I knew I was being a little paranoid, as I took the long way back to my apartment, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I hadn’t once looked behind me since leaving the scene, but I just KNEW someone was following me. Maybe I was paranoid, but with my hobbies, being paranoid meant staying alive and free for one more day. Paranoia was a blessing. I took a sharp turn down an alley way that would make most people shiver in fear. The place didn’t scare me, though. It’s hard to be scared of the things and people that lurk in the dark, when I spend most of my nights BEING the person lurking the in dark. Shadows are not afraid of the dark.

It was quieter in the alley, and I could focus on listening for footsteps. I let out a breath of relief when I heard none follow me. I made it to the end of the alley way, and I was trying to figure out the best path back home. The alley detour had turned me around completely, and because of that damned construction going on, I was going to have to double back past the scene if I wanted to avoid the obvious route home. I wasn’t sure which was worse. I was pretty sure I wasn’t being followed, but I still had that thought, that gut feeling, that I just couldn’t ignore. I felt the heavy weapons buried in my coat pockets. If worst came to worst, it wasn’t like I was defenseless or anything. I decided I couldn’t risk being spotted anywhere near the scene, and started on the path to my home. But as I turned from the alley way, I swore I saw someone standing at the other end, watching me. I only got a glimpse of the person, but it was enough to set my paranoid mind running.

I knew I could handle myself. I could more than handle myself. The person didn’t look like any undercover police officer I had ever seen, besides, if they were tailing me, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to send ONE officer. At least if they had any idea who I really was. As I walked I tried to focus on the steady thunk of the heavy blades deep in my coat pocket. Who ever it was, if they got too close— well, I had already killed three people tonight, one more wouldn’t hurt. Though that voice of paranoia pointed out that even if I killed who ever was stalking me, that could only serve to draw attention to myself, and when one is trying to nonchalantly flee a murder scene, drawing attention is never a good thing.

I continued on, now sure I could here the clacking of shoes not far behind me, the person had followed me down the alley way, only after waiting a moment. The clacking was hard to ignore, it sounded like heels. A women? Why would a woman be stalking me? I mean, should I not be as paranoid as I was, and on my way home to wash the blood of my hands, I would have loved the idea of being stalked by a woman, I was a twenty-seven year old, unattached, young man, after all, and hey, serial killers need love too. But now was not the time!

I could see the apartment building ahead and figured I should do something soon. If I ended up having to kill this women, I couldn’t do it on the steps to my building. But I didn’t even know for sure if she WAS stalking me, and even if she was, I may not need to kill her. Still I slowed down as I got closer to the building. The paranoia kept me sharp; she could be an undercover cop or something. One could never be too sure.

I stopped suddenly, and riffled through my pockets for my phone. It hadn’t gone off. The thing never goes off, in fact, it’s never even turned on, it can be tracked when it’s turned on, but still I needed to see if I was being followed. The clacking of the heels had been so close behind me, that who ever my maybe stalker was, would have to continue past me, or else risk being obvious, and I wanted a good look at who ever it was. I had a knack for judging people well on first glances only. I would be able to tell if this woman was someone I had to worry about.

I pulled the dead phone to my ear and talked, hushed, into the unresponsive chunk of plastic and metal. I pretended to look distressed over what the imaginary voice on the other line said, and I moved to the far side of the sidewalk, and leaned against the nearest building.

My eyes were carefully scanning the people as they past, while my month was moving constantly, talking, essentially, to myself.

I heard the clacking get insanely loud before a short young woman passed slowly in front of me. She was wrapped in a too big men’s coat that hung to the back of her knees. She wore tight fitting jeans and a pair of heeled boots. Those were big mistake if she had in fact been stalking me. There was a dirty white scarf wrapped around her neck, and that, and a hat pulled down low, hid most of her face, but I was sure she had to be in her early twenties, if not late teens. Not a police office, no way. She slowed down and glanced at me before suddenly speeding up and turning the corner. Yeah, I was being followed, but even my paranoid sense didn’t have a problem with the girl. Maybe she thought I was someone she knew, or something. I felt relief come over me as I hung up on myself and stuffed the phone back into my pocket before jogging the rest of the way to the apartment. I was paranoid, but I knew that was what kept me safe.

I was about to take the first step of the seven that led up to the stoop of my building when a high pitched, very female voice called out from across the street. I hesitated but didn’t turn around, but as it came closer, and I remembered the girl, I turned around.

It was the girl. She raced towards me, hurrying across the street to reach me. There were others on the side walk around me, but I just knew she was running towards me. She was almost across the road when a car stopped just short of plowing her over. Despite myself, I moved quickly to her and reached out to help her, as she took a shaky step onto the sidewalk, muttering an apology to the driver, who only honked his horn angrily before speeding off.

