The Conscience of a Killer

I watched with growing desire as the woman entered the room. I'm a killer, a bloodthirsty killer.

She stood by the cocktail bar, glowing with beauty and desire. She was mine and she didn't know it...yet. I took a step closer, feeling the desire growing stronger as I grew near to my prey. Her diamond earrings glistened in the soft glow of the overheat lights. She was too high class for a guy like me. But that didn't matter, or at least it wouldn't when I was through with her. She's drinking her last cocktail now. She better enjoy it.

I watched the killer draw closer to his next victim. When should I strike? Would he go easy? Would I be endangering the other patrons? That didn't matter. He'll never stop killing, not until everybody was dead. I knew the type--quitting never even crosses their mind. He was closer now, an arm's length away from the beauty. He'll probably woo her with his boyish charm, asking her if she wants to dance. They'd dance, dance, dance the night away, then he'd take her out back and gut her. I knew the type.

I approached her with cautious elegance, the walk of royalty. She turned and laid eyes on me. I had her hook, line, and sinker. It's all in the walk. I asked her if she wanted a cigarette, then I lit it for her.

They were chatting now, laughing and joking around like one of them wouldn't be a bloody corpse by morning. The woman had no idea. I decided to make my move, then realized I was frozen in place. Got to get moving, I told myself. Got to stop him before another one dies. You can't let anymore die, not by his hands. I pried my feet from the floor one at a time. They were as heavy as cinder blocks. I looked at my hands. They were white and cold.

We danced. Her, beautiful and glamorous and totally oblivious to her impending doom. It's the part of the game that I like best. There's irony in the situation: her last dance, her last cigarette, her last cocktail, everything she enjoyed...she'd enjoy them with her killer. Her doom. I'd make her love me before she breathed her last breath.

I reached for my waist and felt the cold steel of my 9mm pistol, the death weapon I sincerely hoped I'd never have to use. But I had, many times. And now I'd use it again, because I'm a killer, no better than my suspect. I'd hold the gun to his head and make him say he was sorry for all the innocent women he had murdered in cold blood, then I'd pull the trigger. It's the only good way for scum like him to go.

We walked out of the ballroom and into the cold night air. Her arm was around my waist and she was laughing.

I followed them out of the ballroom and into the cold night air. Her arm was around his waist and she was laughing. I made my move.

A gruff voice behind me said, "Stop." I turned slowly. Nobody there. The woman said, "What's wrong?"

He can't see me. He keeps walking. "Don't do this," I tell him. "You need to stop doing this."

I hear the voice again. That cold, gruff voice, the sound of a middle-aged smoker with a chip on his shoulder. He tells me to stop. I ignore him. Why shouldn't I? I know who the voice belongs to.

I pull the gun and scream for him to turn around and face me. He keeps walking. I squeeze off a couple of rounds.

I decided to use the gun this time. The girl was too beautiful for the knife. She collapses in my arms, an eternal look of shock on her soft face. A tear slips out of her eye and down her cheek, and a little trickle of blood oozes out of the corner of her mouth. She is gone. I've done it again.

I've failed. I tried to stop him, and I failed. I wonder if he'll ever listen to me again. I'm a ghost to him.

The voice in my head is gone. I thought I heard footsteps behind me, and I turned. Must have been imagining it.