 
### Bleodsian

By

Robert Perry

SMASHWORDS EDITION

(c) 2012 by Robert Perry

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Please do not reproduce, copy, and/or distribute for commercial or non-commerical purposes. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons (living or dead), places, events, or locations are coincidental and are products of the author's creativity.

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**Table of Contents**

Prologue: The Tale Must Be Told

Part 1: Necessity Begets Invention

Part 2: The First Kill

Part 3: This Cup Runneth Over

Part 4: Disillusionment

Part 5: Cacciare's Last

Part 6: The End of All Things

Epilogue: The Blessed Speaks

Prologue: The Tale Must Be Told

I do not expect you to believe me; I only expect you to listen. This is not my story or the story of anyone dear to me. It is a story conveyed to me on the direst of nights, under the most torrential of circumstances. I have an obligation to speak, a solemn obligation to transmit what I know. I will not be held accountable if my lips are silent, and no harm will befall anyone if what I speak resides forever in the realm of isolation. I do feel, however, a certain prodding in my being which compels me to vocalize that which was given...

Part 1: Necessity Begets Invention

My name, if ever I were called by such, is Richard Cacciare. I am an employee at Hartford College, and what I speak now is the truth as best I can relate it. I was not always as I am now: a man of lowly means and income, living off of the miniscule salary the school offers to all its facilities members. I was once educated, intelligent and in control of the events surrounding my life. All of that, however, came to a close, and when the dust of the fallout settled, I found myself at the sour end of a mop, clearing the debris for others to pass. For several years I dreamed of regaining all I had lost, but as time dripped through the veins of my existence, I realized that my age and infirmities were slowly gaining on me, and the dawn of my being was drawing to a close. It took only a visit to my practitioner to confirm such; I was dying of Thalassemia, a rare blood disorder found in Mediterranean men. My family hailed from southern Italy, and with them traveled this most devastating disease. Anemia is a common side effect, but more commonly there is an underproduction of the normal globin proteins. In very, very rare cases it is fatal. I was just such a case.

I may sound medically proficient in this manner, but let me assert now that my knowledge was not gained in medical training, but rather in the library computer at the college. I found it prudent to research as best as I could the nature of this beast, believing, like most Americans, that an informed patient makes for the best of medical situations. My studies further educated my mind, but brought despair to my heart. I saw in my body and nature very little hope. All of that changed one night when I was attending a free musical concert performed by the school orchestra.

The lofty and voluminous halls of the chapel were always resounding with the melodious tones of young musical artists. I frequented these events for their amusement and financial availability. I found joy in them all, whether modern jazz or Bach's sonatas. On this particular night, the School of Music was performing a medley of John Williams' best movie scores, one of two concerts a year when the students would relax and have fun with their talents. Although the mood was light in the audience, I felt beyond the limits of sobriety. I ached with a pain few in the world would recognize to be the pain of one suffering from a diminished existence. I had only recently received the news that my life, already painfully sore from years of mistreatment, would come to a quiet and subtle end. I tried to focus on the Chords, tried in vain to focus on anything save the thoughts passing through my mind, but I could not escape the horrid feelings that swelled within me.

Life, I thought, seemed so unbalanced. The stakes were always in favor of those with the upper hand; those same people who held all the cards also always had their boot upon my neck. I lived a life of trepidation and travail. My existence was meaningless, and now my death would only bring out the culmination of all past miseries. On these things I tried not to focus, but a wandering mind is always prone to search the darker recesses of the psyche. A sharp string from one of the instruments brought me back to the chapel and the concert. They were still playing; the crowd was still listening; I was still sitting, half in the darkness caused by a misplaced lamp, running the sword into my mental wound over and over again. Tears welled in my eyes as the "Imperial March" resounded across the ears of the audience. I remembered fonder times, times lost in the fading fabric of years. Now I was older and fading as well, occupying a pew to myself in a far corner of the chapel.

My heart was only mildly entertained by the tunes, yet I watched the students as their nimble bodies conformed to the demands of the instruments on which they played. I tapped my fingers on my leg, keeping beat with the trumpeters. The chapel allowed seating on three sides of the stage, and I was naturally on the farthest side, disappearing into the shadows. I enjoyed the nature of my self-imposed isolation; it allowed me a freedom seldom expressed in any other form of my existence.

I looked at some of the other attendees and wondered if their lives were slowly pulling into the train station of death? I had long pondered the question of personal demise and had taken an interest in the subject when it was roughly thrust upon me. Death had been brought to my door, and medical science -my bastion of hope- failed me terribly. There was little left for me in the sciences, and my mind, in an effort to salvage its body, conjured the idea of alternative sources. Was there any hope for me in the medical efforts of the Asian arts? Could acupuncture bring relief and salvation, or herbal remedies? I searched, but found nothing.

By degrees, I became engrossed in the movements of the students as their gentle swaying seemed to rock me into a lulled state. I stared for some time, moving from one musical piece to another, when suddenly an idea pressed itself upon me. Startled, I sat back in the pew and shook my head, thinking I would awaken my slumbering mind. The notion, so strongly making an impression on me, was bold, and yet grotesque. It fluttered before my eyes, hovering just over the heads of the students on stage. I thought through it for a moment, then shuddered at the reality and gravity it presented. I briskly stood and quietly removed myself from the darker shadows of the chapel and went to the restroom.

It was quiet in the bathroom, with only the softly falling notes of the orchestra wafting their way into the room. I splashed water on my face and stared at my soaked countenance in the mirror. The idea, still pressing and still forming, was ever before my eyes. I could not shake the thought, try as I might. I knew it was too bizarre and disgusting to even comprehend. The laws of humanity dictate that such notions be separated from the realm of logical reasoning and be suspended in a cell of forgotten knowledge; there is no place among the populace for such an action as the one that floated in my soul.

I pulled back from the mirror and dried my face, wiping away the droplets still clinging to my brow. My mind reeled from the images that flowed with rapidity across its screen. I could not succumb to its precepts; to do so would be to risk what life I had remaining in me. I threw the towel away and returned to my seat.

The show progressed with steadiness and I moved along with each piece, rising and sinking according to the individual Chords. Vestiges of the notion still lingered within me, but I pushed them as far away as my mental power would allow. I thought I had finally freed myself from its confines, when a voice sounded from behind.

The Voice echoed my name softly, and I turned to see who was present; a vacancy both broad and deep greeted me. I stared for some moments, my eyes peering deeper into the darkness. I distinctly knew I had heard my name mentioned. I knew with no doubt in my heart that I was called, yet no person even sat within my section. I returned to the performance.

Another piece concluded, and the intermission began. The chapel, noiseless as it was from the stillness of the audience, erupted in loud thuds as the people congregated to the doors. I remained sitting and watching as the crowd dispersed. With the last remnants of the audience disappearing behind the wooden doors, I heard my name again. The sound was so clear that few ears would be able to mistake its pronunciation. I turned, this time more quickly, but again found no one present.

To state I was puzzled would accurately convey my feelings at the moment. I looked all around hoping to find the person or culprit, if indeed this was a practical joke at my expense. Finding no one, I sat back in my pew again, this time keeping a watchful eye for any sign of the individual who sought me.

The crowd returned in waves, and the noise slowly rose to a crescendo as the final surge filled the pews again. I kept waiting and watching, but nothing else occurred. The stage was filled, and the conductor, retaking his position, resumed the music. I listened, but not to the orchestra. My ears were tuned to the silence which hung just behind me. Every so often I would turn to look back, and always I found nothing.

It was the final piece that now played and all the stage was alive with excitement as the Chords of the main theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark reverberated across the chapel. The song was triumphant, powerful, even alive with an energy that conveyed all the strength of the universe into our inner ears. I was ecstatically moved when, from behind me once more, the voice resounded. This time, however, it not only made itself audible but shouted with the might of a chorus, killing all the sounds which echoed around me. My name was bellowed first, followed by the idea I tried so arduously to restrain. It shouted, and I shook, for the Voice was angry in tone; like a meek child to an infuriated father, I cowered until I felt I had all but collapsed from view. I covered my ears so as to drown out its Chords and pressed my head tightly. It shouted once more, and then a third time. This Voice was both a foreigner and native to me. I knew its' sound, but had no familiarity with its pitch.

I could feel the pressure of its weight upon my head as I tried to protect myself from its sharp tones. Like knives, it pierced into my flesh, cutting away at my exterior while trying to reach my mind. I kept up my protective posture until, like that cresting wave, the Voice died away abruptly. The thundering Chords of the stage reverberated loudly, and I slowly, with great care and caution, opened my eyes to the world around me. When my pupils focused, it was as if my vision had been heightened. I stared not at the greater picture of the stage and the orchestra, but at minute details of hair molecules and pumping veins, or twitching fingers and flaring nostrils. I could see the performers as if I were standing before them, even on the stage with them!

I focused on the veins, on the surging, pulsating veins that carried their life-source through their person. Each was a living being because of the liquid gushing through the heart and circulating through the avenues of their ligaments. Life, blessed of all existence, nay the very ground of all that is, rushed with a freedom that bespoke of vivacity.

Everything around me was enlarged, pressing into my field of view. I tried closing my eyes and opening them again, but my enhanced vision would not cease. I rubbed them, but still I focused on the smallest of items, and deep in the background, I heard the Voice speaking softly and soothingly, detailing the plan which had only recently appeared in my mind. My hearing, once attuned to the musical notes of the assembly, redirected its attention to the faintest of noises; I heard heartbeats, pulsing veins and heaving lungs. These sounds bellowed loudly as I stared, in a kind of stupor, at all that was transpiring.

The crowd stood to cheer, and the images and noise shook my head and heart so greatly that I quickly removed myself from the chapel and rushed into the quad area of the school. Outside, I paced like a madman with wild thoughts converging on me at one. The Voice, ever following me, spoke of the plan, a most singular plan to revitalize my body and bring new health to my weakened system. It spoke in great detail, outlining every item subsequently. The course, as outlined, was clear. The plan called for the consumption of blood to replace what mine was lacking!

I debated outside, my mind waging a war with the stubborn insistence of the Voice. "Life is sacred, special and unique. Laws are in place to preserve the sanctity of life, and one cannot freely take it at will," I said. "Human existence is above primal killing, above rudimentary survival. I cannot simply feed on others like some beast."

"But what is life and existence?" asked the Voice from the recesses of my mind. "Is not existence dependent upon non-existence? Can one thing live without killing another? Can humans live without taking the lives of all existence? Look at the world around you; look at all of human creation. Every aspect of what you know is bent on destroying all that is seen."

"No!" I shouted aloud. Some around me stared, but I quickly moved past them. "Life is not meant to destroy. We do not merely feed on others. What we eat is for sustenance, for the nourishment of our bodies." I walked beyond the fountain, and the moon, a thin sliver in the sky, cast its lonesome rays upon the scene. I turned to pacing quickly, my mind and body trying to reach a destination which was vague and hidden.

"But, my friend," began the Voice, "look deeply at your world. You dwell in a house, you work in these buildings, you eat food. The ground on which you walk screams out in agony, pain caused by your steps. What of the animals that once inhabited this place? Think of your dinner, meager though it was; was it not meat and vegetables, things that once lived? The building you just exited, was it not once a forest housing an abundance of life? You humans cannot live without taking the lives of creation in your quest for self-preservation. Try as you may, your whole being is wrapped in destruction, from the food you devour to the place you call your home. Every aspect in the fiber of your being only seeks survival, and your survival depends on death!"

I was silent and stopped my pacing. My eyes, already dizzy from the blurred images that sped past, looked closely and slowly at the campus. The Voice was right. The campus was once a forest and the buildings of framed wood once trees. My meal, the very food that gave me energy, cost something else so dearly. I killed so I could live; my hands were bloodied from many acts of sustenance that brought health to my frame. With all I did, I killed so I might live.

I remained standing beside the library, a massive building of stone and brick. My mind, unlike the repository I stood beside, was not nearly as organized and compact. So many thoughts fluttered and vanished, each appearing for a moment. I could catch only a very few of them.

"Well..." prompted the Voice.

"I don't know," I began. "How can right be determined by soundness of argument alone? What of the laws of morality?"

"You speak of morality? You, who have faced the woes of life unshielded? When has morality ever smiled upon you so graciously? When has it protected you from the many terrors that accompany the human experiment? You have been left to fend for yourself, a sailor in a sea of sharks. Your life is perishing within you, and if you do not act, you will die. There is a way, my friend, a way that can sustain you once more, if only you are willing to feed. You must eat for nutrients' sake. You must consume with all your being life in its rawest and unfiltered form."

"But I cannot!" I shouted, my Voice interrupting the monologue.

"Yes, you can!" it retorted. "You already eat to live, so where lies the difference?"

"Eating food is one matter. Drinking blood is another!"

"Do not think of it as such, but rather as preserving your life. Do you not want to live? Do you not want a second chance to engage the world with more vigor than you had in years past? Such can be the case again. You can live again, and live well. You need only to feed on the life of others, feed on the very source that sustains them. You need their blood."

"Good God, no!" I shouted angrily. "I am no killer."

"But you kill everyday!" it shouted back. "You kill whenever you eat, and sleep and live and breathe. Everything, mark me, everything is about death and life. One must die so the other lives, whether tree, or plant or animal. It is how the system is designed and it is how it works."

I was silent, my mind sipping the cup thrust before it. There was reason and truth to the spoken words, a truth which almost seemed haunting...a truth that rang with honesty. Life always comes out of death, that immortal abyss to which all are destined. Life is short, transitory and weak; death, however, is always forever, always present and ever at the threshold of humanity and all creation. What is life if not death in the waiting?

"You see," the Voice began, "the two, life and death, cannot be so easily separated. You cannot live without simultaneously dying or killing all that is around you. Humanity may consider murder to exist only between humans, but murders occur every day and in every shape, from houses built to pesticides used. You are a killer, and so are those people over there, and that boy by the fountain, and the lady sitting on the lawn. Creation yearns to live, but we perpetually smash it down to the grave in the name of human existence.

"Now," the Voice continued, "consider your own predicament. What will you do? Allow your life to slip from your weary fingers without a struggle, or push ahead and secure for yourself posterity? Your blood is tainted, poisoned even; but there is blood in abundance, blood for the taking, and it will preserve. These students will be your life."

"I don't know. What do I do?"

"It is easy. Follow my guidance and I will show you. I am here to help you. The first thing we need to do is educate ourselves. Begin inside."

After that, the Voice fell silent and I was left alone before the library. I entered slowly and cautiously, my body reacting to every noise I heard. I felt out of place, as if every ear was attuned to the conversation I just had and all knew my deeds. Suspicious and nervous, I quickly took a seat before a computer, one located in the farthest reaches of the library, and began to explore the notions rummaging through my mind. My fingers typed out blood transfusions, blood type, hematological diseases, my own disease, blood rituals, blood consumption, blood composition, etc. I searched for hours until the closing of the library closed my research operation. While doing all of this, I could not help but revisit the conversation in my mind. The Voice, I reasoned at last, was correct: life must come out of death. My blood was indeed tainted beyond the point of repair. If left to its own devices, I could simply fade away into obscurity. There was, however, hope for me yet.

Part 2: The First Kill

That night I could not sleep. All the emotions of the evening, the knowledge gained, and the constant revisiting of the conversation kept my eyes glued to the ceiling. Tired as I was, no amount of fatigue would allow me to collapse. I would occasionally rise and walk the floors, hoping I would find slumber in the bleak shadows of my house. No rest, however, ever fell before me.

