Silence.
Midnight. A cold breeze slits through the alley as I stand, nestled in darkness, in a tiny alcove. I am motionless, not a shiver or twitch moving my outline. Just rhythmic breaths of icy cold filling me over and over.
Serenity. The only sound is that of my heartbeat, filling my head, my ears, every part of me reverberating with each beat. But I am still, blending with the shadows as though I were one myself. The cold fills me yet I pay it no heed. My breath is as silent as my mind is focused.
Patience. My ultimate virtue, the one thing which keeps me alive, feeds me and clothes me, teaches me and will in the end undo me. My wait is long but patience is my saviour. My mind is as sharp as the steel in my hand. I can feel the metal pulsate, anxious to bite like the frigid air on my skin and drink deep of a life.
Movement. The barest sense of moving air and I am even more alert, steel-grey eyes watching the blackness for the sight of my release. My hand tightens around the hilt of the dirk, but I must stop myself. My patience is too strong for anticipation to be my undoing. I hold as still as the concrete beneath me, the bricks at my back. And as before, I wait.
Reward. A tiny glimpse of grey in black. A shadow parts the shadows, a ripple in the darkness that is my home. And through that darkness steps a figure, a woman, a silent wraith in the gloomy night. My breath catches in my throat at the sight, but I have waited too long to move hastily. The tiny noise of cloth clad feet reaches my ears, causing adrenaline to race into my body, a spurt of energy into my already tensed form.
Judgement. She draws closer, her frail form shivering slightly in the bitterly cold air. I can see her perfectly, her lithe, attractive body clad in a short skirt, black cotton top and cloth boots. She has dark hair, but it is streaked with blonde. The contrast screams to me, drawing my attention to her hair for a moment. My vision is then drawn to other areas. The sight of her bare knees drives my bloodlust further. She cannot see me, I can see her. This thought too excites me.
Sensation. I can smell her sweet perfume, the delicate scent enflaming my nostrils. I can taste her, I feel her fear at the back of my throat. She does not know why she is afraid, but she is. My skin crawls with anticipation, my fingertips are burning, my eyes cannot tear away from her. Every sense is devoted to her.
Preparation. She is close, almost next to me, I can sense every movement she makes. I adjust my hold on the blade hilt subtly, focusing on how it is held, and contemplate her body. My knees are bent. My muscles burn. My eyes widen. Every part of my screams for her. Again my breath catches in my throat, but I do not draw it anew. It is time.
Strike. Gently, almost lovingly, I slip my arms around her. My left hand caresses her cheek as I cover her mouth; my right brings up the dirk. Its steel glides along her neck. I can hear her whimper, feel them as shudders running down her body and into mine. Her lips shudder against my palm; I feel this as feather light brushes on my bare skin. Her hair fills my face, and I breathe in its scent. The feeling fills me once again.
Pleasure. I nick her skin with the blade, can feel the single tiny bead of ruby blood roll along the metal. She moans softly, the sound filling my ears like the chorus of a thousand angels. I know everything she is thinking, everything she hopes, wishes, even prays will not happen. As her moans and thoughts fill me, I can feel the heat building up inside me, rolling into a blazing ball of orgiastic gratification.
Release. Compulsively, impulsively, I thrust, driving the dirk into her neck. An expert slice empties her veins and arteries, severs her vocal chords, spills her brilliant blood to the floor and exposes her throat to the harsh night air. I release her head and neck. My arms encircle her body, holding her close. My free hand grasps at her side; the other holds the blade against her stomach. I pull her to me. She chokes slightly, her lifeblood covering the floor, filling her windpipe and coating her clothes. Not a drop of blood touches me, although it bathes my blade like ink coating a pen nub. My excitement builds at the feel of her body, her sweet suffering and the agony of this torment. Still it builds, consuming me utterly until she finally falls limp and I gasp at the feel of it, her essence leaving its pathetic shell and momentarily filling me with undreamed-of pleasure before departing to the empty abyss of sheer nothingness. The ultimate high.
Ecstasy of oblivion.