Deadjournal
This is a blog from a serial killer on a mission from hell

The Phillies played the Pirates a few weeks ago, and I decided to check it out.* I really like crowds. So much easier to disappear surrounded by 40,000 people. A baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses made me just another face in the crowd. It was a good game, Phils won, but I got distracted around the fifth inning. Her and her friends must have moved down from the nosebleeds, and I couldn’t keep track of who was at bat after that.

I caught her eyes a few times, and each glance spoke to me about how sweet her death would be. Sure, it would have to be a quick kill, but sometimes a blitz attack left adrenaline coursing through my veins for hours.

I watched her cup each time she drank from it, and got up for some boardwalk fries around the time she had just a few mouthfuls left. I payed the $87 dollars or whatever ridiculous amount they charged, and took my time at the condiment stand.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her as the black and purple streaks of her hair moved forward in line, her bright tattoo sleeve doing nothing to take away from the glow she so strongly emitted. As she walked away with her beer, I turned with the cup of fries raised just high enough to collide with her hand, and beer cascaded all across her chest. I flashed a look of surprise, and quickly changed it to an apologetic one and waited. This was the moment that either spared her life or ended it.

I told her I was sorry, and when she said “no, its my fault”, I almost smiled. Why was it so easy to find them? The ones with “victim” stamped so visibly on their foreheads? I am sure there is some psychobabble to explain it. Whatever.

I bought her another beer, and made a comment on getting her out of her wet clothes. She was caught off guard, but only for a second. She looked in my eyes and then laughed, immediately reassured that she was safe. I have been told I have kind, soft eyes. I take their word for it, but I wouldn’t know. The only thing I see when I look in the mirror is the same emptiness I feel all the time. Unless I am killing.

Getting her to step into the deserted corridor took longer than I anticipated, but watching her blood cascade across her chest, just like the beer did, made it all worthwhile. Her eyes were sad for a moment, and I loved it. She was so trusting, so caught up in the thrill of a brief encounter with a stranger that she didn’t bother to take her personal safety into consideration. The adrenaline stayed with me like I had hoped, and so did the glow I first noticed when she sat down. It was all over my hands, even after washing off the bit of red she left behind.

My fries were cold by the time I made it to a new seat, but the taste of beer on the first few kept me in my “happy place” long enough to finish them, and the game. I barely even thought about the $87 bucks for a cup of fries.

*By the way, I am not in Philly anymore. I have moved again since then, so anyone with the P.P.D. can get some rest. I am done butchering your flock. See you again some time.

Oh, and stop boo-ing Jimmy Rollins. He IS the reigning MVP, after all