The next morning, and the days following, I spent secluded from view. I would work my job with silence as my companion, and keep my eyes from those of others. The Voice traveled with me and instructed me in the plan it had created; in my working and idle time, I studied the methods given to me, committing them to memory. I worked quickly, for I knew time was escaping me and soon all would be lost. As I labored, I also took note of the students around me. I viewed each of them differently, seeing them with a new sense of vision. They were no longer young academicians, but cattle waiting for their moment. I was also, on occasion, aware of their blood pulsing with that same heightened sense of hearing I experienced in the concert. I could hear the gushing and rushing, and also see the veins as they pulsated. Each person had a stream raging through them, and each stream caught my attention like no other object.

I was counseled and trained for what seemed like weeks, when finally the Voice told me it was time to begin. I had prepared for the moment, but felt totally unready for the event as it approached. I was told it would take place that evening, after the setting sun dipped below the horizon and darkness concealed the campus. I was also told it would not start with the death of a student, but rather with the surveillance of the intended person. I was to watch first, to learn their habits and track their comings and goings.

For many days I sat concealed in darkness watching the young girl jog around the campus. She often took this route on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the latter being earlier than the former. She listened to an IPod, wore red shorts with a tight, form-fitting tee, and passed by my location around 7:49 PM. Her hair was in a ponytail and she seemed ever lost in her thoughts. To the eye she seemed healthy and vigorous, a youthful woman with energy and strength. Watching her muscles bend and pull convinced me she was, indeed, a perfect specimen, as her blood must no doubt be infested with nutrients and power. I was delighted with the choice, and the Voice simply nodded in agreement at the selection.

My location was ideal, as I was concealed behind a row of hedges amidst the trees. The nearest lights were several feet away, and no buildings were within earshot. It was a park-like setting composed of tall, stately oaks and azalea bushes. The hedges were used to frame the park. This was the quietest location on campus and afforded me the primary location for my act. At the time of her arrival, no one ever visited the locale, thus leaving it desolate; it was too distant for any of the students to frequent.

All of my observations were recorded in a book I kept with me. Every night I would transcribe the information I gathered or simply add to what already existed, if her behavior did not change. Finally, after I felt I had gained enough information about her routine, I decided on a plan of action. It would not be difficult to execute, but the disposal of the body was an issue. I knew, first, that I desired for the person a quick and painless death. The location would be quiet and vacant; the darkness would conceal all. My vehicle would be parked nearby, and I would quickly carry her to it and return to my home; there, I would extract the life source from her. The plan, I believed, was good, and I was prepared; I did not believe, however, that I could undertake the task. I had never been a person of wrong-doing, and my sense of morality forced upon my psyche a noble and virtuous nature. My act was horrid and dreadful, yet I had within me a failing system, a body that was dying, and I needed to sustain it. This, I was told over and over, was the only way. I had to believe that, and in myself.

I still remember the night clearly: it was a night that made so forcible an impression upon the mind that one is hard pressed to ever shed its image. The night was cool, with a dark sky displaying few stars. Large, gray clouds passed over the land like sentinels, protecting the air and casting shadows upon the unsuspecting. I was huddled tightly in my position when I sighted her coming around a corner.

Her body moved with a particular gracefulness that mimicked a prancing antelope. She seemed to glide upon the air, her steps making only the slightest of sounds. I immediately felt a tightening in my stomach as she drew near. God help me if I did not carry in my bosom at that moment all the remorse and pain of the unforgiving world. I trembled, fearing both my deed and possibly a failure on my part. The act was so degrading, so disreputable to the advancement of human logic that I flinched when I thought of what lay ahead; I knew, however, by the pressing sentiment within, that action was necessary and survival was paramount. I shifted slowly, apprehensively even, into a better posture. Like a crouching lion, I awaited the figure as she drew within range. Moments, like soft feathers, slowly fell from the watch face, and all time nearly passed itself in idleness. Finally, she was upon the spot, and the lighting faded from view as she entered the dark area. I prepared myself, and pushing all thoughts from my mind save one, I leapt forward.

The moment sped past like a flying bullet, wild and shot from an unforeseen hand. All control formerly vested in my person seemed to escape into the vicinity and take on a life of its own. I quickly and quietly subdued the person, finishing her off in the bushes. The lifeless body, still vivacious and warm, rested softly on the leaves beside my knees. I had used strangulation as my method of disposal; it did the job quietly and with the least possible pain. The corpse now reclined, as if resting from the hard exertions of the route.

I, nearly breathless from the moment, rested beside the hedge and listened for any sound that might signal a breach of solitude and secrecy. All was silent, the world laying in a deathly repose. Only my breathing, which itself sounded boisterous, floated on the night air. No one, not a living soul, stirred in the darkness. I looked around for several minutes, waiting and searching the changing shades of bleakness, yet I could detect nothing. I was safe.

Time was pressing upon me fast, and I had to move with haste. I quickly grabbed the body and held it close to me while waiting on the passing of the distant car. In my arms, I happened to look at the face of the person, at the long locks of hair that still swayed with lively animation. The fangs of death had not so nearly crept into the veins of this corpse yet, and she still had a vivacity about her. No pulse beat within, but she still seemed so alive. I stared at her for a long span of time, my eyes slowly coating her body with a downtrodden stare. What had I done?

I held in my arms life, life in its purest form, an existence now trampled by the desires of a cold and calculating heart. I began to tremble, and as I looked down into the eyes of death, tears fell from my face and seemed to wash away the innocence of the girl. I cried, sobbed and wept so bitterly, clutching the body with a strength that could repel the strongest violator. What manner of man had I become?

I was lost in the reflections when a voice, so loud and crisp in clarity, shouted behind me! I froze, as if being stationary would camouflage us. Slowly, I turned to see who it was that had spotted me, and with eyes filled with terror, looked deep into the night landscape. No one was present. I could see no one spying or standing in the open. All the world was as it had been previously. I was still searching when I heard the Voice shout again. I then realized the shout had come not from without, but from within. I recognized the Voice.

"What are you doing?!" it shouted. I listened intently, the tears still slowly descending my cheeks.

"Move! You must move now!" it shouted again, but the spherical shape of my cranium muffled the Voice.

I finally uttered a response. "What?" was all I could think to ask.

"You have not the luxury of time. Secure the body and move along. There is still much work to be done." I nodded, as if the Voice was directly before me, and taking the body, I quickly made for my car. The darkness concealed my movements in a thick, dark blanket. In a matter of moments, my car was driving me far away from that awful place.

On the way home, the Voice reappeared. "And what did you think?" it asked, less agitated than before. I was still digesting the influence the body had upon me. My fingers were still vibrating with the touch of the skin, and my heart was still pounding from the excitement and fear. I did not respond.

"Surely," the Voice started anew, "surely, you found some joy in the hunt?"

"This is not joy," I responded bitterly, "but murder."

"Murder? No, my friend, this is not murder. This is sustenance. If we murdered that girl, then the local grocery store has the blood of millions of cows upon its hands. Procuring food is not murder."

"I don't want to discuss this any further," I said defiantly. The Voice, for once obedient, fell silent. Only the hum of the vehicle filled the noiseless void. I was angry and disturbed; the culmination of this night was so twisted that I could hardly comprehend the action that had taken place, let alone figure what I would do next. I had previously prepared my basement for the act, and now it sat ready and waiting for the first victim. All the supplies were laid out, and the area had been cleaned and prepped. All that was needed now was the body and its most precious cargo: blood.

I pulled into my driveway and in minutes had the body inside and down in the basement. My house was old, one of the few built on a parcel of ground high above the ever-fluctuating water table. Basements were not common, but at least a half-basement, which mine actually was, was not unordinary either. Many of the windows, which had been barred by bookshelves many years ago, needed no barricading; for that I was pleased. Only one entrance gave visitors access to the lower level, and that door would always be locked.

I brought her into the house and got the body down into the basement. Some study on modern embalming and a short stint as a cleaning man at a funeral home had prepared me for this new endeavor. The body, I knew, contained five liters of blood. In order to store the precious substance, I would need six, 750 milliliter bottles. I had saved my bottles for many months, and was finally prepared with a store of requisite containers for the occasion.

The process, I reasoned, would be simple: I would strap the body to an inclined metal table, feet uppermost, and slit the wrists and puncture the torso to allow the blood to drain. Large bins would catch the substance as it rolled from the table. The liquid would then be pumped into the various bottles and stored much like wine. It certainly sounded simple to my ears, but now with the task pending, I was frightened and questioned my actions.

After several minutes of coaxing, I built up the courage to grasp the body and hoist it on the table. The thud echoed loudly off the walls and small equipment I had in the room. Like a rag doll, arms and legs flopped out, and I had to reposition them before I could strap the body down. Once in place, I began my work.

I paused before making the initial cuts. My life was standing before me like a child, pure and clean. With three cuts, I was about the end that life, severing it forever from the bare threads that now covered me. With some hesitation, I approached the body. It was positioned and the table was elevated. I first stared at the right, upper corner of the torso; then, feeling that no amount of courage would ever propel me further than I was now, I made the first incision.

The procedure took far fewer minutes than I had originally anticipated, but the draining was slower than expected. The substance puddled in the bins and made a sound liken to rain drops falling on a tin roof. It was soothing and relaxed me greatly. I was being nourished, fed even, and soon I would be pouring life down my throat. Others ate, I reasoned, and I had to as well.

I had erected a rudimentary filtering machine for the blood, composed of layers of charcoal filters, and it helped to soothe my anxious mind. Whether it worked I do not know, and what was filtered I know not, but I passed the liquid through the layers and began to fill the bottles. I filled nearly five bottles and corked them, the red liquid swishing murkily through the dark glass. I racked them, save for one bottle; it was from that selected vintage I would drink.

As I pulled back from the rack, I turned and saw the body there upon the table. I had grown so delighted with my success and the collection I now formed that I had forgotten about the grotesqueness behind me. I stared at the body, that unsightly reminder of the extreme to which I went in search of survival. My mind had formulated a few initial plans for the removal of the corpse, but had not situated itself toward any one particular idea. Now I was confronted with the reality and had to act quickly.

Pacing around the floor of my basement, I spoke aloud of the many options that confronted me. None, I thought, were sufficient enough to elude detection. Rivers could be dredged, woods traversed, garbage dumps explored. I needed a plan, something that would sustain me through this endeavor. As I spoke, I grew anxious and nervous, my agitation rising far above my mental capacities. I needed help, some kind of assistance, someone to guide me. Suddenly, the Voice came from the shadows.

"The body is still here?" it asked dryly.

"Where have you been?" I shouted. "I have been pacing and scheming, and all to no avail. What do I do? Where can I dispose of that thing?" A pleading note resonated in my quivering voice.

"Where do you work?" it asked.

"Work?" I started. "You already know. Why ask? I need answers, not questions!"

"But where you work, is there not an art department?" I was growing annoyed with the passing moments, and the questioning was only proving to be bothersome. I needed a direct path for this activity, with answers to follow and guide me.

"Yes, yes, yes. But what does that have to do with anything!?" I shouted.

"Burn the body," the Voice said laconically.

I admit, the thought never occurred to me. The furnace in the art department, the same furnace used for pottery, could be my salvation. The location was easily accessible and my keys would allow me nightly access into the area. It was simple and easy, a plan that now gave me hope once again and chased from my mind the despair and agitation that had momentarily resided there.

"Burn the body?" I asked the Voice.

"Yes. Rid yourself of the body and be finished with this episode. It is easier than you think. Now, go." I looked at the remains and took a step towards a chair I had in the corner. Sitting brought me a reprieve from the emotions that suddenly had taken hold of my mind. I now had one last engagement and then I would be finished with the night's work.

The body took some effort to reload, but as soon as it was secured in the car, I made my way to the school. My nerves were slightly rattled on the trip, as every police interceptor seemed suspicious to me.

I made good time reaching the department. The building had been locked and secured for some hours by now, and it was vacant of any late night students. All around the area, silence prevailed in the battle with noise, and I had a deserted area in which to work. I brought the body in and placed it beside the furnace. I had no familiarity with the device, but to my good fortune it was still in operation, the flames burning and licking the interior of the pit. I knew they used the machine earlier in the day, and they must have kept it burning for tomorrow's class as well.

I took one last look at the figure, then carefully moved the body to the interior of the chamber. The light of the flames flashed onto the walls of the room until I slowly closed the door, shutting all inside. The pit was large and deep, with rollers on tracks. I believed the body would turn to ashes and fall to the bottom of the tank. I was rid of the carcass and was now safe. Sullenly, I made my way home.

I had not been home long when the thought of the beverage came to mind. I looked in the mirror at my face, taking in the features caused by a downtrodden life. I looked old, fatigued, in dire need of rejuvenation. I now had in my power the ability to bring about that renewal, to force upon this tired frame a renovation that would surely sustain and invigorate. I could not control the passage of years, but I could surely reinstate some of the energy that had been sapped from my body. I went down to the basement.

The bottle was opened and I poured the liquid into a glass. I sat upon a chair before the bottle and glass, staring at the contents. There was a moment when I was prepared to indulge, but then a fear more powerful than any I had ever experienced came over me, creeping steadily from the depths of my being. The realization of what I was about to do slammed into my mind, and I shook nervously. Was I becoming a vampire, a maniac? Would this forever transform me, and not for the better? Would I ever be able to return to this virgin moment prior to indulgence? I kept up this constant inquiry until at last I felt compelled to act. I knew death was approaching and I needed more life to continue living. I needed assistance, as the medical field had abandoned me. The Voice spoke once, then twice in convincing me, and slowly my hand extended and I grasped the glass.

I held it tightly as if it were a viper, then I quickly replaced it. I placed my head close to the table and stared anew at the liquid. At that moment I could not partake, I simply could not. My eyes became heavy staring at the drink.

"And what are you doing now?" asked the Voice, newly emerging from the silence I had around me.

"I can't do it," I said aloud.

"Why not? You worked so hard to reach this point. What is stopping you now? All the work is accomplished."

"I just can't drink that stuff! It's, it's blood!"

"That's no excuse!" the Voice roared. It was the first time the Voice had ever risen to such a tone. "Now listen," it began more calmly, "we have come so far. Let us not give it all up now in the final quarter. Before you is life. Take it in your hands and feast on it."

I slowly obeyed and took the glass into my trembling fingers. With care and caution, I raised it to my lips and poured some of the blood into my mouth. The taste, both salty and thick on the palate, was so difficult for me to swallow. I quickly gulped it so as to remove it from my mouth. It was horrid, disgusting and awful; like vomit, the new scent and taste lingered for far too long. I thrust the glass back onto the table and pulled away from it.

I stared long at the glass and its streaked edges, the slimy substance oozing down the sides. My first impression was horrible, but I knew I had to continue no matter what difficulty I had with the endeavor. I had indulged in foods I did not like many times before and had grown accustomed to them. The same would eventually prove true in this case, or in my calculations I had reasoned incorrectly. I took the glass once more and swallowed. The same effect fell upon me, but this time I was not as shocked as I was previously.

The blood slid down my throat, coating my mouth and esophagus with a salty, grimy flavor that no food could replicate. I shook, trembling with a fear that came naturally. I was engaging in a most grotesque action and from it I drew terror. I had only emptied the glass when I felt a queer feeling inside my stomach, like one who ate too many greasy foods. My stomach rumbled softly, then quieted.

I sat stationary for a moment, keeping my body as still as possible. I was afraid to move, feeling that the slightest jarring would upset some delicate balance within me. Moments passed and nothing occurred. I felt normal, and save for the taste still lingering in my mouth, felt rather fine. I finally stood slowly and paced, each step being cautiously placed. Nothing happened in the way of medical injury or emergency. Each step brought about a greater satisfaction to me.

I moved around the confines of the basement feeling better as I went. The room, I then found, was too small, and I ventured upstairs to explore the house, thinking that a good test would be further exertion. The stairs, and then the floor were mastered and I still felt no injury.