“You shouldn’t run across the road like that, you’ll get killed,” I commented. She was shaking slightly as she clung to my arm, but she looked up and smiled.

“Maybe I don’t care.” Her voice was high and clear, but there was a strange monotone quality to it. I just stared. She eventually removed herself from my arm, and brushed a wrinkle out of her too big coat. I shook my head and turned to leave. I had a bad feeling growing about this girl. It wasn’t a paranoid bad feeling, my paranoia had decided she wasn’t a threat, but I still had a bad feeling about her. I had barely taken a step before she was next to me. I had opened my month to ask what she wanted, but she cut me off.

“I know who you are,” she said, mischievously, and I felt my heart drop into my stomach. The newspapers had called me cold blooded before, but it wasn’t until I heard those words did I truly know the meaning of ‘blood ran cold.’ It feel like my heart was trying to push icicles through my veins. I regained composer, though and responded quickly.

“Really? I don’t know you. How do you know me?” I had stopped my trek and looked down at her. I was tempted to just mutter, ‘what do you mean?’ but it sounded to guilty in my mind so I tried my hand at sounding normal.

“Your work!” she said cheerfully, and I swore my heart stopped. Outside of my hobbies I worked in a local clothing store. No way she knew me from there. No way.

“Oh really?” I said, rasing my eyebrows. “What work?”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t want me to go into details here!” she said, moving from my side to stand in front of me. “I saw what you did earlier. That is the work I mean, and I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but I know you probably really don’t want me to make a scene,” she said in a whisper. I was trying to remain as calm as possible. My paranoia was broken. She WAS a threat.

“Well then,” I said, amazed at how calm my voice sounded, “I suppose we should go up to my apartment and finish this conversation,” I said. Damn! I was going to have to kill her in my apartment! And there were so many witnesses! Well, I looked around and realized no one was paying much attention to us, I would still have to kill her in my home, and I had a strict policy of not bring my work home. The girl seemed elated at my words. I wondered just how stupid she was. She obviously knew what I was, yet she was excited about following me into my secluded apartment, away from all the potential witnesses.

She smiling nonstop as she followed me closely up the five flights of stairs. Not once did she complaint about the exercise, and she was wearing those obnoxious heels. Finally I reached my small apartment. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, and as soon as she was inside, I slammed the door shut and reached for my knife, still buried in my pocket and covered in my last victim’s blood. I started to turn on the girl, weapon in hand, as she was shrugging her large coat off to reveal an oversized purple tee shirt, free of designs. She was so comfortable standing before me, and she knew what I was. I had a knife in my hand, and she didn’t look phased at all. I hesitated. Twelve. I had killed twelve people so far, and never had I seen anyone as calm as her.

“Can I at least talk to you before you kill me?” she asked, simply. She folded her coat over her arm and flashed a sweet smile. I was at a loss and nodded, pocketing the knife again. She giggled and removed her hat, gloves and scarf. Starting to feel overdressed, I pulled my own coat off and tossed over the couch.

“You can set your stuff down,” I said gruffly, motioning to couch where I had thrown my own coat. She nodded and set her things down neatly and carefully. I wanted to pull my gloves off but I knew my hands were still caked in blood. There was blood on my shirt, and when the girl’s eyes landed on it, they seemed to sparkle a bit. I really didn’t know what to make of her. Was she one of those weird goth kids obsessed with murder, but too scared to actually murder so she was obsessed with those who did? Was she a future killer? Somehow, as odd as she was, I didn’t get that vibe from her. But she wasn’t scared of me, at all. Maybe she was just insane.

We stood in a very awkward silence before she spoke. “Sorry if I scared you down there, I just really wanted to talk to you. I really need to talk to you. I promise I’m not going to call the police of anything, actually, after you hear why I am here, you’ll see why.” She spoke clearly, but quickly. There was so much confidence behind each word; I got the feeling she had rehearsed this speech.

“Sit down,” I said, more harshly then I had intended. I pointed to the small kitchen table and its three rickety chairs. She silently obeyed. I took a deep breath and ran my still gloved hands through my hair. What was I going to do? Why was I hearing this girl out? Why was my paranoia broken! I still felt safe, like this girl wasn’t a threat! It made no sense.

I finally joined the smiling girl at the table.

“How did you find me?” I asked, bluntly. I glared at the girl, it was a glare I had perfected and made most grown men cower. It was normally more effective when I had a six inch knife in my hand, but even unarmed it was a rather threatening gaze. The girl barely flinched.

“I followed you from the scene,” she replied.

“But how did you know I was going to be there?”

“I didn’t, it was only a hunch,” she said. “I was just lucky.”

I laughed. “Most people wouldn’t call witnessing a triple homicide lucky.”

“I’m not most people,” she said, flashing that smile that was beginning to grate on my nerves.

