He wore all black, crouched in the damp street, only a streetlight
giving any clue of his whereabouts. Carefully tucked under his hoodie were
a few illegal things that will be named later. He, however, will not be
Not everything was black that he wore. His Payless sneakers, his
hoodie, and his soul, but nothing else was. His socks were white, as was
the tee shirt underneath the hoodie. His Red Sox cap was blue. And his
boxers, of course, were a red and green plaid.
His illegal objects were a pair of Kalashnikovs, along with a small
pistol. Ammunition, not to be confused with a small vial of cocaine, was
also hidden in his pockets. He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped
some snot from his nose, trying to prevent a sneeze. He had been stalking a
couple for two hours, and he certainly wouldn't have it ruined now, no sir.
He came out from under the streetlight, and now he was invisible. His
skinny 5'6 body suggested either anorexia or lack of food, and it was
neither. Silently, perfectly silent was his tread across the grass,
crunching no leaf or cracking a twig. He had practiced silent movement for
years, and now he did it perfectly. He could sneak up on a Secret Service
agent (he noticed with a grim smile, lacking in mirth, that Secret Service
may very well have been the SS), he supposed. It was 8:30 PM, on a cool
night, wind nipping at his uncovered ears. What they were doing out was
The couple was walking hand in hand, smiling shy, nervous glances at
each other. Neither of them could have been a day older than fifteen, and
they probably weren't that old yet. Age was impossible to decipher during
adolescence. The boy was blond, and had curly hair. He had a nice smile,
and had hazel eyes. His eyes were not nice. He was stocky, probably not
much taller than 5'3. The girl he walked with was nice to look at, he
thought. She had reddish brown hair that was a deep color and waved
casually. Her eyes were a blue gray color, and her skin was paler than
usual for a white person. Her smile was nice, and so were her eyes, as was
her hair, but nothing saved anyone in the end, not even eyes or hair or
They eventually stopped, 8:57 PM, and he was gazing at them intently.
He wanted them to kiss, but he was no romantic. He wished they would hurry
up. His ears were feeling numb. He listened to conversation. He hated
conversation. He hated people. But he thought it would be nice if they
"It's been a lovely night," said the girl.
"I-I thought so too," said the blond boy. He seemed to be scared by
the girl's radiance.
"Would you mind if I kissed you?" asked the girl, her long lashes
fluttering at him gently.
"Um-" said the boy. The girl merely took his lips to hers and kissed
Finally, he thought. It's 9:07! He pulled out a Kalashnikov and fired
before he lost his chance. Both of them slumped over almost instantly, and
he thought he could see blood and even bits of brain splattered on the
girl's blue jacket.
Good shot, he thought. Very good. A hole came in through the back of
her head, and the boy's eye had followed. He smiled a devilish smile,
toothy. He did not smile very much. He certainly didn't smile because of
He took out a sheet of paper and in a half cursive, half print that
he had perfected, he wrote, "This is a murder by death."
And then, "The apple was delicious."
Finally, "Everyone knows that if you pull the delirium trigger, then
the nightmare stops." He didn't sign his name. Signing a false identity was
for losers. He was enigmatic; he would let no one know him
He liked metaphors. And references to songs. They tended to make him
Silently, he ran back to his home.
He went into the bathroom immediately and looked at his reflection.
He had brown hair that fell into his eyes, slightly tanned skin with
stubborn zits that wouldn't leave, gray eyes. Gray eyes everyone loved. He
looked like any other almost fourteen year old boy.
He hated his eyes
He hated everyone.
Let them die.
I am already dead.