I had gone as far as the bedroom when I stopped short; I was feeling something emerge within. Bracing myself against the door jam, I tried to articulate the sensation coming from my own depths. It was warm, like a wave on a beach which had been sunning itself all afternoon just off the shore. I could feel it originate in my bosom and then spread through my limbs. Muscles were tightened, sinews were stretched and bones tingled. Little fingers seemed to caress my person, causing a tickling sensation along my back and shoulders. Even my hair molecules stood on end, evidently charged by some electro-magnetic feeling. Finally, everything ceased.

It took the passing of some moments to force me to realize how good I actually felt. I pulled away from the jam and looked at my hands. Perhaps the light was dim, but to my eyes there seemed to be new energy coursing through them. I felt a stiffness in my legs, a certain strength, that had been absent for years. Even my spine lacked the curvature that marked it. My breaths were deeper and less heavy. I was invigorated with power, a strong feeling pumping through the veins and arteries of my body. I was, to say the least, reaping the benefits of another's life-giving substance.

Walking briskly, then jogging, I moved around the rooms of my house reveling in the joy of my new day, my new way of being. If there was a "top of the world," I was on it. I leapt over the ottoman and twirled frantically. I laughed out loud as I moved with new excitement in my limbs. The plan, so delicate and uncertain, succeeded enormously. I had an ample supply of the goods, and I was secured for several weeks.

I danced a little more, then, feeling fatigued, made my way to bed. Before falling asleep, I bid a silent thank you to the Voice who so greatly assisted me in reaching this point. A gentle nod and I was fast asleep, my body resting in the glow of its new vivacity.

Part 3: This Cup Runneth Over

News of the girl's disappearance flooded the school and surrounding community. Police crawled across the campus in spider-like fashion, searching and probing for any clue as to the whereabouts of the jogger. There were some faulty statements and eyewitness reports given, but nothing credible surfaced. The surrounding areas and school were put on tighter security, but no suspects were located. I was safe, had run the gauntlet and made it through to the other side.

I spent my free time jogging, hiking and enjoying the outside world in a new fashion. Long walks would entertain my evening hours, and when not encompassed by my desire to utilize my new energy, I became engrossed in books with a new, sharp sense of intellect. I felt reborn, refreshed and reenergized. It was a wonderful feeling like nothing I had ever experienced. Every night I would indulge my palate; the blood was difficult to swallow at first, but after so many days, and the effects it had upon me, I grew to delight in the beverage. It was empowering, invigorating even, this substance I kept stored in the basement. Finer wines in all the markets could not replicate my vintage.

Everyone, or at least those who spoke to me, noticed the difference in my demeanor and behavior; I was jollier, stronger and appeared more youthful. My work was accomplished in nearly half the amount of time it took me previously. Like some young athlete I worked diligently and quickly, moving at a pace I had long forgotten.

For the first time in many years, life was good. I enjoyed the minute details of every day existence and took pleasure in the faintest of episodes. Each day was a new adventure filled with excitement and joy. My health was making rapid improvements and I was growing stronger daily. I kept at this pace for about a month, when, to my horror, my supply ran low. I had watched it decrease daily, but thought little of it until I opened the last bottle. I had only four glasses left, and no means of replenishing the supply.

I knew this moment would surely come, and now that it was upon me I was entirely surprised by its arrival. I sat and pondered the situation for some hours, turning and twisting the predicament in my mind. Could I kill again? Should I do it? Would the effects of a month's exposure to the liquid be sufficient to last me many months or years?

Nightly I would pace rapidly, feeling the old fears creeping back into place. I had to act, but did not believe I could muster another attack; however, I obtained such pleasure from life once I partook of the beverage that I knew I had to have it once more. I could not return to my old existence of drudgery and pain, ill health and pending death. I would not, I assured myself, but knew of no other means of procurement than the sacrifice of another life. With much reservation and some trepidation, I began to plan the next harvest.

I looked over my last endeavor and saw mistakes I had made, and the points I had gotten right; there was room for improvement, but the initial plan was solid. I even considered returning to the same locale, as it proved to be so efficient for my needs. The police activity had finally succumbed to the rising popularity of other crimes, and the campus was left in a lonely state of mourning. Only subtle hints were thrown out by the back page columns of the papers. It was time to strike again, whether I wanted to or not.

I began scouting and soon fell upon a young male athlete. I recognized him from the papers and from campus as one of the rising stars on the soccer team. He was healthy, robust and looked the very picture of wellness, with strong muscles pushing his slender frame across the cement. He jogged regularly, although the campus had been instructed to practice caution when doing so, and to my good fortune, he ran the same route as the girl, or at least as far as my position of concealment was concerned.

I watched him for days, again taking notes on his behavior and dress. I studied him relentlessly, knowing that I needed as much information on him as possible in order to make a good kill. In my spot I would sit, watching him run past every other night. I would attend practice, watch him around campus and take note of his eating habits when in the dining hall. I knew I had made the right choice for my next venture, as everything he did was for the sustenance of his rather mechanical body. He treated his frame like some Grecian temple, and he was its most ardent worshiper. His blood would sustain me for weeks, months even!

When I thought I knew enough of him, I set the trap. Monday nights were always jogging nights, and on that particular night I was in my place, ready to act. Like before, the area was dark and desolate, void of all activity. The sky was clear with no clouds, but many stars were beginning to twinkle overhead. My legs were falling asleep when I finally saw him coming around the turn. He was approaching quickly, and I had my rope and gag ready; I decided to use these new instruments to hasten the process.

The wind was blowing softly, like one of those evening breezes that have neither end nor beginning. I watched him through the glow of the distant lamps, feeling every fiber of my body reacting to the adrenaline which was pumping crazily. He drew nearer, and I rose slightly, tightening the rope in my hands. The bushes, still concealing me, were a bastion of safety and a hedge of secrecy. Physically, I was prepared for the attack. I was still feeling the joyous effects of the last of the liquid, although the substance was gone a few days prior, and was ready to use what was left in me to procure more. Mentally, however, I was lacking in vigor; I still wrestled with this concept and could not, despite the constant prodding from the Voice, see these people as mere cattle. Life was still unique, special and something that should be revered. It was not mine for the taking, although by the life of one I was now sustained. My mind was eased when I remembered what I read of the Native Americans of old and their approach to hunting: they would kill but give thanks to the animal slaughtered, knowing that by that animal's death they would live. Everything fed off of everything else, and at the top was the human who fed on all. In my position, now I was even above the human, although I did not exalt in my new status; I saw my feeding as means to an end, as survival.

The man, coming along at a rapid pace, had just passed me when I sprang upon him. I was initially successful in getting the rope around his neck, but in my calculation I did not consider him so strong. The athlete spun madly and threw me to the ground, in the process tumbling himself as well. I regained my footing quickly and was upon him again. He tried to scream but I was successful in muffling the attempt. We wrestled, but his jogging must have tired him greatly, for in a few minutes the contest was over and I was safe behind the bush again. I did not realize it at the moment, but I had committed this act in the open.

Frozen with terror, I searched through the limbs for any sign of activity in the yard. I heard no voices, saw no people, and most importantly, heard no distant sirens approaching. For twenty minutes I deemed it prudent to remain where I was, crouching silently over my prize. The air, thick with the vapor of death, hung heavily upon me, sickening me and causing me to nearly vomit. I dared not move for fear of the night and the people who might have heard the scuffle. It was foolish to attempt so strong a person, sheer foolishness on my part. I chided myself vigorously until I felt my mental flesh was raw from the beating.

The silence that still occupied the area finally convinced me it was safe to move once more. I slowly gathered the body in a heap, and with some effort moved the mass to my vehicle. He was heavy, and I carried him with some pain. I was growing tired, heavily fatigued by the exertions of the evening. I looked at the body, then took one last deep breath and heaved the corpse into my trunk. His landing was loud, but fortunately, no one was near. I drove home.

So anxious was I to drink that I had not turned on any of the basement lights, and only the dim lights from the kitchen threw their rays down the staircase. I frantically attached the body to the table, switched on a single bulb, and began the work. I elevated the table, made the necessary cuts and placed the pans in their respective places. All was progressing nicely. Soon, the life-saving liquid was ready to be filtered into my bottle collection. I was so anxious of the first taste that I did not bother to allow the initial bottle to be filled before I took a cup.

The drink was warm, but refreshing to my tired limbs. I could feel that sensation pouring over me once again. All my energy, all my strength which had been tapped in this latest adventure, was restored by that first glass. I was tired, but more than content sitting in the basement with my bottles. I filled each carefully and racked them on the shelves. The weak glow of the solitary bulb swung lazily overhead, casting a dim ray upon the ghastly scene. I stretched my legs before me and finished my glass. I paid little attention to the time, but my chest, especially the right side, from all the exertion and the epic battle we fought, was bruised and sore. I brushed aside the pain and reveled in my victory.

I allowed the contents to work their magic upon me once more, then I slowly stood and began the long clean-up process. I detested the removal of the body and the mess it left behind, but such entities were the vestiges of the ultimate plan, the by-products of success. With meticulous care did I clean the basement, scrubbing all the tools and items. The last hours before dawn saw me loading the body back into the vehicle. The basement of the art building awaited us.

I had reached the building easily and brought the body as far as the furnace and had it beside the door, ready to be placed inside when I heard footsteps moving overhead. I froze, my tired limbs barely sustaining me. Several steps were heard moving in one direction, then in another, as if the person were gathering supplies in the art studio on the first floor. I dared not move for fear I would make a noise and alert them to my intrusion in an otherwise sealed off part of the building.

Only the most necessary lights were illuminated in my quarter, so I did not so much fear them seeing or hearing me. I took one step quietly, then another towards the door to the staircase, hoping to listen to their activity. They moved lightly across the floor in a pattern that gave no definite clue to their intentions. The person must have been some late night artist finishing a project. They would move, then stop, then move again. I listened for several minutes, then, growing more confident, I slowly began to lift the body towards the furnace.

I had just placed the body within when, to my horror, I heard steps on the stairs leading to the basement. I quickly shut the iron door as a figure appeared on the threshold. She was a young girl, perhaps a sophomore, with a pair of paint-spotted black jeans and a tight tee shirt. Her hair was tied back with a long ribbon which hung over the shoulder. In one hand she held a jar, and the other, three brushes. She did not see me at first, but as she stepped in, I became noticeable to her through the maze of pillars and potting tables. As unfortunate luck would have it, one of the few bulbs lit shown directly upon my face.

"What do I do?" I asked myself.

The Voice, sensing my predicament, came to my aid. "Be calm for now. Wait."

The girl stared at me, her surprise showing on her soft features. I had startled her, and dumbfounded, she simply stared at me momentarily. The basement was normally off limits at night, so both our situations were mysterious, and no doubt that thought was surely coursing through her mind. Finally, the girl spoke.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. I was never known for quick speech and rapid thinking, but on this occasion I managed to secure a good enough reply.

"I was about to ask you the same, my dear. You know that basement is off limits after 10 p.m. Now, should you be down here?" She was taken back by my response.

With an attitude now, she replied, "I have special instructional privileges from the department, and keys. Who are you to question me?"

"I am a public safety officer, young lady."

"No, you are not! You don't even have a uniform." And pulling out her cell phone, she stated loudly, "You stay right there. I'm calling the police." I became frantic at the mention of the police. I could not be found out; I could not allow her to surrender me to the authorities. If they came here, they would find my deed. If I escaped, she still had my likeness to give to them. A plan, though rather hastily formed, came together in my mind. I slowly started approaching her.

She was too busy with her phone to notice my approach, or the baton-like instrument I had procured from a nearby table, and when she raised her eyes, I was nearly upon her. She screamed as I lunged for her, but unlike a person of intelligence, she bolted away from the stairs instead of ascending them. I swung once, but missed my target as she dodged and moved into a shadow. Raging with fear and desperation, I swung again and followed her.

Her voice resounded off the block walls of the basement as she maneuvered left, then right. The tables made a maze for me to work through. I was furious and could hardly see without the anger welling in my eyes. I managed to gain a closer position to her, but as I was about to swing, she leapt up and slid across the table, thus evading me. As she landed on the other side, she also took up a rod liken to mine.

"Come on, bitch!" she shouted, then proceeded to thrust at my ears all norms of vulgarity. I was labeled so many names by the girl, who now stood to defend herself. She was resilient, a tough one with an attitude that would not admit defeat.

I slowly moved towards her and around the table. The lights dripped from above in a drizzle that barely coated the surroundings. I crept, as if my silent behavior would allow me an advantage. As I approached, she swung once, but missed miserably; with that, I grew more confident. I could feel the energy rushing, like storm surges against a battered coast. She may have reasoned that she was battling a tired old man: little did she realize I was as youthful and energetic as she.

The girl took one step, and I closed in, facing her from only a few paces' distance. She shouted constantly for me to stay where I was and that the police would arrive shortly. I did not heed her words, knowing that in moments she would be like the others. I came in to hit her, but to my surprise she planted her weapon right across my right side. I flew to the back in agony, hitting a table and shaking it wildly. She quickly started to run away, but I rebounded and, although staggering, managed to reach her before she neared the stairs.

"Stay back!" she demanded.

"Get back here," I shouted. I was mad with rage by now and was not thinking like any rational being. Engulfed as I was, I wanted only to finish this work and escape, but this girl was standing in my way and would not succumb to my plans.

She launched towards the exit, and when her back was momentarily turned, I struck her with the rod. The girl flew forward and hit the wall. She dropped her stick and lay crumbled on the floor. I was wild, a mad specimen of lunacy by this moment; my side was bruised badly and I was frayed mentally. She lay before me, and I could only think of the end. I struck her twice more.

She muttered some plea, but I did not hear. I looked at her, at her teary face and bruised body, and although still racing with maddening emotions, I began to soften. I knew what had to be done, but I also felt in my heart that this girl was in no way keeping me alive, as the others had, and thus did not deserve their same fate.

"What?" cried a Voice. I looked around, thinking someone else had entered the scene. The room was as the two combatants had left it. I realized then it was my old companion.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You want to leave her? Are you insane? She is a witness!"

"I understand that. But I only want to take that which will sustain me. She will do nothing for me."

"You can't leave her! You simply can't."

"But she doesn't have to die. Not here, not now! Death is not the only answer."

"And what else would you propose? Shall we take her with us; make her an accomplice? Will she cook and clean for you? She has to die now! Kill her and let's go!"

The Voice was right; I had no answer left save that of death. I could not allow this one to live, as she now knew my face. Others would surely find the body, and she could lead them to me. I had the foresight to wear gloves, so my fingerprints and any other incriminating evidence would disappear with her. Knowing this, I raised my weapon and finished her off, allowing her life source to spill freely onto the cement flooring.

I was debating what I should do with the remains when the flashing of lights outside brought me to a hasty conclusion. I grabbed her body and quickly placed it in the furnace. I had wanted to at least use her death to my advantage and procure a larger supply of the liquid, but I did not have such a luxury now. Taking an alternate door and fumbling through the dark building, I managed to evade the security guards and make my way to the outside shadows. From a safe distance, and hidden in the dark, I watched as the police descended upon the art building.

It would only be a matter of time before they would find the remains, only a small amount of time before they would realize that two bodies, three now, were located in the furnace. It saddened me immensely to see all those people trampling my cemetery; I used that place as a means of eradicating the evidence and as a burial mound for those who were used for my sustenance. Now they were probably looking, searching and photographing the scene and the blood that was wasted so foolishly on the floor.

Back at home, I sat pondering the young girl and the waste of life I had enacted. Among the worse parts of the matter was that I could not even harvest her liquid. She died pointlessly, a death that had no real aim save for rescuing me from the clutches of the authorities. I also realized that, although feeling exceptionally well, I still retained a bit of my old nature in me when fighting the girl; I moved with a bit of sluggishness that had not been present a few days prior.

