Charlie's Night Out

  Charlie’s night out

      The lights went out in the apartment above the Chinese bakery, leaving the alley almost dark except for a single naked light bulb, hanging by a frayed cord over the backdoor to the grocery store. This was a few yards away and didn’t offer much light, at least not enough to betray Charlie’s presence.  Charlie looked around and confirmed he was alone in the alley.  The only sound was a muffled cough coming from the apartment two floors above where he crouched.  He listened without moving. He was used to staying still, sometimes for hours. He could be patient when needed, and alert enough to move at the slightest hint of detection or danger. Charlie felt comfortable that he could not be spotted. He stood by the large green dumpster behind the café which offered him cover from his intended victim. The back door of the tavern suddenly opened to let someone out to deposit the night’s waste in the dumpster.  Charlie recoiled further in the shadows to keep from discovery. The hot, humid air hit him in the face, and the smell of stale liquor, human body odors and stifling cigarette smoke drifted into the alley. Clinking glasses, drunken conversations, loud music and laughter filled the alley, then silence as the large metal doors slammed shut.  The incessant yapping by a distant dog sent a chill through his body.

He hated dogs. He hated them with a rage that consumed him. He had an overwhelming fear of them. He felt that dogs were a scourge upon the earth and could not understand why anyone in his right mind would ever want to have a dog as a pet. He recalled how the people next door to him never kept their animal in the yard or on a leash when they walked him. For a time he could not enjoy his own front yard for fear of being attacked. All that changed when his neighbors forgot to lock the gate one day and their little Bingo got out. He was mauled by a neighborhood pit bull that happened to be strolling by. That dog ripped a gash in Bingo’s side from his neck halfway to his flank. After that incident, Bingo never ventured out his yard and his owners never let him go anywhere unless they had him on a leash.  Charlie felt that at least that animal got his just due.

        He still saw no sign of movement in the alley.  A quick soft breeze blew through the alley, rustled a discarded newspaper and died as suddenly as it came.  Still no sound. Charley remained patient. He knew a victim would be coming through the alley sooner or later. He knew these wretched homeless creatures would come to scrounge through the garbage bins to get whatever leftovers they found from the café’s discarded nightly fare. He knew that no one would miss them. They were the forgotten ones who are seen but not noticed. In his opinion, they meant nothing to the good order of society and would be better off eliminated.
Charlie closed his eyes and breathed deeply to take in any telltale smell to indicate they were on the way. He felt exhilarated at what he was about to do. The thrill of anticipating his attack overwhelmed him. The more he stayed in the alley waiting the more his heart raced. There was no greater thrill than the thought of what he was about to do. He considered himself a hunter, a predator who served a great purpose, a purpose to get rid of these scum who infest the city. He thrilled at the feeling that no one at home knew what he did when he left alone at nights. They could only speculate, perhaps they thought that he liked to take long walks in the dark. He wondered; if they knew, would they have a tinge of jealousy because they did not have the stomach to do what he was about to do. These thoughts gave him a sense of power, a sense that he, more than anyone else, was in control of his destiny.

          Charlie didn’t have to wait much longer. Instinct told him his prey was about to come within his reach. He stared around the dumpster down the alleyway and a heard a very slight shuffle, even before he saw the telltale form. In the dark, he always looked for the eyes. The unsuspecting eyes that he could see in the dim light, then the unmistakable hurried footsteps of his victim. He watched as his prey stopped for a second and turned his head from left to right looking for any sign of danger. Once he was satisfied there was no one else in the alley, he approached, closer and closer to the dumpster. Charlie could almost feel the anticipation that the victim felt, the anticipation that his meal was within his reach. He waited. He crouched and never moved, simply staring at his victim’s eyes. His anticipation grew, his heart beat faster, the adrenalin surged, he could hardly control himself, but he knew he had to wait for the right moment. The moment when his victim was most unaware and vulnerable. The closer his victim got to the dumpster, the more his eyes betrayed his feeling of confidence, confident that he was alone, confident that he had nothing to fear. He waited and held his breath. The victim got closer.  Suddenly, Charlie saw the fear in his victim’s eyes, knowing that he had been spotted, knowing that it was too late for him to get away. He pounced. His victim struggled, but he had no chance of getting away from Charlie’s grip. Charlie was strong and much bigger than him. It didn’t take long, it never did. He felt the last quiver, a sudden shudder before death, then silence. He let go and stared at his handiwork. He was elated. He had no remorse, only an overwhelming feeling of power. It was as if he became more powerful with each killing. His victim still stared with open glazed over eyes, peaceful. Charlie turned him over, the pool of
blood widening as all his life’s fluid drained out in that dark obscure place where a second ago he never anticipated dying, only another meal.
 
      Charlie sat for awhile looking at the body, every now and then prodding it with no response. He looked around. Still no sign that he had been discovered. He was alone with his victim. He dragged the carcass behind the dumpster and again looked around, satisfied that he had accomplished his mission. His night’s work was over.

      As he turned around the corner to his house, Charlie could see the first faint rays of the morning sun over the horizon, and picked up his step, hurrying to get back to the safety of his home.  He saw that the door was open, and there she was, standing in the doorway with that now familiar reproachful look. “Charlie, where have you been?” He ignored her, not really listening. He had heard it before. He stifled a yawn, looked at her sideways, to let her know he simply didn’t care what she thought or said. She looked at him and finally noticed that he was bloody. “Charlie,” she screamed at him “where did you get that blood?” She seemed genuinely concerned. “What have you done?” Charlie brushed past her. What did she think, he thought to himself, I do what I was born to do, after all, I’m a cat. Cats hunt. We hunt at night. We kill, and especially we hunt and kill rats.