Hey everybody this is a story I would like to dedicate to Aurora Starwind, for willfully reviewing my terrible stories.


Hell yeah, I love the feeling.
The cool touch of darkness caressing my cheek, the madness, lost in my thoughts and the devil living on my left shoulder laughs at the sleeping angel on my other shoulder.
Well it has been the same routine for almost a year and I am running out of room.
Way too little room.
I won't let this stop my fun though, because I kind of enjoying the terrible headache that tells me it is time to begin.
Then I just stare at the door handle. Noticing its brass shine, the little glints of light that reflect off of it like angel tears eight different glints the tears of four different angels. I like to think that when I go out that angels really do cry.
I battle myself, but true enjoyment lays outside of my little shack that I call a house, and no amount of meditation on my door handle will change that.
I reach out a gloved hand, the world is too dirty not to wear gloves, and recently I have had to buy more and more gloves, the world just continues to get more and more dirty.
After a great amount of concentration I usually can manage to open the door, but it so hard every time.
Then I step on my front porch, it is like being born again and the moon grins at my victory, I lock the door with a small brass key I keep under my door mat, by now I have to wrestle with the lock, my hands shake from the wonderful amount of energy I suddenly have.
But then I worry about the lack of room again, but I have to push aside these thoughts. I walk down the steps to my driveway.
There is seven steps each one has fourteen red bricks in it, which is ninety-eight bricks, taking up precious room.
But it doesn't matter because soon I am on the driveway, perfect, smoothly paved asphalt the color of a bleached skull.
After eight-teen short steps I am on the black ocean of pavement that is called a street, and now I have it in my hands. I feel it's cool ivory handle.
Then I unsheathe it, its beautiful stainless steel reflects in the moonlight.
Straight razor in hand it's time to hunt.
And the lack of room in which to hide the bodys no longer matters.