I finally brushed all the sentiments off my mind and reclined in my chair. The night was waning and I needed rest. I looked out the window to see the full moon sinking from the night sky. I had to retire. Tomorrow, I knew, would bring a whole new host of issues for me to deal with, as the police would be hard at work uncovering the mystery they recently stumbled upon.

Part 4: Disillusionment

I was correct in my assumptions: the police had broadcast the incident all over the television and now the community was looking for a serial killer. They surmised that the present bodies were killed by the same person, and the remains of the first girl brought tears to many hopeful eyes. The campus was buzzing daily with reporters and police officials, not to mention the countless private detectives who haunted every corner. It was a media frenzy, and there I was positioned, mop in hand, cleaning every day the halls where so many suspected so much of every suspicious figure. Fingers were pointed already, and always at the waged-based job holders; the poor, it seemed, were the only ones capable of killing. I went about my business every day, attempting to blend into the ever changing fabric that unfurled itself daily. Like all the others who were employed at the university, I was questioned thoroughly by the police officials, and seemed to pass their scrupulous inspections with ease.

Every night on the news, more information became available to a waiting public. The guts of the kiln had been dissected and all the remains brought out; the death scenes were nearly pinpointed with some accuracy by clever detectives; the reasoning for the deaths was finally put together, even though they were strikingly off in their assessment.

How I despised that evening, the single moment when my plan began to fall apart. I beat myself verbally for the disposal of the body in such a place; why could I not choose a more secluded location? I could hope for very little now, although no one suspected me of any crime. I faded into the surroundings like all the other faces that strolled across the property.

My supply was still holding strong, but I noticed that it now took a larger amount of the substance to fill my needs. I thought it circumstantial at first, since we had been working harder as a result of the layoffs in our department; afterwards, however, I noticed that even during days of rest, vestiges of my old symptoms - something new in my chest - were returning. I cringed at the thought and drowned out all sentiments with more blood. I drank heartily and the ill effects seemed to fade; the supply, however, was decreasing.

Nightly I would indulge in my liquid, but I had little time for simple comforts and relaxation; I had to create another plan, and soon. I ran some scenarios through my mind, hoping to create a new arrangement for when I went out next. The cops, I reasoned, would be thicker in force and searching for any activity that stood out from the norm. Residents, too, would be ever- watchful. I would have to be keen, clever and able to thwart any snares which might be set by the authorities.

I would occasionally drive through the neighborhoods and out into the countryside looking for a safe place to deposit the remains. It was no easy task, as the area was becoming increasingly inhabited. While at school, I kept an eye out for a new area in which to hunt. That, also, would be no easy endeavor, as now students were walking in groups of two or more, and security had increased greatly.

The mind, of greater rational proportions than we seldom acknowledge, is so capable of mighty endeavors that we sometimes need only to stand aside and allow it to function on its own. I had been pondering my new situation when I finally lay down to sleep, the fatigues of the day naturally overtaking me. My eyes had not yet closed fully, and sleep had barely encroached upon me when I so clearly heard the voice beckoning me. I could understand with certainty I was dreaming, as I found myself not in my room, but in a thicket, overgrown with weeds, and shaded by tall oaks whose limbs covered the sky from view. I thought the place looked familiar, but could not place it accurately. Then, the Voice spoke:

"Move further." I took a step, then another, and slowly pressed into a hammock densely vegetated with lush growth. Palms intermingled with the oaks in a wedding of bliss, while below broad-leafed saw palmettos covered the ground. The humidity was thick, and the ground rich and black. I looked around for the Voice, but it spoke not.

It was growing darker and the sun was sinking, dying amid the limbs and branches of the forest. I turned several times, thinking the Voice would call for me once more, but it was silent; then I heard something just beyond the bushes. I moved gingerly, my feet treading softly on the moist dirt. I approached a palm and moved aside its fronds, revealing a clearing, and in its midst, a hole. I peered for what seemed hours; the earth had been disturbed, and in the shape of a grave.

Suddenly, the Voice, so silent before, echoed eerily in my year, saying "Now, what do you see before you?" I tried to hazard a guess, but the atmosphere of the woods and its effect on my mind prevented me from suggesting what I knew to be a resting place for the dead.

Finally, I managed to state the obvious. "Very good," the Voice replied.

"But what is this?" I asked, not sensing what this location had to do with the scenario.

"Think. Look at this location, its trees, its soil, its saturation. Here, in this place, you shall dispose of the remains." I looked at the location; it seemed desolate enough, though I hardly knew of my exact location.

"Here?" I asked. "Why this location and not another? It appears to be rather inaccessible." I saw no roads, and no entry points; it was as if we had entered our own secluded island.

"This place, this very location, is closer than you might imagine. Look..." and I turned to see, just beyond the trunks and hordes of moss, a glimmer of light coming through the darkness like a beacon.

"This area is not a subtropical island, but is rather close to your home, close even to your feeding ground. Roads converge here, and only a short walk will bring you to this very spot. Take the main street out of town past the cemetery, and turn right. You will recognize and know the area once you see it. The landing is not far. The soil here is rich and will decompose the body quickly, as well as being seasonally flooded, thus concealing the remains. You see, it is very simple, and the plan can easily continue."

I listened intently and when the Voice subsided, I was elated at the news. I reeled with joy, then chastised myself for not having conjured such a location in my own mind. What a blissful feeling it was to see my endeavor revitalized. I now had a new place, an area which would surely assist me greatly. It did not appear to be frequented, as the cypress nubs told of standing water. I quickly ran to the hole and peered in; it was uninhabited for the moment, but from that empty, cavernous space my happiness and life would soon spring once more.

My eyes shot open. The room, so dark and masked in a guise of obscurity, surrounded me. I sat up and tried to comprehend my surroundings when I finally realized I was home. A dream, I realized, had come upon me and brought to me a new salvation. I was not lost or set adrift in a restless, chaotic ocean, but was harbored safely in a new plan.

The joy of the idea carried me through the next few days, and into the quest for another supplier. My stock was diminishing and I needed to replace it soon. I had spent a little time searching for individuals when I came across another athlete, this one a volleyball team member. She was tall, thin but muscular, with long locks of brownish hair that usually hung in a ponytail. She exercised regularly, but in recent weeks allowed her efforts to tune her body to decrease substantially. I followed her for several days, learning all I could about her nature and routine, very much the same thing as I did with the others. She kept rather irregular habits, thus making my scheduling much more difficult. She would sometimes travel by foot, and other times would secure a ride with a friend. Rarely did she dine alone, and often had people around her. She would be difficult, but I could nearly taste the life-giving blood that pumped through her veins. I had been feeling rather ill the past few days, and was in dire need of the substance.

One afternoon, while watching her practice in an outdoor sand court, I was approached by a suited person. I had taken a seat in an obscure corner of the bleachers, and was engaged in taking mental notes of her, examining her movements and her behaviorisms, when a voice spoke behind me.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said. I paid little heed at first, but when the man spoke my name, I turned around sharply to face him. He was medium height with a slight build and a square chin. He wore a suit, gray in color with a white shirt, and carried a little black book in his hand, as if he had just taken down some observations. His badge glistened in the afternoon sun.

"Oh, hello," I said lightly, my fear growing wildly within me.

"I'm Detective Valerie, with the Hartford PD. I know we met before, but I have some additional questions to ask you concerning the affair of late. This is simply routine work. Is that alright?" He was stern, but professional. I listened intently to every syllable.

"Certainly." My words were cool, but inwardly my mind fretted. Was I discovered? Did the police suspect anything? Could some mistake on my part have led them to me? Were there any other witnesses? These questions hovered just above my reach, and in my inability to capture and explain them, I grew agitated.

"First, your full name is Richard Cacciare, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you live at ____________?"

"Yes, sir." He jotted down another note.

"Now, the night of the double murder, where did you say you were?" he asked.

"As I had explained, I was at home, watching a PBS showing of 'Lucia di Lattermore.'" I gave the greatest air of security and authority to my words, hoping he would sense it and leave me alone. I had just finished speaking when I heard a voice, that same voice which belonged to neither of us.

"He knows!" it stated dryly.

"What?" I asked beneath my breath.

"He knows what you did. Look at his writings. Can you not see them? The keys. You used your keys to gain access to the lower level. They recently changed the locks and only house keeping and the department chair had the new moulds. All other keys were set to be distributed the next day."

My heart sank within me. The Voice was right; the keys I used to give me access to the kiln had just been made, and only my department had received the new issues. A faulty error prevented facilities, faculty and work-related students from gaining theirs. Only the department chair had an issue key. The officers, realizing there was no forced entry, could surmise the individual had easy access.

"Try and get away," the Voice said to me. "Get away now! The officer cannot hold you."

"Sir," the detective interrupted my conversation. "Now, you have worked in housekeeping for how many years?" I answered him abruptly; I did not want to expel too many wavering words into the air, believing rather that silence and abruptness were sufficient.

"With that position, you naturally have access to many areas of the campus, is that correct?" He was speaking of the keys, I knew in my heart he was.

"And how secure do you keep your keys? I mean, could someone have access to them without your knowledge?"

"I would not think so. I keep them on me at all times. They do give me admittance to many of the campuses' private sectors, but I do not think I have ever misplaced a key. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just routine questioning, sir." Then he added, with a sharpness in his voice, "I see that girl has caught your eye. She's a real beauty, and strong too. She has a nice serve. She'll make a good player on the team, don't you think?"

He knew at whom I was looking; he saw I was staring at the girl, watching her, mentally recording her movements, and now he was confronting me boldly. How I shivered when I thought he had figured me out. In his mind, no doubt, the pieces were coming together. He had only to place them side-by-side and make them fit. I shook like a man wild with fever. Then, remembering I had an appointment with the doctor, I said:

"Sir, my apologies, but I have to go. I have a doctor's appointment." I gave no farewell, and quickly retreated from his presence. Once out of his sight, I ducked behind a corner, and from a safe vantage point, I stared at him, watching him as he left. That detective was dangerous to me, that much I knew.

"He knows." I said.

"Yes, he does," said the Voice. "It is all coming together for him. The keys may have tripped us up. If he were in a divulging mood, he could have explained all the facts to you. There is still much mystery, and we are safe in the ambiguity."

"But they know!" I shouted.

"It is not over yet. They can only place so many pieces together now. We still have time."

"Time for what? Time for me to dig my grave deeper? Time for me to load the gun that is aimed at me? What time do we have?"

"Be calm. All is not lost. Remember: they are the prey and you the predator." And with that, the voice faded. I was not calmed by its speech, but nonetheless felt a slight deviation from my previous mood taking place within me; I was not as afraid as before, although fear still gripped me tightly.

I did indeed have a doctor's appointment, and in the consultation room I paced like a madman in a chamber. My mind reeled with so many thoughts, some accusatory and others derogatory. All were strictly focused on the sole issue at hand: my safety. I was so lost in thought I did not hear the physician enter.

"Ah, Richard, how are you?" asked a jovial voice from behind me. I turned and faced the round, tanned doctor. He was balding, with wisps of hair still maintaining their hold on his cranium. A little plump from years of excessive living, if not frivolous lifestyle, he was not the best example of physical fitness, but made up for this with a personality that could woo a charging bull.

I gave as simple and cordial a greeting as I could muster at the moment and took a seat. He moved to his chair and sat down, still evoking his happy demeanor with small talk.

"I hear the Lakers are doing well," he began. "They should make it all the way." He smiled at me, but behind his benevolence I saw something, perhaps a shadow in his eye, that spoke of hidden secrets. The doctor, I knew, was concealing something.

"The report, Doctor," I began, not in the least concerned about my condition any longer, "how is it?" I once had awaited test results and x-rays eagerly, as a thirsty person does their first drop of water. Knowing they held my future in their report, I yearned for their arrival. I had previously anticipated only more sour news, like the initial flood of test results which bore my happiness to its knees in agony, but now looked to the future with a brightened countenance.

The man fumbled with his chart, then seemed to draw from some inner reserve to speak what he must. Doctors and those in the medical profession naturally have an inner wellspring of power that allows them to step beside themselves in delivering horrible news. Frankness is most often desired, and this reservoir of objectivity allows them such freedom.

"Richard," he started slowly and with caution, "I did receive the test results. There was some marked improvement with the medication initially," and he stopped. I had anticipated such, that the curve would come when I took matters in my own hands. I knew, believed deeply even, that my health was improving and did not fear a collapse of my physical state. Such a thing, I reasoned, could not happen, not now since I had been taking new life into my own body. I was the picture of health and strength; none would prove me wrong.

I nodded.

"The improvement, however, was a fluke in the initial test results. Your globin count spiked, then dropped to a level below normal. You came to us, yes, but not before there was substantial damage to your organs. Richard, your condition is worsening. I am sorry." The last few syllables came out in such a rush that I was not certain I had ascertained them clearly. Like one leaf in a torrent, his statement was difficult to grasp as it moved past me.

"Excuse me?" I asked. I was dumbfounded by his statement and could not understand what he said. I knew my health and body; I knew the means to which I had been driven; I also knew I was improving. I felt stronger, looked better and felt in my very veins a new surging force that could only be life successfully re-implanted in me. The pain in my chest, though mild, was not increasing. I was not wrong or mistaken. I was getting better, and in me my temper was rising.

"Sir, I am sorry. It seems your situation has taken a turn, not so much unexpected, but a turn nonetheless. I am particularly concerned with this blotch on the x-ray. There seems to be some minor internal bleeding here on the right side. I want to admit you to..."

"What?" I shouted. "No!" It was syllabic, but it conveyed the great dismay and anguish that thundered across my brow. I stood briskly, but suddenly felt dizzy, and so steadied myself against the table. The doctor stood as well and came to my side. He gently set me back in the chair.

"This is very natural for your state. Your body is not producing sufficient red blood cells. I am fearful of this blotch on the x-ray. If there is any internal bleeding, it would be detrimental to you. And the tests also found extensive damage to your organs. Richard, we are friends, so forgive my bluntness, but I think, if you have not done so already, you should make whatever arrangements are necessary."

"But how can it be?" I finally managed to blurt into the air.

"I said in the beginning that your condition would only..." and here he hesitated for a moment, as if the shock of the previous statements would not be surpassed by his present choice of vocabulary.

"Worsen? Is that what you mean? How can it worsen? I was making progress; I was getting better. From the time I started -" and there I quickly halted, knowing that too much would reveal my designs.

"I am truly sorry, Richard. We can possibly buy you time, but not a lifetime. Blood transfusions will sustain you, but not enable you to maintain a normal existence. The reality is that time is no longer with you." He leaned back in his chair and stared at me as if expecting some ovation for his rhetoric.

"Time? Time you say?" I repeated to him. "Time has left me? How much, doctor, how much time?"

"A year, at very best, though I don't think so. Weeks, at worst." Again, he stared at me.

I did not reply immediately, but sat and listened to nothing and everything, all the noises echoing off the hollowness of the room. I felt alone, distraught and angry; each emotion competed with each other for the proper attention of my mind. Troubled in no small way, I nearly felt consumed by the time I vacated the office and walked down the street. I could not focus, since all my emotions were engaging in a combat so severe and intense that only one could surely survive. In my mind, all the questions raged with severity. Was I dismayed? Had I been misled? Wasn't I still getting better? Did I waste my time?

I could feel the battle within me growing to a crescendo. I was angry, fueled by an intense hatred of my existence and my predicament; I was sorrowful for my own plight and the misery I had wrought; I was also disillusioned that my plan was not having the desired effect. I walked, but with no definite aim. The sidewalk seemed to take me wherever it pleased, and I merely followed like some ignorant youth.

