The time had come. I could no longer resist the urges deep within me, and tonight was the night.
I slipped out into the inky blackness, guided only by the light of the moon. A Hunter’s moon, perfect for my particular prey.
Thinking of the prey, I allowed myself to think about the joys ahead. The thrust of a tool into its yielding flesh. The gurgles of air escaping as each tiny molecule of surface became saturated by thick liquid.
The car slid to a stop at my destination. I could feel the surge of anticipation. My senses suddenly more acute, and nerves tingling with a torrent of new information, streaming in floods to my attentive brain. A mosquito exhaling became a rush of wind.
I entered the building from the front. No need to draw attention to myself, no one knew the full extent of my plans. Sheep would not notice the wolf dressed in wool.
Quickly, I spotted my quarry, standing in line, facing another row of potential victims. Would-be witnesses were milling near my target,their talk like a cloud of buzzing gnats, a hovering annoyance providing temporary reprieve. I could wait. I am ever so patient. A hunter must be patient. Wait for the right moment. Strike when all was perfect.
Smoothly, I slipped into position, out of sight from the prey. It would never see me. It would never have a chance.
I deftly reached forward with my weapon and culled it from the herd. Not a twitch of awareness fluttered through my prize, nor its fellows. I grabbed, and it tried in vain to slip from my fingers. I could hear its rattling breath of fear. It was under my control now.
No need to wrestle the prey into my car. It had learned it was no longer in charge, and knew it was pointless to attempt to flee.
I drove home, where the table was set for the end of the adventure. All I needed was there. I would savor ever moment, and every morsel.
With a deft slice, the innards poured out into my waiting bowl. I smelled the sweetness, exalted in this simple act, as old as time, life and death. I finished my preparations with the liquid, drowning the remains at last. I watched them struggle for a second, then fall silent, then slip under the drink, sinking slowly to the bottom.
It cannot seem wrong to rejoice in my work, can it? Finding ones bliss was supposed to be a good thing. It would be wrong to oppugn something that feeds my basest desires? Can I help it if I had found my bliss as a cereal killer?
oppugn (OH – pewn ) verb. Middle English. to fight against; to call into question.From the depths of the 15th century this word crept into Middle English. It migrated from Latin "oppugnare," which breaks down into two parts, "ob" which means against and "pugnare" which means "to fight."