At the Edge of the Darkness

The man stood at the edge of the light. Darkness curled around his feet, his hands, his eyes. Inky shadows gasped at him as water grasps at a drowning man. He watched the woman walk by, heels clattering, curls bouncing, perfect lips turned up in a smile. She was beautiful, an angel. The childish joy of life had not left her eyes, age had not wrinkled her skin or cut lines of worry in her forehead. She was the essence of perfection, and he hated it.

   He hated her because of this perfection. Everything he was not, everything he could never be. Oh, he had tried. How he had tried. But nature had endowed him with certain undesirable aspects: a crooked nose, a crooked leg, a crooked heart. Everything unobtainable to him had been given by nature to her.

   Beauty be damned if it was not for all.

  The woman walked on. She had not seen him, standing there, watching her. She had not felt him, standing there, watching her. 

  The man laughed. A little chuckle that shook his empty shell of a heart.

   If he could not have what the woman did, he would not allow her to have it either. He would steal from her what nature had stolen from him. She had entered his kingdom: the dark of night.

   He stepped out of the shadows. Into the light. Oh, how it burned when it touched his skin. It seared his flesh and made his heart smoke. Hellfire, cutting trails of ash across his mind.

   The woman heard him this time. She turned. 

   Her face went white. Even in the half light of the streetlamp, the man could see the panic in her eyes.

   Good. Good. As it should be.

   He pulled a knife from his pocket. Glinting wickedly, its sharp edges had been held and caressed for twenty years. It was his best friend, his constant companion.

   The woman saw his weapon and whimpered, but she didn't run. She didn't even turn. She dropped to the ground and let out a wail.

   Pathetic. The man laughed.

   "You're him, aren't you?" the woman cried. "The man in the window, and on the phone. You’ve been following me and watching me."

  The man laughed again. "Perceptive.”

   He stepped over to the woman. She was a sheep, an innocent lamb brought for the slaughter. And he was the priest, ready to receive her blood. A sacrifice on his altar of hatred.

   He grabbed a fistful of her hair and held her face up to the light. Beautiful. Tears shone on her cheeks, catching on her chin. One slid onto his knife and fell onto his shoe.

"Why are you doing this?" the woman's voice was thick with emotion: fear, panic, and, to the man's surprise, a touch of anger. "I've done nothing to you."

The man chuckled. "The greatest offences are often unintentional. You simply are, and that is your crime."

The woman went limp in his grasp, the fight gone from her. Tears continued to fall from her face. They kept falling on him, and he gagged in disgust.

   No, no, no. This wasn't right. He wanted blood, not tears. Tears reminded him too much of his childhood, plagued by weeping. He wept because Mother beat him, and because Father beat Mother. He wept because his beloved Lacy had succumbed to her illness, leaving him alone and unloved in a world far too big for someone so miniscule. He had wept beneath his blankets, afraid to show anyone his pain. And when his burdens were too much, he wept because of the pain his knife caused when he cut his arms and legs in an attempt to satisfy his cravings for revenge. But weeping had not helped. Tears were simply wasted fluids.

  "Please," the woman begged, the panic heavy in her voice. "Please don't kill me. I have money. My dad has money. Please, you can have it all. Please."

    He did not want money, and besides, it was too late. Too late for apologies. His mind had slipped too far, he knew it. Even if he let her go, she had seen his face, and she would tell the police. They would find him. There would be prison, endless psych evaluations, hours and hours of counseling. No, no, no. Better to end it and disappear back into the shadows.

   The man laughed again, and he laughed loudly, so as to cover the woman's final whimper as his knife cut into the silky flesh of her throat. The blood that poured from her was brighter than he had ever seen. It shone crimson against her ivory skin, like the blood of a deer tainted the fresh winter snow.

  He fell back, surprised by the sudden horror clouding his mind.

 What had he done? What had he done? 

He slapped at his cheeks. The woman's blood smeared his skin. No, no, no. This wasn't supposed to happen. Where was the glee, the joy at finally being rid of his enemy?

  Instead, he felt regret. He whimpered as the woman had done. Curling into a fetal position on the ground, he cried like a baby.

 The streetlight flickered out. He was thrown back into the darkness. And his mind returned to him.

What was he thinking? Wonderful, that's what this was. He had rid the world of something beautiful. He had done what he had desired to do. So why did he feel this way?

  What was it…

  He wanted more. More blood, more stolen innocence, more fear, more pain.

  And so, he stood, and crept back between into the alley he had come from. He walked for a time, laughing, crying. The blood on his face dried and cracked with every smile of wicked satisfaction. 

  Finally, he reached another alley that broke out into a brightly lit street. It was empty, save for the beautiful woman who clattered along, her smile full of youthful innocence.

  And the man in the shadows waited, and he watched.