I was overwhelmed with grief when I heard the voice again. It spoke, but I did not respond; for the first time, I ignored it. I had no desire to speak. I was angry, my rage being constructed of the ashes of my failures in life and health. I slumped, like one who carries upon them the heaviest of burdens and moved toward a destination only the sidewalk recognized. But the voice was persistent.

"Speak to me," it said. "You cannot believe all that is said by those people. They do not comprehend; they do not perceive what you have done. They do not know what new life you have pumping through you."

"What?" I shouted aloud. "New life? Did you not hear the physician? How could you be so deaf? I am dying! Death awaits me now, and nothing else. Some may have happiness and joy before them, long life and health; I have nothing but the grave."

"You have allowed that doctor to shake your resolve. He relies on books and rudimentary knowledge. He knows only of the scientific realm. He can never understand the things we have done, or the new life that can possibly come out of such an endeavor. Do not trust the doctor and what he says."

I was annoyed by the Voice, but, although I kept walking, I could not shake it. It was with me in the journey, haunting me like the thin vapors that forever appear just behind the limits of human understanding. I had no recourse, no plan; all I could do was walk, placing each step before the other, all the while listening to the Voice that stayed with me.

"And how could the doctor, the trained physician, not know my condition? How, even better, can you know my condition better than he?" My words were bold and brutal, but truthful and certainly in accordance with the sentiment of my heart.

"Richard, why do you doubt?" it asked in a tone I had not yet heard. "Why do you doubt the only one who has remained with you for so long? All had given you up for dead when I came to your aid. Why do you forget so quickly? Have I not sustained you? Have I not been present as a means of support and guidance? Where were the others when you needed them? Or was it, perhaps, that you were alone? Could it be that you had no one to call upon, no one to assist you? Remember, Richard, your predicament when I arrived! You were alone and groveling, sinking sadly in your own self-pity. I saved you and gave you new life. Do not be so hasty to turn against me now. I am the source of your life, and I can be the cause of your death!"

I had not heard such words before. They caused me to stop, my body trembling slightly from a fear that now momentarily conquered the warring emotions. I looked around at the neighborhood; no one was present to hear the monologue but me. The recitation fell upon my ears alone like drops of lemon juice on an open wound.

"But what do we do now?" I asked in desperation.

"Do you not still have another one in the wings? Was all your research in vain? You must hunt; search out your next person and prepare for the attack. Your supply is low and you will soon be out. Act quickly and do what needs to be done."

"I feel so uncertain about this now. What if this endeavor of ours fails?"

"Trust me; as you have before, do so again. This is not the time for doubting, but for adhering. Now, go." The voice was gone, fading silently into the vast openness that surrounded me. I found myself alone and in the middle of a side street. How long I remained there I do not know, but when I looked down the avenue, I could see, at a distance, the boundary of the campus.

I had formed about three different plans in my mind while wading through a tasteless dinner, and by the time I arrived at the university, I still had no truly functional plan with which to work. Like a ship adrift in an endless ocean at night, I walked through campus, hoping she would turn up in one of her usual haunts. Luck, that goddess of the unfortunate who chooses to bless, albeit infrequently, was nonetheless on my side that evening, and I found the girl idling around the student union building, exchanging pleasantries with some friends.

I sat on a table outside of the building and watcher her; she appeared jovial and pleasant, resembling accurately the innocence of youth. For several minutes she laughed with her friends, then finally bid adieu and began a solitary trek. My eyes followed her sharply and narrowed, as if I were ready to pounce. The area was open and active, so moving against her was not advised; instead, I waited, eagerly anticipating the moment I could strike.

Once I thought she reached a safe distance from me, I slowly and deliberately began to follow her. She did not move fast, but sauntered slowly in the night air. Large, black lamps illuminated the pathway around the buildings, and we both utilized the light to see our way. I recognized early that at my current pace, I would overtake her, and so slowed my step so as to keep a safe and respectable distance. The people I passed thought little of my being there, though some acknowledged my appearance out of uniform.

She crossed a university street and moved up a grassy incline, all the while with me behind her. I had, strangely enough, thought little of the plan I would use, but like a hound on a scent, I was following that to which I was assigned. She moved closer to a dormitory, and the varied lights from the unclothed windows seemed to caress her in a glow that was ethereal. I marveled at her beauty, at the appearance of her nearly angelic form in the light. She moved gracefully, her feet touching lightly on the pavement below. I tried not to think about her, preferring rather to keep my mind on the agenda; but she seemed so animated, so alive, that she even seemed more than alive. I felt a heaviness enter my heart.

Was my survival worth such an endeavor? I tried to focus and narrow my attention, but the question kept approaching my mind. I had indulged in the freshness of life replenished, sacrificing on the altar blood that would sustain me. The price, I believed, had been worth the effort and labor, since life was coming from death. I was living stronger and better, and the health that now inhabited my body was proof that survival is, above all else, the ultimate goal of existence.

Everyone endeavors to survive, even at the expense of something else. If there is no fault in killing an animal to devour it, why, then, should I be labeled a monster for my own desire to live? I tried, and I succeeded in my plan; I brought about what the doctors could not. I was not wrong, but they were the ones mistaken. They lose themselves in their studies, and when real truth approaches them, they do not see it. I have not failed; this endeavor of mine is still a success, and I shall prove it to be so, even if it cost me everything. No damned world will infringe upon my right to exist! Damn them that my endeavor should not bring about my resurrection; the fault lies with them, and all the more I shall make them pay for their failure to sustain me.

This I nearly shouted, though the sensory controls of my mind prevented such an outcry. Through my discourse I had grown angry, nay obsessed with the hatred that so many feel at the hands of their antagonists. The sorrow I felt died quickly. I began to walk faster, my fuel being my desire for revenge. Prudence, however, slackened my pace and allowed me to harness the energy raging within.

Tall trees, some old and aristocratic with limbs covering the drive, and others, young and trimmed by the recent change in aesthetic taste, all towered above me, casting their shadows upon us and the buildings nearby. I did not allow my anger to cloud my judgment; the moment was much too necessary and much too precious to simply waste on an act of brutality. I did not want to engage in some bloodthirsty act of cruelty. I was a professional, a hunter, a trained student of the nature of survival, and I needed what coursed through human veins. I could not rush, but would bide my time until the moment surfaced. I kept walking.

She came to a building and fumbled in her bag for a key. I stopped and stood next to a tree. The area was secluded, as she had unwisely chosen a side entrance, and one infrequently used. Only a solitary lamp hung above the door. She was having some issues locating her key when I decided to approach.

A few steps and I was behind her, standing at the bottom of the stairs. The girl did not notice me at first, but when I cleared my throat she turned abruptly. I gave her a kindly expression, like one an aged man would render to a small child who was seen in the cutest of their acts.

"Oh," she said.

"Hello. Need a hand?" I asked. She seemed puzzled, but regaining herself, she continued her quest through her bag.

"Nah. I got it," She replied. "I know my keys are in this bag somewhere. Just got to find them." I climbed up one step.

"Here," I said, and I pulled out a key ring from my belt hook and turned them over in my hand, finally resting at the necessary one for her entrance. "I have keys to all these buildings, and this dormitory. It's one of the perks of working here." And I chuckled, giving an air of lightness to the mood. She laughed lightly, but unconvincingly.

"You work here?" she asked me.

"Yes, I work in House Keeping. My nightly walks sometimes find me on campus."

"It is a pretty place to stroll," she said.

"It certainly is. Now, if you will excuse me, I will open the door..." and by design, I moved to the door but dropped my keys off the side of the stairs and into the dark bushes below. I gave a slight curse, then leaned against the railing, shaking my head at my faked stupidity.

"Oh, dear," she said.

"Damn," was my reply. "Well, I do apologize. Let me see if I can recover my keys. So much for my helping," and I laughed as I slowly descended the steps.

"Here, let me help," and with that, I found the girl by my side. I was the first to enter into the dark bushes, rummaging for the object whose location I already knew. The girl came in swiftly after me, and together we stood nearly waist deep in the thick brush surrounding the building. I would disappear occasionally, only to reappear with two empty hands. Carefully, she also dove into the limbs and tried to uncover the keys. Together, like two pearl fishers, we worked at the routine of diving and surfacing for several minutes.

I kept watching her and waiting for the moment to strike. I was like a sea serpent lying prostrated upon the ocean floor, waiting for my prey to swim along and enter within striking distance. I made a joke or two, expressed my gratitude repeatedly, and tried to make light of the situation as best I could. She followed my lead and loosened her demeanor.

"Here, I think...Oh, damn. I thought I had them in my hand. It was only a branch," I said. In our searching, I continually kept myself close to her. I did not want to allow distance to come between us.

"Wait," she began. "I think I have them. Oh, look!" she exclaimed, and held aloft the ring of keys. She was standing beside the steps, and in the light they were illuminated dimly.

"Oh, good. Thank you so very much. You have greatly helped an old man."

"It was nothing. Least I could do."

"You are too kind," I said, still moving closer. "You have helped me more than you could possibly ever know."

She looked at me squarely in the face as if she was not certain how to take my statement. The keys were lowered and her hand tightened around them. I could almost sense the fear. In the wild, animals can sense the fright of a person under duress. It is an aroma to their nostrils which has upon them a rather intoxicating action. They become wild with rage, and lunge after the object that expels such a scent. I was lured in by the smell of her fear like a wild dog to blood.

She finally muttered a syllabic "what," as if she did not understand or had not heard what I said. I smiled at her, again showing her the kindly face I first presented. One more step and I was within arms reach of her. The area was still secluded, and no doubt she was beginning to see her folly.

"It is nothing. Forget I said anything. I am just so grateful to you, that is all. Now, at least allow me to help you out of this jungle." I presented to the night air a laugh that was hollow and cold, a laugh that had no joy in it save the sinister elation that is felt just prior to the act of blood letting. She smiled, then at my urging, moved forward, with me taking my place beside her.

I saw that the moment had come. She was beside the steps, still mostly concealed from all prying eyes, and the lamp was too weak to throw sufficient light upon the scene. When she had turned her head to look at a branch beside her waist, I quickly grabbed her by the arms, and put one hand over her mouth. With great force, I brought her head in contact with the side of the stairs. She did not scream, but succumbed to the blow and melted into the darkness at our feet. Hunching now, I did not rise, but listened and watched for any sign of movement. As in the cases before, nothing gave rise of suspicion.

I could hear her moaning lowly in the brush; she was not dead, but merely unconscious, or at least very close to it. I had not reckoned on such a plan, but now it appeared to me that I would be taking her alive to my home. There, it would end.

Taking a cloth, I tied it around her head so as to keep her from yelling; then, I quickly ran and brought my car as close as I could to the location. Through the darkness, I carried her body to my trunk. Unlike the previous times, on this occasion I did not feel the remorse or the agitation that hampered my joy; I felt no such feelings, save the anger that had resurfaced when I made the attack. Within me the rage still boiled like a cauldron; it rolled so violently that I could not even feel the slightest happiness at obtaining another supply. I was consumed by it entirely. Closing the trunk, I slipped quietly into the car and drove home.

I had only laid her on the floor of the basement when she began to awaken. I paid little attention at first, as I was getting my supplies ready. I had my back to her, and could not clearly see her, though the slight movements she made alerted me to her arising. The girl was silent, either from fear or stupefaction. When I finished preparing everything, I turned to face her.

She stared at me with wide eyes, slowly taking in the room while still looking at me. In her eyes was a dazed look, like thick fog had descended upon her and remained, slicing her visibility to shreds. Still feeling the effects of the blow, the girl tried to stand, but was not successful. I looked upon her sadly; not as one about to lose life, but sad in the manner that her existence was ever brought about. It would have been more suitable, I reasoned, if she had not been born. Humanity, I had learned quickly, was cold and calculating, like ancient reptiles in the depths of the swamp, lying still and waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Ever advantageous and opportunistic, humanity would sulk in the corner until the prey came to engage the sympathies of that beast. I had suffered long and hard at the hands of the monster; but now, when the rules of nature swung in my favor and I found a means of sustenance by their life source, I came to a position of power I had never felt before. Now I was the empowered one, the mighty one. It was someone else's turn to suffer the blow.

I quickly approached and finished off the girl, I drained the substance and had everything cleaned and bottled in a few hours. When I finally finished, I leaned against the table and beheld the remains. I felt it then, like before, but more powerfully this time: there was within me a singular feeling of pain, a striking pang ringing violently. I thought nothing of it at first, believing myself to be exhausted by my undertakings. Similar attacks had come in the past few weeks, but not of this magnitude. I felt weak and tired, fatigued even, and the suffering that came upon me was so tremendous in size that I did not feel I would survive the moment. It surfaced from within the right side of my chest and bounded freely through my limbs. Sweat droplets formed on my brow. The pain then threw me to the ground, causing me to curl my body into a lump. I stayed in this manner for several minutes until the severity of the issue subsided.

Slowly I arose from the ground, pulling myself out of the posture I previously occupied. My body still rang from the blow it received, and I swayed slightly from the dizziness that now took the place of the pain. I staggered to the nearest bottle of blood and, with hate in my fingers, grabbed the cork and pulled it out.

I suffered mildly, but inwardly I was an explosion of incendiary missiles, all converging upon the plan I once believed to be the most natural and best-selected option left to me. I cursed humanity, cursed the gods above, my own stupidity, and finally, with much remorse, the plan that I thought would save me. I was persistent, however, and took a swallow of the substance, still desiring to believe the liquid would bring salvation.

I was momentarily quenched, and so sat down for several long minutes, my mind wandering over the past many weeks. Was failure truly upon me? Was I to die soon? Was this plan really the fault of my overestimations of the salvific nature of blood? I dropped my head upon my chest and tears began to roll down my tired face. I yearned for relief, for life, and believed I had located my own Fountain of Youth. As the explorers of old searched the new land for riches and the fabled fountain, I, too, looked into the abyss of science, that unfathomable recess of unknown knowledge, and searched for my own spring. Now, upon the floor at my very feet was the spring; only, this spring gave what I now considered with uncertainty: the flowing life source necessary for my sustenance. My plan seemed to breech the impregnable walls of modern medicine, but in the final throes of victory, I realized that disillusionment was all that awaited the victor.

I tilted my head over towards the remains; there, below me, was the body, the vestiges of my ill-fated plan. It was a remnant, a razed temple foundation, a scar that would not heal. I tried to look away, but my eyes felt compelled to examine the corpse in every detail. The hair, though disheveled, was still vibrant with color and seemingly teeming with life. The skin still retained a hue that bespoke of animation. The eyes, with their skyward-cast gaze, stared as if peering into the deeper regions of the starry night. Every aspect of the body exhibited life, though I knew that no such vivacity existed in the girl. She was dead, a sacrifice to one man's inflamed passion.

As if expecting the body to react, I gently nudged the figure with my foot. I had tried, and all but failed; the body before me was evidence. But how is success measured? How does one gauge the advancement of a certain project? Can one set goals, or implement peripheries to see if they are surpassed? Was my health just such a periphery? And what if, despite the detailed and over-cautious nature of the individual, the test in question is faulty from the beginning? What if certain items are brought to the table in less than a satisfactory nature? I turned my eyes again upon the girl.

What if she was defunct? What if she was missing the natural element that would sustain me? Was I to blame for choosing a faulty product? I had thought of this idea earlier, and was told it was plausible; I doubted, however, its authenticity until now. Humanity, so wicked and vile, could not sustain life; they only take life, sucking it from the depths of all creation. I was not to blame. Society, with all its ills and inabilities to create a worthy character, is to blame for the misfortune that has befallen me. A more worthy specimen would have enabled me to live.