“I’ve noticed,” I reply, bitterly. “Your hunch makes you smarter than the police,” I pointed out. She only nodded. “You’ve been following my work then?” I asked.

“Yes!” she jumped up a little in her seat when she spoke. “From the first time I saw an article in the paper about you I knew you were the one!” She paused, waiting for my reaction. When it didn’t come, she continued. “I mean, I had been looking everywhere, but something about your work. . .And I mean, once I saw you I was sure. And you look nothing like I thought you would, by the way. It doesn’t really matter, but I just wanted to say. I mean, you don’t look like a normal serial killer, I guess that’s why you haven’t been caught, huh?” she gave a nervous laugh.

God! She sounded like some star-struck preteen meeting her favorite rock star! I wasn’t sure if I want to be flattered or puke. She sounded like she was in love with me! I swear if she proposed to me or something, I was going to slit her throat so deep I might as well have decapitated her! I eyed her carefully over the table. She was fidgeting slightly in her seat. She was a pretty girl. A little young, and small for my tastes. She was tiny, short, and rail thin. Her hair was blonde and cut in a bob that framed her face. She looked like a middle schooler.

“What do you want with me?” I snapped. She jumped up and actually seemed to hesitate a second before speaking.

“I. . . well, I want you to kill me.”

My mind went blank. That was not what I had been expecting.

“What?”

“I to die. I want you to kill me,” she repeated calmly.

“Why me?” I managed to ask, my mind still blank. This girl WAS insane.

“Well, I figured I just had to find someone who specializes in the field I mean, when your sink is clogged, you don’t get some random person, but someone who knows what they are doing and has experience, right? Same as when you’re sick, you go to a trained doctor, right? So isn’t it logical, that since I want to die, I sought out someone like yourself, a serial killer with experience in the field of death?”

“I suppose,” I muttered, still trying to get over the shock. “But why do you want to die, I mean, how OLD are you, anyway?”

“Nineteen, and I just do,” she said, sharply.

“That’s young. You shouldn’t want to die, you’re too young,” I said.

“That’s rich,” she said, with a dark laugh, “A serial killer telling me the ills of suicide.”

“Not what I said,” I snapped, glaring at her. “But you shouldn’t want to die, I mean, why do you?”

“Why do you kill?” She shot back. I was a bit taken aback by her question, but at this point there was little the girl could say that would shock me.

“None of your business,” I replied, quietly.

“The same to you,” she said with a sardonic grin. “I don’t see what your problem is. I am suicidal, and you are homicidal. We’re a match made in hell, wouldn’t you say?” I actually smiled at her comment, before shaking my head.

“You have a point, but I’m not killing you! Do it yourself!”

“I can’t! Well, I mean, I can, but I don’t want to!” she near shouted. She chewed on her lip before speaking again. “I mean. . .I want to die, and I could kill myself, but you are a serial killer, and you are going to go out and kill people, so why not just kill me? I want to die! I know you don’t care, but killing me means you’re NOT killing someone who actually WANTS to be alive.”

“You’re right, I don’t care,” I said curtly. “I really should kill you anyway, but I don’t do requests, sorry.” I didn’t know what to do with the girl. I should kill her, but that was what she wanted! I couldn’t do that. This was so bizarre, I was half convinced I was dreaming.

“Please, I mean, you’re going to kill anyway...”

“No.”

“Please don’t make me use this...but kill me or I go to the police,” she said coldly. I froze.

“You wouldn’t,” I said, voice low and growling.

“Wanna bet? I have nothing to lose, you have everything,” she said, voice like ice. Oh, she was good. She was really good.

“If you want to die so bad, why didn’t you just let me slash your throat like I was going to earlier?” I mutter, glaring at the girl.

“I figured you didn’t want to kill me here, so I was going to ask you and then maybe set up a later date and time. . .” she said quietly. Damn, she had really thought this through.

I grumbled and pulled my gloves off so I could wring my hands properly. I couldn’t figure out what I should make of this girl. Was it too good to be true? A victim I didn’t have to hunt and stalk, but was free to take my aggression out on, and I wouldn’t have to worry about that quiet, but some how ever present voice that refused to leave me alone, that would chant while I killed, that I was a horrible, horrible person, and should feel guilty. I never actually felt guilty, but if I took this girl’s offer, I would be able to kill without that voice. I was excited at the mere thought, though I wasn’t going to let the girl know. I had learned too long ago that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

“How do I know you aren’t going to rat me out anyway? How do I know you aren’t working with the police, and wearing a wire thing now?” I snapped. My paranoia was finally waking up and doing its job.

“I guess you’ll have to trust me on the ratting out part. But I am not with the police and I am not wearing a wire. I’ll strip right now,” she said and went to stand up. I held up a hand.

“Don’t.” I sighed. “You really want to die then?”

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, more sure than I have been about anything in my life.”

