Blood dripped slowly down his hand. He stared at it, stared through his hand entirely, his eyes listless. Reeling from what just happened. The cold wind swept around his new trench coat -- his first black trench coat -- only a couple of minutes later did he realize he was shivering from the cool night air. The leaves fell from every tree in the park, devoid of any softness, even of snow.

The feeling faded away slowly: as the cool night air around him permeated his skin, along came with it a long unyielding loneliness. Pleasure felt empty when not shared: trees are not known to feel. At times, he felt, it was almost not worth it. However, the loneliness decreased in repetition. As if he became numb to it. He did not think he could ever become numb to the pleasure. Truly, it would be a terrible thing, only to kill to survive. If he freed himself of all feeling, even of pleasure, what would become of him then? Already he did not feel so many other things he used to experience; he lost love at fifteen.

It is a medical disorder – psychiatric in nature, most likely listed in the DSM-IV: sexual sadism, piquerism, psychotic behavior, obsessive-compulsive disorder, acute anti-social behavior, or vampirism. Maybe all of those, but they would have to find him first.

He surmised killing felt like sex.

Amend that thought: it felt like masturbation. One was alone, after all; the victim was simply the medium for the act. There had been that one time a few years -- years, now was it? -- when he sought the pleasure from his own hand ; he recalls staring dazed at the white viscous liquid, through his fingers, much like he was staring at the blood only a while before. After that once, he had felt the same loneliness. He hadn't done it again: it was only days later when he killed his mother and found a greater source of pleasure. Nothing detracted from the pleasure of the kill for him besides the solitude: remorse he could not feel -- one only felt it if one destroyed something of value; he was never taught human life held any. Burning a book is unremarkable to those who are illiterate, but sacrilegious to a scholar. Tossing bread is of no consequence to those with money, but heresy to the starved man.

Looking back, he supposed only the experience of killing his mother could be construed as "sex". Not that he had any basis for such a comparison. However, she felt the pleasure too that afternoon. She was willing, even tingling with the feeling of a previous kill. Receptive, and if it matters, in love with him. He was in love, wasn't he? He loved her, but he wasn't in love. But that was not what gave the moment rapture to him. That time, he did not feel the loneliness. He kissed her. There was a promise, an omen in a way. She told him he would be in love again, when he was killed in the same way. He did not know how he felt about that.

It was a few months back when he met that little eight-year-old boy here, who had caught him in an act of murder. He had not seen him since then. What had he felt then? Why had he given up a chance to feel pleasure from such a beautiful and innocent little boy? One that held so much vitality and naivete, qualities that made the experience all the more pleasurable? He though of him every night, the sweet scent of a craving. Maybe if he held value, if he felt any human emotion towards the boy, it would be better than the kill. Why would he want to find out if anything could feel better than killing? It is not as if he could just stop this morbid ritual—like any obsession, it was beyond him. It had once felt better though, he reminded himself: when he had killed him mother. What had his mother felt, when she died? She told him it was a beautiful thing, to die in the hands of a beloved. He did indeed love beautiful things. Could he want to love something so much that he would want to die; would that feeling eclipse the idea that his life would end? Would the feeling be so beautiful that he would not need to feel anything else ever again? He could not imagine giving his vitality to anything.

The other day, he had taken his college entrance exams. The results had been published the previous afternoon. Kazuya was accepted to the veterinary school of one of Japan's finest educational institutions. Surely, some student in Tokyo cried tonight for being denied acceptance. This made him smile. Maybe he should find one of those students and murder her tomorrow night. People would think of it as suicide maybe. He had nobody to share his efforts with; it is not like he did have friends, nor was he that insane to talk to a tree in the park. Perversely, the thought of bragging to his dying prey made him snicker. However, he knew that was empty: he had nobody who cared today, and nobody would care tomorrow. He did not even care. Veterinary was only an inconspicuous profession.

Nevertheless, a terrible sense of bloodlust had built in him as soon as he saw the results. It had made him high to know that he had the highest score on one of the most difficult universities in Japan. Outwardly, he appeared serene and unfazed. His hands itched to be covered in blood. In a way, he was angry that nobody cared. The kill would make him forget.

The beauty of his victim does not make it any more pleasurable, but he had always loved beautiful things. Just like wine does not make you forget any faster in a crystal chalice than straight from the bottle, but it is prettier. Artistic, maybe even more civilized. It further distracts the senses from the true base purpose.

He put his arms around a beautiful youth and drew him to stroll around the park. Leisurely walking, never rushing, slowly building the lust for it; the soft caresses inflame his skin, his sense of want. Little kisses, now and then, a few sweet, later, more insistent and lustful. The boy must not have been much younger than he was. The lover wrapped his arms around Kazuya's neck, drew him for a longer kiss, a short nip at his earlobe, a soft urging whisper to go elsewhere. The park might look deserted at his late hour of the night, but once the subway stops running, there is no place to rest.

The cherry would make a nice resting-place for this boy for all eternity, he thought. Softly he urged them both down to lie at the roots of the age-old tree. A kiss at the jaw, a string of them running down his smooth fragile neck, drew short gasps from the boy. His breath deepened. Kazuya brought his hands up to the other's shirt to slowly undo the buttons, not bothering to remove either of their trench coats. One hand caressed the left nipple though the thin white shirt, their hips rubbed enticingly. The boy moaned louder.

The youth's shirt undone, Kazuya moved his hand under, rubbing the left breast in slowly diminishing circles. He ran his left hand through the boy's longish black hair, dark and silky. He bent down to kiss the neck once more, smiling at the flickering eyelids as they closed shut. He whispered, open your eyes beautiful. Now.

He drew the knife with long fingers, stabbing into the boy's chest. A shrill scream, louder. The ribs cracked without a sound; this time, it is Kazuya who attempted not to close his eyes, his breath sped up. The boy moaned in the most exquisite pain as Kazuya twisted the knife through his heart, rubbing his hips faster, insistently. The heart slowed its beating; his hand squeezed the remaining blood gently.

The screams died down.

He moaned softly as the body beneath died.

The boy's eyes closed, and so did his.

One last shuddering breath he exhaled as he drew his dagger out, spreading the blood on the rough tree trunk in front of him as if to extend the pleasure.

Kneeling before the tree, he looked at the blood still in his hand, dripping slowly, his eyes still hazy from the pleasure.