I did not realize it, but my voice had superseded the confines of my head. An audience of silence listened intently as I vociferated my heart's madness and pain. I was enraged, excited by the torments of the truth which echoed loudly in my head; then, I beheld the body once more. I stared child-like at the corpse, as if my eyes had never beheld such a creature. The beauty, the figure, the gentle curves of the face, the slight shading around the eyes and the way the light fell upon them all touched me deeply. Life, like a candle, had been blown out so violently, and for a cause that could no longer be sustained.

I sat for a moment, calming myself after securing the girl in a wrapping; it would be the only funeral shroud she would wear. I was deeply moved, with tears rimming my eyes. Death had come at last for this poor soul, a death brought about by my hands. She fell victim to a cause which was ill-advised and ill-sought; for life does not come out of death -at least not in our cycle. Death is death, and life is life; the two sit on opposite ends of the field, staring at one another, daring each other to cross the expanse and attack. For nature it is not so, the cyclical nature of the created order has death relieving life, and vice-versa; for humans, we simply live a fable, believing that death is for the elderly alone. Death, like life, is for everyone; and soon, mine would come. This I now knew to be true.

I took the remains and carefully lifted the body onto my shoulder. I stumbled and staggered under the weight, but managed to get the body into the trunk of my car with little noise. The area was just as the Voice described in the vision: tall oaks studded in moss with palms filling in the forest gaps. The air was hot and moist, like most nights in a subtropical environment, and it hung heavily upon the whole scene.

The rage which erupted in the basement settled into some hidden cavern in my bosom, and I felt melancholic and sad. I carried the body almost reverently, as if the Virgin Mother were enshrouded in its folds. I advanced a few paces and found a spot beside the small marsh; here the grass was high, and the humid environment and soil would allow for quick decomposition. I thought it at least a pretty place for interment and started to dig. I had not completed a foot's worth of excavation when I heard a voice behind me. I spun wildly around, shovel ready to strike, but saw no one there.

"How apprehensive you are," stated the Voice somberly. I recognized it at once.

"Oh, you," I said, assured of the familiarity of the Voice.

"Yes, it is me. And I see you have found this location easily enough. Good."

"It was right where you told me it would be. I had little trouble reaching it."

"I figured such," said the Voice. "Now, if I recall, you were having a bit of a conversation in the basement. What was that?" I had not realized my doubts were so loudly expressed, or that the Voice had managed to capture the monologue.

"That? Oh, nothing; just my usual rambling."

"It seemed to me to be the expression of doubt once more. Did I not tell you our plan would be successful in the end? Did I not tell you to let loose your fears and reservations, to totally give yourself to this? Why, then, do you still doubt?" I concealed my feelings deeper, trying to hide them not only from the Voice, but from the very atmosphere.

"It was nothing!" I reiterated.

"Actually, my friend," the Voice began coolly, "it seemed very real to me. You doubted, then wept, didn't you? Those tears were not only for your own condition, but for hers."

A pang of anger, smoldering in my chest, exploded violently against the Voice and its accusation. "How dare you!" I shouted. My voice, like the booming of a cannon, threw its verbal shot across the damp land.

"Excuse me?" replied the Voice.

"Yes, you heard me! I have listened to you long enough!"

"You have, have you?"

"Yes, I have! I was dying, and you gave me life, and what life it was! Look at me, here in the swamp, an innocent lying at my feet, and my body still in ruins. What have we accomplished? What have you accomplished?"

"You would be a dead fool without me now! You would be in some gutter, like the trash from which you came, rotting and cursing your own existence. Look what I have done for you. Look what I have shown you. You see the order of things, the nature of all creation. You have the knowledge of good and evil, the same knowledge that placed the race of people into slavery and bequeathed to their children damnation. What could you expect from this? What did you desire, if not the destruction of the ones who placed you in this condition?"

"If not for you, I would die like a man who faced his own end bravely. Because of you I will die a miserable murderer, enshrouded in blood and laid in an unmarked grave, where only the demons will frequent. That is what you have done for me!"

"How dare you!"

"No, you damned fool, how dare you mislead me and direct me in a path of your choosing. You wanted blood, you wanted revenge on society; and you used me, a simple man yearning for salvation and life, to bring about your means. You are a damned bastard, and I damn you to the hell from which your blood-stained soul emanated!"

There was silence.

I waited, but heard nothing more. There was a stillness which weighed down the air, and it hung in my ears heavily. Every passing moment restored a bit of confidence to my tattered being; the Voice, if not dead, was at least quiet. I straightened myself, feeling an energy both invigorating and secure. I hastily, but reverently buried the body, saying goodbye to the girl.

Part 5: Cacciare's Last

The next day, as I was approaching work, I realized I had made a grave mistake; my keys were still missing. I searched my vehicle violently, passionately, for the keys I had used as a means of luring the girl. They were not to be found. Thinking quickly, I decided to quietly return to the scene and locate them. The morning labors were small, and the campus was still slumbering from its drinking binge of the previous evening. It would not be difficult to simply slip over there and get them.

I was exceptionally cordial and friendly that morning as I passed through the facilities building, greeting and smiling as I went along to my golf cart. It was my design to draw as little attention to myself until I located my key ring.

The route I chose was as meandering as I could possibly make it; I did not want to appear as if I were directly heading there for fear my appearance would raise suspicion. I knew the cops would soon figure out the chain of events. She was last seen at the dining hall, then spotted en route to her dorm. I was seen also on the same path, something that now angered me greatly. If she left the building, but did not make it back to her room, and she was seen in the vicinity of said dorm, then the cops would make the connection. And there, my keys would be also, registered to me and me alone.

As I finally neared my destination, the flashing of lights alerted me to the presence of the police. There were several cars, each with their blue and red bars flashing fantastically, hastily parked in front of the dorm. Police taped off an area, and several students were standing in a semicircle around the scene. One detective was taking a sample from the side of the steps, no doubt where she struck her head. The mingling movements of people added to the general sway of such a scene, as professionally attired and uniformed men and women passed in and out of the building. Bulbs flashed from cameras and interviews were being conducted. Tears were shed from many a young eye. I stopped and beheld it all from my cart.

I could hear the murmurings of the crowd as some passed me. They spoke of the same killer, the maniac who had taken the other lives, and all expressed fear. I was a killer, a lunatic. No one figured my reason, but labeled me for what they saw me to be: a homicidal murderer who had little regard for life. In some cases they were correct, and for that I do not blame them for their interpretations. My design, however, was so different from how it was portrayed; I was no killer, no murderer, but merely a lone wolf in search of prey. I was a beast perhaps, but not a cold and hardened slaughterer.

I was about to turn my cart and drive away, when I saw Detective Valerie coming out of the building. As he came down the steps, someone handed him a plastic bag. There, I could clearly see my key ring. He looked at it, and as if some law giving intuition sprang upon him, he looked my way; our eyes locked for a moment, a brief moment that lingered in eternity without beginning or end. Shame welling in my mind, and conviction swelling in my heart, caused me to turn away and drive in any direction that would allow me to escape that gaze.

I drove that cart as it had never been steered before; I wanted to get away from that moment so terribly that I nearly knocked some students off the walkway. I turned, then turned again, until I found myself in the farther reaches of the campus. To my surprise, I was in the vicinity of the first murders. Everything called out to me in a hauntingly familiar voice, as if I were the master of the land and they my subjects.

I looked at the scene, with its familiarity softly echoing the memories of the moments that transpired here, moments that brought to an end the sacred life of some, and enthralled the life of another. I was sitting where it all began so many months ago, when my future seemed bright and reinvigorated. Life was the quest, and this location, still teeming with energy from the branches and beneath the sod, represented more the cessation of life, not its origin. The souls who passed through here daily did not know of the events that unfolded; did not know that here, in so picturesque a setting, the energy that flows so vibrantly through every vein came to naught. Nor did they know the selfish gamble of a solitary man which brought about another's demise. Gambling can pay with great dividends, but often the risk is met with failure on some level. I had wagered, but wrongly, and now several souls had to alight before their time, departing from a place they had only begun to recognize and call their own. I was a terminator of life, not an enhancer, and with that thought upon my mind, my heart sank.

All the noises that wafted around me could be heard clearly, but I paid them little heed. I lowered my head onto the steering wheel and was lost in my reverie when a voice shook me from my pseudo slumber: it was Detective Valerie.

"Greetings, Mr. Cacciare," he began. "How are you doing?" I looked up into his face; his eyes, both convicting and piercing, looked through my person, as if exploring the tree behind me. I turned from him, and gave a soft hello, nothing more.

"No doubt you have heard the news?" he asked.

"No, what news?" I muttered.

"Another victim. This one was female also, a real champ on the volleyball team. She disappeared around evening time last night, perhaps a little after seven thirty. Best we can figure, it's our killer." Again, I was simply a killer; no one would ever see me as a hunter or a gatherer, but merely a murderous being bent on torture and destruction. A tear snuck from my eye.

"How do you figure?" I asked him, as he slowly drew out his pocket pad.

"Same type of crime, nearly the same person. They all have athletic similarity. So far, all have been strong and healthy, as if chosen for that very reason. Maybe the killer could be jealous that his or her own body is failing." I started, but quickly regained my composure. Did he know? Was he targeting me? I gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"I did not realize there was a connection between any of them. Serial killings, I suppose."

"That is what it seems. A question for you, Mr. Cacciare. I noticed you seem to be missing your key ring. Forgive me, but I saw the hook upon your belt and it was vacant. Would you have happened to lose your keys?"

"Oh, yeah. I lost them yesterday, sometime in the late afternoon. Didn't realize it 'til I got home. That does remind me that I need to report them missing. I was cleaning the dorm building where, well, that girl met her end..."

"How do you know she died there?" I was trapped. Foolish being that I was, my mumbled words had escaped the limits of my mind and I had ensnared myself. I could not think, but recoil only from his question. Sweat, the greatest indicator of uneasiness, began to slide down my weary face. I stammered with awkwardness, but Fortune, the goddess that was with me still, suddenly had my radio blare my call number. I answered quickly, realizing my escape had come.

"Excuse me, Mr. Valerie. I am needed over in the lower level of Westover Hall. Goodbye." My farewell was barely audible, it being murmured between trembling lips. I drove off, but as I pulled away I could hear him saying:

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Cacciare. Hope you find your keys."

I could not move fast enough, and in the lower level of the Philosophy building, I had time to reflect and gather my thoughts. They had my keys, which would no doubt have her fingerprints on them. I nearly incriminated myself in the interview with Valerie. There were also many witnesses who spotted me on campus last evening close to the supposed time of the girl's disappearance. It was, for me, too much information for an easy conscience to relax. I tried to focus, but my mind wandered so far from reality that I was scarcely present at all. What was I to do? What were my options? Should I flee? Would that only further cover me in the appearance of guilt? Should I stay and defend myself?

The many possibilities were waging a war of dominance in my mind when the sound of a door opening attracted my attention. I turned, and from a classroom, a ray of light illuminated the hall. A hand, small and delicate, gently pushed the door aside, and out emerged a girl of tender features and slender frame. She was raven haired, with long locks falling down her back in a beautiful cascade. I did not know the girl, but had often heard her spoken of among the Philosophy student in the corridors of the building as the dark-haired Philosophical genius. Surely, it was her.

A face like that of Aphrodite, both lovely in imagination and reality, met my gaze. Her eyes, of a crystal blue, chased to the sides the subtle shades of darkness and reached out to mine, embracing them warmly. Her body, of medium height and build, seemed the very essence of gracefulness, like the lovely shepherdesses of Bouguereau. If the gods had granted me youth and wisdom, I should have taken that girl at that moment and carried her to a happy home. She came from the classroom and paused to look at me, as if a connection between us alerted her to my presence. It was then I read in her eyes all the passion and energy of life untamed, a sort of power which rested within and animated her. There was strength in her.

The girl, in the loveliest of manners, gave me an elegant smile, then turned and headed away from me. I followed her visually, her hair swaying whimsically as she went. I watched until she vanished up a staircase, then peered into the empty abyss left by her passing, as if her aura were still present for me to behold. What beauty, what form! Never, in all the years I had labored on this campus, have I seen a female with such elegance, refinement and grace meshed in so perfect a form. She was the definition of exotic exquisiteness, the archetype of resplendence, a true and living Venus whose soul was followed by the throbbing hearts of all mankind. Veiled in mystery, she called to me in some new manner, her magnificent nature re-instilling within my heart a belief in the nature of goodness and the beauty of the divine. She was gone, but still I felt her; and those eyes, ever were they suspended before me. She was to me what the child's voice was to Augustine; I felt a call to return, a call to penance and retribution. She was the very essence of truth; no fault, so far as I could imagine, rested on her bosom.

I ventured to a ground level window, hoping to find a last glimpse of her in passing. Students moved about, but not the one who had so captivated me. She was faultless and truthful; the recipient of the Cranmer Award in Philosophy and a philosophical marvel. Surely, they would believe what she spoke. Then the idea occurred to me: she was the one I needed!

I tried to stay out of sight for the rest of the day, and whenever Valerie showed his face, I quickly vanished. I went to register my keys as missing with the office, and to my good fortune, the office was empty at the time, so I finagled the box to appear as if I reported them at the beginning of the shift.

In my wanderings around campus, I tried to conceal my apprehension from all who met me and looked upon my face. I could not, however, shake the notion of that girl; she was a breath of air in my lungs, lungs now filled with the toxic fumes of death which slowly pulled me into my demise. I had a plan for her, slow in coming at first, but a plan that would ensure my salvation and immortality, and she would bring it about. I needed to act quickly, as the police, I reasoned, would soon be calling.

The wound I had received so many months ago in that scuffle with the girl in the art building basement was now more violent than ever. It started so timidly, but by now, and with all the activity I pressed upon it, it was throbbing terribly and causing me horrendous pain. My end was inevitable; I knew this with a certainty only those who stand before an armed squadron of men can imagine. If I were to act at all, it would have to be quick and concealed in the night, with movements of stealth and energy. As the hours progressed, so did my idea, until, at the close of the day and the setting of the orb, I settled on the notion that I would take the girl, and instead of imparting death to her, I would give her life, my life. She would bare my story to the world, and all humanity would know why the lives of the others were taken. I would die all the same, but my story would survive, and I would not die a victim of my own act. I would perish in the abyss of forgetfulness, but the people would know, and I would lie happily in the grave.

Part 6: The End of All Things

I followed the girl for days, trying to discern as much as possible from her daily routine. She was punctual, disciplined, and studious; she walked with an upright posture and seldom carried her books in a backpack, preferring, rather, to carry them in her arms. The school either did not recognize her beauty and charm, or chose to neglect her, for I seldom saw her with a large group of people. She instead chose a select group of acquaintances with which to associate. I noticed, also, that her attire was normally black or dark in color, perhaps to match the color of her hair. I began to realize that she bore a sustained appearance of morbidity and sadness, with the occasional vibrancy being marked as unusual, an oddity of joy in a sea of dismal reflection. She appeared tranquil, composed and smiled often, although there was behind the smile an inner pain that screamed through her brilliant eyes. Perhaps it was just that pain, or the beauty I noticed earlier, but I gravitated to her in the most powerful way. Notes were written, and schedules constructed so I would not miss a single moment of her routine. I began to feel a certain power emanating from her, a force which seemed to draw me away from all that I knew; she was the epicenter, and towards her I ventured, day by day, until the time that I should take her.

The girl's nighttime schedule was of particular interest to me, for I knew I would have only a single chance, so I became well acquainted with her comings and goings in the evening; she kept regular hours, but was hardly without a person beside her. I knew this would be an issue, and so kept a vigilant watch to see when she traveled alone and when she most likely had company.