“Aren’t you religious at all?” I asked.

“Do you third degree all your victims before killing them?” she asked, smirking.

“No, but they normally don’t approach me on the street asking to be killed,” I replied.

“I still don’t see what your reservation is. It makes perfect sense to me. I want to die, and you want to kill. We solve each other’s problems.”

“It’s just a little unnerving,” I said, quietly. “So you want to die, so you track down, me, a serial killer, to get me to do the deed, because why? You want to spare someone else? You know I am going to go out and kill after you, should I kill you. I will kill until I am killed or I am caught. You won’t stop that.”

“I know, it made sense in my head,” she said softly.

“Yeah, because your mind is the prefect picture of mental health and rational thought!” I said, glaring over at her.

“You’re one to talk,” she retorted.

“Touche,” I muttered. “So what’s the real reason? Don’t want to shame your family? Don’t want to be a statistic? Or maybe, you want the kind of notoriety that comes with being murdered?”

“It’s none of that, really!” she said, gripping at the edge of the table. “I mean, I don’t want to be a statistic, but I wouldn’t care. And I don’t care about being known after I’m dead or any of that, it’s just that...that...”

“What?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Explain.” I snapped. I wasn’t in a mood for word games. My nerves were jumping, and I was very much on edge.

“I just, I want to die, but I want more than suicide,” she said, so quiet, I almost didn’t catch it.

I stared at her, scared that her last comment had made sense to me. “You said you knew from the moment you saw my murders in the papers,” I said softly. “You know how I kill. You know I torture my victims, and you WANT that?” It wasn’t really a question, but it had come out as such.

“Yes, exactly. I don’t want a quick death, it is something I want to savor, a last memory, if that makes any sense. There is a limit to what I can do to myself.” She was looking down at her lap, idly tugging at the hem of her shirt.

“I guess you are right,” I said after a long silence. I couldn’t believe I was going to do this, but at the same time, I was glad. She was just as twisted mentally as I was, and though I was going to kill her, I would feel good about it. I mean, I generally feel good about all my murders, but I could feel like I was doing good, in some twisted way that one she and I understood.

“Right about what?” she asked, looking up hopeful.

“We are a match made in hell.” I smiled.

It was arranged. A date was set. Three weeks from now, I would grab her as she walked home from a late night study session at the local college she attended. I would drag her to a nearby abandoned building and fulfill her wish. She was elated as we worked out the plans, and couldn’t help but look forward to the date.

“Please don’t hold back,” she said, as I helped her back into her coat. “I mean, treat me as any other victim.”

“I couldn’t do that,” I said. And I couldn’t. She was one in a million, she was special. She looked up at me, an expression of disappointment plastered on her face.

“But. . .”

“I won’t hold back, but you will not be treated like any other victim. I will pull out all the stops,” I grin, and she smiles. I felt something flutter inside me. A match made in hell. That’s what were really were. It was so strange, we were so strange. We were both so twisted and dangerous but that was what made it work. I liked her, but felt no attachment to her. She was the first human being I didn’t have to hide from, and it was a great feeling. I could tell by her smile she felt the same. It wasn’t love, no, never, I can’t love, she can’t love. It doesn’t work that way. It was an understanding. A complete and utter understanding.

She left, after pausing to wave. I smiled, already planning for our little date.

I hade been waiting for this day for too long. Even before I meet the girl. I was going to kill without that obnoxious voice, trying to goad me into feeling sorry. It was wonderful. And I was pulling out everything. All my tools were sharpened and a few new devices had been added. I had scouted out the abandoned building before hand and set up everything. I was so excited it was beyond obscene.

I flexed my fingers in their usually leather glove casing. I stood silently in the shadows. I hadn’t killed a single person in the three weeks. I was itching for a kill. This was going to feel so great.

I saw her at last. Walking calmly, swinging her backpack idly as she neared the corner I was hidden in. I took a deep breath before pouncing. She had said she wanted the full experience, so I would give it to her. I grabbed her small frame and pushed a sharpened dagger to her throat.

“Scream and I slit your throat,” I said gruffly, though the mask I wore. She was shaking against me, and I some how knew she was smiling.

The night was beautiful. Everything went off with out a hitch. It felt wonderful, to work without that voice, and to know I was doing this girl a favor. It was such a release. I maybe had gone a bit over board in some parts, but I had been itching to experiment, and here was someone who had, weeks before, asked me, NOT to hold back. She had screamed. It was human nature, I understood that. I also understood, she wanted the pain, she wanted the slow death. The night was wonderful, but it eventually came to an end. She was still alive, but barely. He pale eyes flicked up at me, her face speckled with blood and drenched in tears. I met her gaze and brought my sharpest knife to her throat.

“See you in hell,” I said, before slitting her throat. And it wasn’t an insult, or a threat, but a promise.