, her puzzled eyes darting across the room in a half-hearted attempt to find the source of the strange sound. Shrugging it off as nothing significant, she pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and walked away. Meanwhile, he frowned, his brows furrowing on his forehead. But it was nothing compared to the rage that was growing within him. His fury caused a splitting headache, but not one that was painful to prevent him from following her.

He left the bagel on the counter, not letting her leave his sight. At first, he was quiet and stealthy. He could barely hear his own footsteps as he followed closely behind her. Everything about her fed his irritation, and the closer he was to her, he felt his fingers close over the cold metal of the knife, its blade grazing against his skin slightly, but not sharp enough to make him bleed. He could hear his breathing becoming heavier, more intense, as he closed in on her, almost about to corner her when she stuck her hand in her pocket. As she fidgeted her hand through it, he paused for a moment, nervous, but exhilarated.

He breathed a sigh of relief when she fished out a key chain, with a few keys dangling from its gold rim. She glanced quickly behind her shoulder, as if she knew she was being followed. She walked slowly towards the porch of a nearby house. Unlocking the dark brown door of the residence, she entered her dwelling and disappeared.

He was still standing in the same place, and continued to do so only until the scorching heat reminded him to find shelter. He walked slowly towards the woman’s house. As he stood on the porch and rapped his knuckles against the hard wood of the door, he waited for her to answer, the morbid excitement building inside him. As if on cue, she opened the door and looked at him expectantly. She was hasty and impatient, and wanted him to be quick. He inhaled sharply, placed his large hands on her shoulders, and pushed her inside.

She gasped and sputtered in disbelief, struggling to retrieve her breath. His giant stature loomed over her, casting a shadow over her shivering body. From the corner of her vision, she caught sight of a heavy lamp on the mantelpiece, and attempted to reach for it, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted it until the loud crack of her bones satisfied him. She howled in pain, examining her limp hand through her blurry vision.

Noticing the hammer on the table, he turned in its direction to grab it. Seeing this is an opportunity, she sprinted past him, reaching for the door, waiting for the cool metal of its handle to reach her fingertips. As she gasped at the prospect of freedom, she felt his large, clammy hand grab her hair and pull her back, dragging her across the floor, leading her towards the kitchen. She kicked the floor in an attempt to let go of his tightened grip, her arms flailing as she sought to maintain balance. She dugs her nails in his arms, but to avail. Swiveling her neck sharply enough to break it, she bit his palm until she felt the warm, metallic taste of blood staining her teeth.

He winced in pain, flinching until he fell into a corner of the room as his knees buckled beneath him. Wearily, she stood up, her legs threatening to give away. Slowly, she managed to tower over him. His arm had transformed into a deep shade of crimson. She kneeled over him, listening to his breath becoming slower by the second. Gently, she unlocked the prison of his fingers which had formed around the hammer’s handle. She held it in her hand and glanced at it, estimating its power. As she locked eyes with him, she saw the submission in them as he slowly nodded and closed his eyes. Raising her arms above her head, she turned her face away and swung the claw of the hammer towards him, crying as his blood splattered against her clothes.

…

She held her face in her hands. She didn’t know what to feel. Her hair was wet after she had washed her deed off of herself, rinsing his blood relentlessly. Her first instinct was to tell someone, anyone, a stranger even. But as she continued to look at the corpse in her room, she more the grinned, something she failed to explain, even to herself. As she came to her senses, she whispered to herself, “I don’t think I should do that.” Instead, she simply left.

She raced to a nearby meadow in the middle of the night. She wanted to be alone. Sitting on the wet grass, she looked up and examined the faint twinkle of each star above her. As she did, her breath became deeper, and her heartbeat didn’t quicken, despite her expectation for it to do so. It was slower, calmer, and as she sat there and gazed at the stars, and the stream of tears ceased, she could her the silence comforting her.