I kept one step ahead of the police in all of my actions; they were closing in, setting their trap, and I was soon to fall prey to their snare. The keys had been identified as mine, but my finagling brought me extra time. Records also showed crewmembers were in that sector of the building the day prior. No credible evidence came from the scene, so they could use little to track me. Valerie kept watch, following me and sneaking around every corner where I was thought to be. He was clever and shrewd, a man not to be fooled easily. Like a lion in the brush, he waited patiently; I was his antelope, his prey, but I was also not so easily defeated. I cross-stepped and managed to keep one pace before him at all times. Small interviews were the norm, but he never could ensnare me, much to his repugnance. In my heart, however, I knew they had targeted me, and all the pieces were closing in around my king. Soon, my walls would crumble and I would be finished. Time was slowly drifting from me; haste was now more necessary than ever.

The week before I finally acted was busy, following her at every available moment; she moved, and I shadowed her. I had enough information, enough of a common schedule sketched that I was ready to go. I needed only the right moment and locale for the deed. I also began the construction of a room for her. The area I chose was in my basement, close in proximity to the area in which I worked previously, but at the far end of the space. There was a separate room, a type of utility closet with a spacious area, which I sealed up and secured. I took every pain to be certain it was comfortable, even expending my budget in the purchasing of new curtains and bedding, plus an adequate chair for her leisure time. The window was boarded, but painted a soft color, as was the room itself. When I finally completed the task, the area was delicate and cozy, with soft lighting falling on the scene and posh extravagance making for a very relaxed atmosphere. I wanted the room to be soothing and calming, as her experience would no doubt be a frightening one.

Although hasty, I overlooked no minor detail; I created a menu for her, selecting some of my finest entrees from years past, and purchased what I thought would be edible delights and treats for her. I nearly figured her size, and so spent another sizable portion on clothing for her, buying items that matched what I saw her wearing. She was to be a prisoner, but one finely kept and dotingly pampered.

I kept up a strong visage at work, doing my chores with diligence and speed. I always watched for her, as her passing would stir my heart and soothe the inner pains that haunted my waking hours. I also fought with a vengeance the weakness that was coming upon me, the pain and agony that were being propelled into my body. I was suffering daily, more then than ever. The wound, no doubt aggravated intensely by my latest endeavors, struck hard against my frame and many times caused me to stop and slump over. I could only work for short periods without resting. It was growing worse, and the end, I reasoned, would be soon.

With a sense of urgency pressing upon me, I knew I finally had to act. All preparations were made and completed, and everything was ready for the arrival of my guest, my last who would ensure my redemption. I had notes on her behavior, and knew when and where she would appear. It was not difficult, as the school had only so many illuminated walkways at night; she always chose the same paths, and beside her usual route, I was waiting. I had it in my mind that I would make the issue as simple and uncomplicated as possible, and so I parked my vehicle as close to the scene as I could. There was a certain area, located between two academic buildings, that was dark from the inadequate spacing of the lamps. The buildings were concealed behind some trees, so prying eyes could view nothing.

I wanted the aid of a suppressant of sorts to knock her out, but could not procure one, so I had to rely upon a basic tranquilizer used in animal research. Some knowledge gained from the internet and a little eaves-dropping on a lab session gave me the necessary information I needed to use the chemical. I had the needle ready, and would inject her with it from behind. The plan seemed simple enough, but I was not so foolish or naïve to think it would unfold so easily. I had escape routes planned, and wore a hunting mask to conceal myself. I could afford no mistakes on this endeavor.

It was nearing 11 p.m., the time she would usually walk past on her route to the computer lab. I saw her coming, while hidden behind a clump of bushes. I had waited for an hour or so to be certain I did not miss her, fearing she would avert her schedule on a whim and foil my plan. Although I was intimately acquainted with her routine, I was nonetheless relieved when I saw her coming around the corner.

She was dressed comfortably, with slender pants and a short shirt, over which was a leather jacket, stylish and form fitting. She had books in her arms and walked casually, as if nothing in the world was more important than the steps she was taking. I marveled, then envied her sauntering attitude. To have such complacency in life was out of my reach. I could no longer grasp such relaxation; I was a tormented soul destined to an abrupt end.

In my hand was the needle, and in my stomach was a tempestuous storm of nerves that raged violently. I had no such feelings previously, but given the nature of the incident, and everything this single individual meant to me, I was fearful of a slip. Should I lose this one, I knew with certainty, I would be lost indefinitely. I had no room for error, and so my nerves vibrated magnificently. She was within feet of me now, and as she passed, I slowly emerged from concealment and crept up behind her. The headphones in her ears masked my footfalls, giving me an opportunity to creep ever closer.

Only she and I inhabited the area; it was vacant, much to my good fortune. The jacket posed a problem for the needle, but fortunately it was short, and could be raised easily enough to expose the soft skin beneath. I came up from behind, walking slowly to keep pace with her; she did not know I was there and continued on her path. My plan was to wrap my left arm around her, pulling her books against her body, while injecting her with my right. I wanted as little noise as possible, and with the quick action of the dose, I would have none.

She was in the process of changing a song on her player when I struck. I rushed up and threw my arm around her. She turned quickly, but the needle, aiming true to its target, slid sharply into her right side. I leaned back with her in my arms, nearly falling as she continued to squirm. A single scream escaped her mouth before I could silence her and allow the tranquilizer to take effect. She fell limply.

With all the energy I had mustered for this event, I quickly gathered her and her belongings and made haste to my car. At first I was to place her in the trunk, but rethought my decision when I reasoned through the shocking and unnerving experience she would have if she awoke. Instead, I placed her in the backseat.

When we arrived, I brought her into the house as quickly as possible and descended the stairs with her in my arms. The scene, if one were to view it, would seem more like a father bringing his little girl in from a long day of fun, rather than a jailer entombing a prisoner. I hastened, fearing the effects of the tranquillizer would soon fade. A few terrific moments, and she was laid on her bed, the very specimen of tenderness and grace. Her locks fell over the pillow softly, and in the dim lighting I beheld her beauty, her charming face that radiated even in sleep. She was to me an angel, a seraph who had alighted only for the pricking of my heart.

I removed her shoes, covered her with a blanket, and stepped back to look over her once more before I departed. A snack was prepared for her, and a pitcher of water left beside her bed. I retreated slowly and cautiously, gently closing the door behind me. I had so many thoughts soaring through my cavernous mind; I felt engaged with such intensity to the plan before me, yet trembled at the prospect of no success. With that thought lurking in my mind, I raced to the upper level and sat at the table to compose my thoughts. I had so much to say to her, so much she needed to know before it was finished, and I wanted to miss none of the details. I started to write out my ideas in short sentences, then burst forth in creativity, writing merely phrases and words, all of them conveying some part of the story. I scribbled actively and quickly, lost in my thoughts when through the window, I saw a squad car slowly drive past. I had no lights on save for a small illuminated lamp, and quickly rushed to a dark corner by the window and watched as they went. They moved slowly, idly even, as if looking at each home critically. I peered for what seemed to be long, intense minutes as the vehicle slithered like a serpent down the drive.

How nervous, how excited beyond imagination I had become at the sighting of that car. My mind, already consumed with so many thoughts, now rattled wildly, madly even, with so many prospects. Were they aware of my exploit? Were they casing my residence? Was the end coming faster than I had anticipated? I could not answer these questions.

I trembled, but with the passing of the car, I felt the urge to return and quickly finish my list. I wrote even faster than before, the ideas flowing so freely over the rocky crevices of my mind. The paper took form and soon I had what seemed to be a suitable outline of ideas, my very story laid out before me. I took it closer to the lamp to examine it; my whole ordeal, everything I had endured and inflicted, was roughly sketched in so simple a form, as if the chain of events unfolded in a casual, short span of time. How elementary the whole affair seemed. The letters only gave a cursory look at all that happened, but conveyed more meaning with their ideas and sentiments. My story was my own, my exploration into the world of eternity and a failure as an experiment. I have no tangible results, as most scientists' desire, but only a trail of bodies to chart the course of my experimentation.

I looked sullenly at the paper, at the foreign markings called writing, and thought of the nature of all things, and then of nothing at all. Everything that now comprised my life was laid before me in a subtle hand. Illustrious curves and sways did not compose the narrative, but a shaky hand, nervous with fear and agitated by a trembling fit nestled deep in my mind; eloquence would lack, but my story, the only piece of me to ever see the infinite side of existence, would live. How I desired life; how ironic that now the one thing I so craved would be bestowed upon my only creation.

Taking the paper, I read it two, then three times before securing it in a drawer. The story was as I had desired it to be: no happy ending, no heroic moments, only the sad life and demise of a figure best forgotten. I approached the door to the basement slowly, determined to enter, when I stopped short. I knew not what compelled so short a stop in me, but I dared not touch the knob at the moment. Perhaps I feared waking the girl. It was a reasonable excuse and seemed to suit my nature. I knew, rather, that the small voice within me spoke softly the words only my heart would comprehend. I had read my tale and was ashamed. My shame bore upon me, and I could not face the girl, who alone would be a mirror to my indignity, showing me what manner of monster I had become.

I turned away, moving rather to my bedroom and as far as my spatial limitations would allow. I could not face her, not with the moments and hours of my trial weighing upon me like a leaden mass. Such weights were not meant to be borne upon one set of shoulders alone, and it sickened me to think my load would soon become hers. I could not help the matter, but only cry. Tears, it seems, always fall when the spirit is weakest, and so, in the dark of the night, with little aid from my memory or my heart and surrounded by agonies I alone created, I cried.

The next day, as I expected, the cops were clawing about the campus. I arrived early, and as I was driving to the facilities plant, I noticed a small slip of paper on my windshield. When I pulled into my spot, I removed it and found it to be a parking ticket from the campus police. Grumbling, I threw the parking citation into the car and moved into the building. The day passed quickly, even quicker than most, and I spent a great deal of time trying to elude the officers. Valerie, of course, spotted me and attempted another of his suave interrogations. I had managed to give him and his associates the slip when he caught me leaving a building.

"Good day, Cacciare," he said.

"Oh, good lord," I replied. "What now?"

"Another student is missing. Did you know that?"

"I heard from some workers," I said laconically.

"It seems the killer has struck again; another girl. He must have a fancy for the ladies."

"I suppose."

"You probably have some favorite students on campus, right, Cacciare?" I stared, half bewildered, at the man. I felt like a sheet of glass; he was peering deep into my mind and I could feel the piercing rays of his intellect slicing away at the barriers which housed the secret. Did he know? Did he figure out my latest act? I stammered out something unintelligible then politely, and hastily, dismissed myself. I heard him say something about catching up with me again. I did not reply.

I hid in the first vacant classroom I found and peered through a window. I saw Valerie walk back in the direction he had come from and disappear behind some trees. I writhed with anger and intense fear, unable to shake the foreboding feeling that Valerie was soon in closing his pinchers. I could hide from the police activity on campus, making myself scarce from all of the prying eyes of the authorities. I could not, however, shake Valerie from my limbs. He was a leech that would not yield, a dog that would not let go. Sweat droplets were rolling down my brow when I heard a voice behind me.

I turned sharply, but found only an empty room. A whisper, soft like the wind, came rolling across my ears. It spoke lightly, but I distinctly knew it: it was the Voice!

Turning every which way, as if it would appear from the silent surroundings, I tried to visualize the sound. It spoke again, my name wafting across the air to me.

"What?" I demanded.

"So, you have made little progress?"

"Damn you. Have you been following me all this time?"

"Don't appear so delighted to hear me again. I see he is on to you, that Valerie. Can't find a way to rid yourself of him?"

"Leave me alone. Your plan has cost me, all of us, enough!"

"Season your comments with some hospitality. I am here to help you, even though I sense little appreciation."

"What help can you offer?" I demanded.

"Help? Oh, I can assist you greatly. Valerie is your issue, your problem. Rid him of the burden of the case, and you rid yourself of the problem of him."

"What?" I asked, the anger in my Voice still present.

"Kill him."

"No! I will not do it."

"You bastard fool! Kill him and you will be free of the detective who will kill you. Can you not see it?"

"No, I will not do it."

"He will destroy you if he lives...."

"Let him live and destroy me. I have done enough, have acted my part wrongly. I know he will take me soon. It is only a matter of time, but I will not take his life, even if it means my freedom. I have new plans, more important issues to attend to now."

Then the Voice, as if smiling devilishly, spoke in reply, "Oh, that is right. You have a new friend now. I shall have to make her acquaintance." How I shivered when those words fell upon my ears; my lungs lost their breath and my head swelled. I was livid and enraged, the intensity of which no meter could ever register. In one sentence that voice had struck such a deep chord. I clenched my fists so tightly blood droplets eased from the depressions formed by my nails.

"Leave her alone!" I shouted. "Damn you, leave her alone! Do not go near her..." And I realized then that I was shouting in an empty room. Silence quickly regained the area and reestablished its reign. I hastily left before anyone could place a face with the voice.

The remainder of that afternoon I fretted nervously, fearing the Voice would interfere with both my plan and the girl. With paternal rage did I shout in my mind, my anger checked only by the anxious feelings inside me. How I worried over the girl and the agenda all the long day. She was my last hope, and I could not stand the agony of knowing, of laying to rest knowing that the Voice was interfering with one so special, so pure.

When I finally arrived at home and was secluded from all the blaring lights, interrogations and business of the day, I was able to reflect and contemplate. I sat upon a chair and began to lose myself in a reverie. I was nearly gone when a loud knock awakened my senses to the surrounding world. I thought someone was at my front door, but the muffled noise told me otherwise. I listened and heard it again, then once more. It was not a knocking, but a pounding, and it was emanating from downstairs.

I slowly made my way to the basement door and listened. Down below, there was a soft banging, liken to someone throwing a shoe against a hollow wall. I listened intently, then opened the door. It was a degree louder now, but still the same thudding noise. I descended, and the noise grew in intensity. As I came to the floor, I realized the door to the girl's room was shaking rhythmically; she was beating against it.

I crept to the door and listened. I could hear her groan with each contact; she was attempting to escape. I watched for another moment as the door continued to rattle. Finally, I had enough of the affair and decided to end it. I took my fist, and when she moved back to prepare for another hit, I struck the door and shouted simply "Hello!"

There was silence from within; she heard me and was still. I had the key securely around my neck and slowly removed it. I knew it was time to enter, but still I hesitated; my plan was formed, but I could in no way tell how the girl would react to my story and her captivity.

I unlocked the door and gently pushed it open. I was prepared for an attempted escape, but found nothing forthcoming. The dim light in the basement flooded her room and battled the rays from her lamp. I stepped in, searching for the girl, who I found nestled in a corner, huddled as if attempting to seep into the crease between the adjoining walls. Her eyes were locked in terror on me. I did not move any further. It was the first time I had dared to enter the room since her incarceration, as I used a small slot at the base of the door for the delivery of her meals. The room changed little, save for the disheveled appearance she gave it in the fury I just heard.

There was in her frame a slight tremor or nervous agitation which caused her to shake like a cold kitten. I felt compelled, even desirous, of embracing her, but knew that was a purpose for neither of us. I was ill, having grown much worse the past several days, and she was still a captive, if even for a short time. Her liberation was near, but not without embracing my story first. I was growing daily in pain, and at the moment when I entered, the pain was more prevalent than before. I tried to conceal my aching body behind a strong, yet comforting visage.

There was an awkward silence resting between us; she did not speak, and no words came to my mind to say. I stared at her, our eyes tied tightly together in a twisted knot. Moments, like those which always precede a most important announcement, hung heavily and passed with little swiftness. Finally, I spoke:

"You are faring well?" I asked slowly and deliberately. She did not reply, as if she did not understand the words I spoke. There was no acknowledgement of receipt, or confirmation in the negative or positive. She merely subjected me to a more intense silence.

