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 named.
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 beyond him.
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 goodness.
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 kissed.
"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 him passionately.
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 happiness.
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 feel better.
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.