Here’s one of the few stories that doesn’t have Sethe. Shocking, huh? It’s one of those that I couldn’t just leave to rot on my computer, so please review and hope you like it.

“Perspective” – 27.07.08

It was a cool, clear evening – quite simply. It had been rainy earlier… but this had been before the kill. Funny that it had stopped pouring when the man ceased living. Funny… in the not so funny way, of course.

He had stayed in the park after the deed had been done, puffing now on a third cigarette. He would unconsciously start a habit of rubbing his hands inside the black leather pockets to rid the blood deposited only minutes ago in the creek behind him – long gone.

He had killed a man – yes – he had, and it wasn’t any dream at all. The man, who must have taken a shortcut home, came down the dirt path of the park, whistling in happiness of having this home of his to return to, and be welcomed to. And he himself had held him down by blade and dragged it across his pale throat, before the thought was fully processed. He could still feel the blood against his chest, covered only by that damned heavy trench coat.

Undeniably, he had done it.

He just didn't know why.

It hadn't been far from his mind, of course, to have committed the act. He indeed had a knife in such an accessible reach and had laid in bed with said blade running over his calloused hands, wondering what sound it made when it pierced flesh, how much blood rose from the surface... so many thoughts.

He wasn't even sure where they had started. He supposed it might have been when his father had destroyed his mother's entire world - which had been ages ago. And he remembered promising her that he wouldn't let the man get away with it. It was a promise he intended to keep - when he found the bastard.

However, this man hadn't been anyone one he knew. It was perhaps his misfortune to have wandered so carelessly in the dark, being too damned happy.

Maybe the dead took comfort that they were not alone, he wondered, for he had done this more than once.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t see a young girl take a seat beside him until she made herself known.

“Smoking’s bad for you.”

His senses were dulled – damn good thing – it kept his heart rate regular, and his mind mostly lucid.

“Mister, are you cold?”

Exhaling smoke, he answered simply –

“Aye.”

She squirmed on the cold bench, blew warm air into cupped, mitten hands, and then said, “Momma won’t let me go outside usually at night. She says that a bad man might hurt me. Are you a bad man?”

She asked this while blinking large, baby blue eyes, but he didn’t see this – he didn’t want to turn his head. He lowered the cancer stick from his mouth to reply. “I wouldn’t hurt you, darling.” She hadn't done wrong, anyways.

If he had been facing her, he wouldn’t have seen a broad grin across her cheeks.

“I’m waiting for papa,” she announced. “He walks home from work, and he always whistles (she puckered her lips together and blew strained air). That’s how I know where he is. Have you seen him, Mister?”

“I don’t believe so, Miss.”

“I brought an umbrella for him, but it stopped raining.”

“Could’ve used it.”

“When papa gets home,” she continued in her child-like chitter-chatter, “we’re going to have roast and potatoes and a big cake!” she stretched her arms, striking him accidently on the shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Sounds mighty fine.”

“Would you like to eat with us?”

“No, that‘s okay, darling.”

His senses remained dull – quite dead, in fact. He didn’t feel guilty of her excitement, which would surely die soon… once she knew. No, instead, he felt a strange… urge. He wanted to kill her, too. Now, while, she still had her innocence and didn’t know the truth – now. And he almost did. However, she made the first move. She hugged him about the neck, and told him goodbye; she was going to go ahead and try to meet her father half-way. He let her go, watching her skip off with her precious, sweet innocence that he so envied.

And then he stood, and left for his own empty living space.

---

“Kira! Kira! Do you think the man in the park was your father’s murderer?” the reporters asked the child, over her mother’s angry cries to let her alone. Cameras went off one after another, her wet and scared eyes captured under the blinding lights.

Kira squeezed her hands over her ears, and shook her head several times. “He’s not a bad man! He said he wasn’t!” She lifted her lifeless eyes and stated defiantly –

“He was just lonely.”