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Darkness. Familiar darkness. All encompassing. Hunter’s darkness. Hunger’s darkness. He’s coming.
The moon shining like a gunshot hole through perfectly black cloth. No victim this time. The light illuminates no one but itself. Then the moon moves.
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Damon screams even louder in my head as the first slashes rake into his face. But eventually, he shuts up. Because he has no tongue. Or eyes. Or nose. He is a floating, shredded, featureless mess of meat. A delightfully, deliciously, magnificently amateur skinning. There’s not even enough of a face left to take and preserve—it’s like it never existed. He deserves nothing better than this botched practice job. He was a learning tool and nothing more. And I feel calmer. Clearer. Quieter.
It’s a sad feeling. Like sitting down at a favorite restaurant only to discover nothing on the menu looks appetizing anymore.
The woman in the mirror has been brutalized. Her face is caked in blood and dirt and sweat, a makeup job from hell. To call her hair disarrayed is to call a hurricane gusty, a tsunami a little damp. Her eyes are wet and gummy with trauma and maybe even madness. Her skin is scratched and burned; it’s puffy, it’s ringed, it’s sunken, it’s peeling. But she’s looking at herself.
Change is the only thing life promises us. I want to tell her that, above all, death must be one thing: useful.
The monster was closer than any of us could have dared imagine. With her latest victim, no less. Yes. Her. Up to this point, I still thought the killer would be a man. In some ways, my own innocence was shattered that day, too. Or at least a kind of naïveté. So how did we end up catching her?