"I see you have been eating." The empty snack and breakfast plates were piled on the floor in a corner. Still she spoke not, but maintained an almost icy demeanor. There was, however, a storm brewing behind her eyes, a storm that heralded an eruption of proportions so magnificent, it seemed to take all of her energies, all of her fear and hatred, to retain. I could see the clouds pressing upon her brow, and the slight transformation from fear and angst to deliberate and targeted anger. It was from this strength, this inner energy that always seemed animated within her, that I had taken a liking to her.

"I know this is, well, different..." I stammered in a clumsy fashion. I knew I first had to explain her situation before divulging the truth to her, and so began my poor attempt with a very cumbersome explanation. "I brought you here as a captive of sorts," she shuddered briefly, only momentarily exhibiting weakness.

"Who are you?" she blurted out. Though her demeanor was hardening, her voice still conveyed a terror that made her vocals shake. I had bypassed my appellation, not from means of secrecy, but out of sheer forgetfulness. I had so many thoughts pressing on me at once that the least of them, my name, slipped from my mind.

"I suppose I should start there. My name is Richard Cacciare. I work at your school." On the air hung my first confession, and in my heart the intensity of the secret began to alleviate. "I am a man of no great reputation; in fact, I clean the very classrooms where you study. And of the deaths of late, I am their creator." I could see fear welling in her eyes. The strength that reverberated in her frame dissipated quickly.

"As I said, I brought you here, but do not worry for your life; I mean not to harm you. Please, don't be afraid. No harm will come to you..."

"Then what do you want me for?" she shouted, tears welling in her eyes. I was taken aback, but had prepared myself for such an inquiry.

"I am getting to that," I replied softly. "I brought you here, and have provided, I should think, rather nicely for your comfort, knowing that your sojourn would not be lengthy. I am getting older, as the stern visage and trembling hands of mine will reveal. I am also, however, not as old as I appear. My life, by the misfortune of an acquired disease hereditary in nature, has been cut severely short. Doctors could not avail me of my pains, and death, with its ancient sickle, came creeping and calling." I stopped, allowing the weight of the moment to pass me.

"I gained, over time, and with some assistance, an opinion that I thought would assist me in regaining the life I was about to lose. It was my understanding, after much meditation and research, that life is just the material, just the singular expression of animation and it held no sacred or binding powers over the imagination. In other words, life is not sacred; all creation feeds upon their lesser, with humanity scoring the greatest victory which enables us to eat everything, both literally and figuratively. In order for humanity to survive, to live, something else must die. Look at the food upon that plate. What is it? Were those things always dead? Were they never alive? We kill everyday in our eating, our driving, our living; our homes destroy land, our buildings take living space and devour it. Our appetites always hunger for more, and soon the world has upon it our fingerprints, dipped in blood and wrapped around its jugular. All creation, in the greater scale, needs to kill to live. Life, then, comes out of death, out of eating and being, out of hunting and gathering. There can be no sacredness to life when everything, from the simple mosquito, to the complex whale, is nothing but food and energy for something else."

I paused to give my mind a rest. I had expostulated so much, fearing only that my ideas would fall on deaf ears. Over the course of my dissertation, I watched the change in her face; I could read no thoughts, but if the appearance of her eyes and the lessening and tightening of her facial muscles were any indication, then I knew she had at least heard me. For a brief moment we were silent. I was preparing to divulge my story in all its details, when she spoke.

"But life is sacred," she began cautiously. Like a child taking its first steps, or a bird first learning the function of its wings, she progressed slowly. I had expected no debate, and was moved by her rebuttal. Some spirit of animation sparked within her, and I could see clearly she meant to discuss the issue.

"Life is not merely for killing and living," she started, "it is unique, special, even, even sacred!" Her words were carefully placed, as if she did not know how I would react. I listened attentively, but silently, neither nodding nor moving. "Life is what gives animation to all, and everything fits into cyclical patterns that, in their greatest sphere, are life. The wolf may eat a bird, but the bird ate a worm first, and the worm some form of bacteria. They feed off one another, but it is how the system works, and how it has occurred from the beginning. That fact does not lessen life or decrease its value any."

"But if we are only food, how sacred can we be?" I interrupted. "A flabby, grill-shrunken piece of pork cannot hold any special or unique place, since it is only food now. It might be special for the creature eating it, but the system, depressing and morbid, only fits the purpose of sheer survival, and that at its brutish reality. Survival. Everything seeks survival and survival only. Life, then, is about destroying life in others so the life in us may survive. That goes for all creation. Everything seeks to rob from another for the sustenance of the self. We drill oil for our cars, and spill it in our pristine oceans. We need no cars for survival, yet we continually pour the black substance into our environment, poisoning it uncontrollably."

"Unfortunate, yes, but not a determining factor of the sacredness of life. The system of life itself is so spectacular that it defies logic and reason. It captivates the imagination and teaches that death, that eternal enemy of humanity, is still conquered by life. One perishes, and another lives. Life and death is creation, the order of all things. It is a system unlike any other."

"It may be a system unlike any other," I began, growing intoxicated by the thrill of the debate, "but the system I developed was far greater." Here I paused; in my excitement I had glorified my means to an end. She moved slightly; there was an inquisitive look on her face, and I knew what was coming next.

"What system?" She had asked it, and now I had to surmount my fear and answer her. I hesitated, my hands trembling slightly. I had little difficulty spouting my ideas about life and death, but now, when that theory was put into practice, and proved to be fatal, I could not muster the courage to answer her directly. I looked down, then slowly moved to a seat near the bed. We were across the room from one another now.

"I killed so I could live." I said dryly. There was a look of surprise stealing across her face as I spoke. Another weight came off my mind and heart as the words took a new bearer. I awaited the reply, which did not come. I watched her closely. It was now time to begin. The girl may not have been ready, but I had little choice. Time was running out, and I could not risk her escaping with the knowledge she now contained without knowing the story in its entirety.

"Life is nothing but death in the waiting, my dear," I said. "With that notion on my mind, I took it upon myself to see if I could gain the life that was leaving me by drinking the life of others." I paused.

"What?" she asked, completely confused. I allowed my head to sink again. With my eyes staring at the floor, I continued.

"With each student, I would..." and a noise interrupted me. It was a very common sound, that of a car door closing. All the houses in my neighborhood were in close proximity to one another, so such sounds were not uncommon. The noise, however, came from my driveway.

I stood quickly and inquisitively, looking through her open door, then down at the girl. I instructed her to be patient while I explored the sound. Closing the door behind me for safe-keeping, I crept to a bookshelf and slowly pulled it out, revealing a window in the basement that looked out onto the grassy yard. I could see two cars in my drive, one of which was a cruiser. Uniformed men, about four of them, plus a suited man, were approaching the door. The suited man I recognized: it was Valerie.

I quietly and cautiously made my way up stairs and hid behind the corner closest to the door. There was in the end table a revolver I kept for safety, and I knew no better means of usage than now. I put it in my pocket and listened as a heavy hand knocked on the door. I shook with every beat, but steadied myself. The house was dark and I was concealed within the limits of the shadows; though one face peered through the window, I was not visible.

I ran several scenarios through my mind, some of which included escaping out the back or staying to defend myself. I reasoned first that the house was probably surrounded, so escape was impossible. I then thought defending myself was a more viable option, and I could use the girl as a leverage for my release. I wanted no harm to come to her, but needed her assistance in more than one way now. The thought sickened me, but I could make a hostage out of her, use her to negotiate, if it came to that. I went further and reasoned that I could simply play it cool and allow the officers to subject me to an array of questions; perhaps the case was not strong enough yet, and I could purchase precious time. This latter idea seemed the best to me, and so, when the knocking persisted, I crept to the door.

I could hear their voices as they softly spoke to one another; the language was indiscernible, but no doubt it concerned me and a possible maneuver to get me out. I put my hand on the knob, but hesitated; there was such an anxious and nervous feeling within me that I could scarcely control myself. An overhanging sense of doom, nestled above my mind, slowly descended upon me as I stood before my door, for what I could not help but feel was the last time. I inhaled, and quickly turned the knob.

The light, bold and illustrious in appearance, came rushing in as I pulled the door ajar only slightly. Several faces, with hands upon their guns, were staring at me. My eyes adjusted, and when they did, I could see the clear outline of Valerie's stern visage and many others behind him. They appeared, bathed in light and having about them a sense of judicial authority that harkened back to the founding of the law, like stoic soldiers guarding the gates of the city.

I stared blindly at them, wondering if my face showed any signs of incrimination. I tried to maintain a level of equanimity, although all the forces within were warring for dominance over my mind.

"Mr. Richard Cacciare," Valerie spoke, bringing to an end the suspenseful silence, "we have a warrant for your arrest on the grounds of murder." I heard the words, heard them as clearly as anyone hears any sound which reverberates in the eardrum, yet they resounded with a hallow falseness, like sounds one knows to be fabricated in so clever a manner, so as not to be natural.

"Excuse me?" I asked. I could not think quickly enough to utter a better pointed question.

"Your car, Mr. Cacciare, was in the vicinity of where we believe the girl disappeared. You have the right to remain..." but I did not let him finish.

"What!" I shouted. "No, you're wrong! You will not have her." I hastened to shut the door, but an officer, quicker than I, rushed to prop it open. I was enraged and on the defensive, seeing uniforms of aggression entering my abode, my den. I stepped back and exposed my gun to the world. I heard them shout, and then a shot fired. And another.

The confusion that settled in shook the house. At my feet, just outside the door, was an officer; the doorway was still open. I lunged as those outside did the same, and pushed the door closed, shouting all the while, like a man mad with fright, how I would kill them if they entered. By some supernatural strength I was able to press them all back and secure the door. I latched every lock on its frame and I hastily threw a table before it. I stumbled backward and landed against a wall. Adrenaline was surging through me; I felt a new sense of awareness and energy, much more than when the first sips of blood touched my lips so many months ago.

I knew I did not have much time now, and so stood quickly and raced for the basement. I only managed a few steps when I collapsed into some furniture; I did not feel well. I arose, and took a few more paces, only to fall once again. I felt a pain in my chest, like a strain, only worse, and thought little of it until it increased and caused me to take notice. My shirt, as my eyes fell upon it, was soaked in a red substance. Blood poured freely from a wound just right of the center of my chest.

A fear more intense than any I had experienced overcame me so greatly that I could scarcely comprehend the situation. My hand, as I pulled it away, was covered in blood, the source of my experiment, that very fuel I sought to lengthen my days. I leapt to my feet in a dizzying state and tried to stabilize myself. I smeared my life against the table and the white walls, and everything else I touched as I steadied myself. The world spun in violent shades of red; long, crimson lashes swirled around my swooning head. I was intoxicated with fear and rage, mixed with equal measures of shock and fright. Blood seemed to seep from the very walls that surrounded me.

A faint feeling, intensifying as every moment slipped away, crept upon me with so great a stealth that I hardly anticipated it when it struck. I nearly collapsed, but with red hands, managed to catch myself against the kitchen table; their dirtiness frightened me again and I let out a scream. I had no sooner sealed my lungs when in the distance I heard the gentle reverberating of sirens. I had momentarily forgotten the situation outdoors, but the screeching of tires in my vicinity and the blaring sirens reawakened my senses to my predicament. From my vantage point I could see cars gathering, and around them the scurrying bodies of officers as they took up their positions. The end had finally come.

I staggered like one drunk on wine, trying to reach the basement. I gained the door when a voice over some loudspeaker shouted something I could not audibly hear. I shook off the message and went down. I was surrounded and trapped, my only leverage the girl I had in my keeping. I tried to purchase time, but now I had run out and was left with only the final chapter of my plan, the single moment I had prepared so long for. In pain I descended, my mind reeling and my heart racing, pumping all of my blood out of my veins. No table was necessary, no devices required; I was being drained involuntarily, but naturally.

To my surprise, the girl had shifted little since I left her. She had been alerted to the sounds and the commotion outside, and seemed greatly affected by it. My appearance brought about a shock upon her face, as my shirt, crimson with my own life, stood in stark contrast with the concealed life which pulsated through her. She was my only hope for eternity, my only salvation; in her my story would survive, would live. Slumping against the door jam, I slipped and slid down to the ground.

Epilogue: The Blessed Speaks

I do not expect you to believe me; I only expect you to listen. This is not my story, not my invention. I crafted no such tale for amusement. This is the story as I heard it, as it fell from the lips of the dying Mr. Richard Cacciare. Yes, I am she who so captured his imagination and nearly stole his heart. I am _____, his momentary prisoner and now biographer. This is his story, not mine; however, to a degree, it belongs to all of humanity, to all of us.

When he entered the room, his shirt was the reddest of colors, and he looked haggard and fatigued. He had changed drastically from the man I saw only some moments ago. After the fall, he began to crawl across the floor towards me. I saw he had in his hand a gun, but he carelessly threw it to the side; there was but one death which concerned him now. As he came to me, some impulse within me convulsed, and I went to him, kneeling beside him. I felt a pang of compassion, even sympathy for the man lying beside me. It was at this moment that he began to speak the immortal words he hoped would forever grant him immortality and clear his conscience. He neglected none of the gory details, but shared them all, sometimes crying, sometimes swelling with anger and self-pity. I listened intently to all he said, not knowing if I should interrupt or remain silent.

I had many notions about life and death prior to my experience with Richard, but something about his manner, about his story and his experience, changed me. We debated earlier about his theories when he was still invigorated and could muster the energy to battle against the world. Now he was perishing quickly and had before him the overwhelming uncertainty of the dark future. Richard felt no need to debate any longer; he simply wanted someone to listen and hear why he did the heinous acts that so filled the short-term memories of the campus and city. I listened, realizing that life and death are seemingly interchangeable. All creation exists at the expense of something else. Richard was right: we kill so we can live.

With great haste he concluded his story. Through the open doorway I could see in the window Richard had cleared more cars gathering and officers moving about. It would not be long before they made a move against him; he was secure, however, and more peaceful since he related his story to me. With only one momentary upset, when he shouted aloud for the 'damned voice' to be silent and leave me alone, he was calm. I can only assume the voice was the one of the story, some Voice beckoning from deep within his disturbed mind. Strangely enough, I believe that somewhere in me, I heard it, too.

Time passed and Richard fell silent, his eyes staring at the ceiling. I covered him with one of his own blankets and placed the pillow beneath his head. Blood covered the floor of my basement dwelling, forming a circle around him. Some stained my pants, but I cared nothing for it at the moment; I was lost in his story, lost in the idea that humanity, a people and time I so willingly and passionately embraced, would force such a man as Richard to so extreme an act. I wanted to believe in the goodness of humankind, in the progress and development of both society and the human mind. I embraced the belief, and still do to some extent, though I realize that such advancements never truly bring us beyond the life and death scenario, the one Richard tried to trap and force to his will.

Richard was still silently laying on the ground, his breathing becoming worse as every minute left his body. I heard a clamorous noise from above, then the pounding of feet upon the floor. I knew the police had broken in, and now were scurrying about the house. The sound seemed to draw Richard back to the house and to me. He looked at me with open and alert eyes.

"I'm sorry for what I have done to you, and especially for what I did to the others. Please forgive me. I will meet them soon and ask them the same." His words were dry in tone, but alive in meaning and sentiment.

A tear, so clear and so crystalline in brilliance, formed in my eye.

Footsteps were racing down the stairs, with voices shouting and yelling my name. I did not answer; I was in the presence of death, and solemnity was observed. They reached me and rushed into the tiny quarters.

When they beheld me, I was crying. In my arms was the body of Richard Cacciare.

*****

Robert Perry lives and works in Central Florida. The inspiration behind his gothic and psychological tales is credited to classic authors such as Edgar A. Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. If you enjoyed this tale, be sure to read "The Witch House," also available through Smashwords.com. Follow Robert Perry and stay abreast of all his works through the following websites:

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