I feel no fear.
The front door is ajar, calling to me, inviting me in as if it knew I would come. I push it gently, just enough so it opens without a creak. The air is different, thick, charged with something I cannot name. I walk down the hall, my bare feet making barely a sound, yet every movement feels important, measured, precise. There is no alarm, no urgency, only a strange calm that washes over my body, making every heartbeat feel… different.
I head up the stairs without looking back. The voices, the footsteps, the sounds of the house reach me like distant echoes. No one sees me, no one notices me, but I watch them. Every movement is predictable, every gesture repeated, every breath known. I walk down the upper landing, pausing in front of half-open doors, watching shadows move inside. I feel no fear. Only an intense, almost voracious curiosity about what is to happen next.
A woman is in the kitchen. With her back to me. She doesn't know I'm here. Her hands move naturally over the utensils, routine after routine. I watch her, step by step, unhurried. The calm within me does not break; there is no nervousness. Only attention. She turns upon hearing something, and I stare at her. I don't startle, there is no surprise, only detailed observation, as if I were trying to memorize her forever.
—Who are you?—she asks in a firm voice.
—You shouldn't be here—I add, smiling.
The sound of noise upstairs shatters everything. More people. The woman steps back. I remain calm. Every movement feels right. Every breath controlled. The tension in the air is mine, but it doesn't affect me. There is no fear, only awareness.
Suddenly, without being able to stop it, I grab the knife the woman was using. She looked at me, horrified. Poor woman, what debt was she paying? Without giving it much thought, a voracious and savage instinct made me plunge the knife right into the center of her chest. As you can imagine, the screams didn't take long to reach my ears. The shrill sound of the woman’s cries for help made me rethink why I am here.
She kept screaming like a madwoman while I stood there still, watching her with genuine amusement. My eyes traveled to the wound in her chest; there was a brutal amount of blood staining the floor and the woman's pretty apron. I was filled with pure delight to see the red liquid flow from her body, and I felt enormous pleasure in the depths of my being. Seeing me static in my trance, the woman ran toward the living room and began dialing the house landline.
—Wrong choice, Mrs. Anabelle.
—What?—she said, stunned.
It was clear the lady with the long black hair hadn't a clue what was happening. Upon turning and trying to escape again, she went into a spasm noticing the body that had stained the sofa a precious red: her husband. Without thinking or dwelling on my impulse, I plunged the already bloody knife into her again, this time between her eyes. I could almost feel her soul leaving her body.
Regarding the body on the sofa, I don't remember when I killed him, nor how, but this wouldn't be the first time I don't remember doing something. I walk to the kitchen, leave the bloody knife in the sink, and walk upstairs.
—That's two. Two more to go—I said to myself, though, who am I?
I have no time for that now.
I enter one of the bedrooms, beautiful, by the way. It is filled with books everywhere, and resting on the bed is a teenager; she couldn't be more than 15. A long head of hazel hair covers part of her face, yet I know that, without a doubt, this girl could be the next Miss Universe, were it not for me.
I grab the pillow resting by her head and place it over the girl's face. She doesn't take long to struggle, in vain.
In less than 5 minutes, she is dead.
I leave the room, closing the door behind me. This is becoming veeeery boring.
I stop in front of the door of my next and final victim. I knock three times loudly. An elderly man with skin burned all over his body opens the door. He has deep blue eyes; I'm sure this man gives wonderful advice. Surely he is very wise.
—Are you an angel? Am I finally going to leave this cruel world behind to fly into the arms of the Lord?—he said hopefully, with bright eyes.
—I'm more a disciple of Satan, and the only place you'll fly to is the cemetery—I grab the blade attached to the holster on my thigh and slit his throat in the blink of an eye—If they find you.
Suddenly, the headlights of a car reflected light through the window.
Shit, he’s here…
I wander the halls of the house as if I didn't know where to go. I don't stop to think where my bare feet are heading. Nothing adds up; he shouldn't have arrived so soon. Barely an hour has passed since I arrived here. Well, at least he will clean up my work.
Time loses its meaning. I go downstairs, look into rooms, observing every detail: a jacket thrown aside, a glass on the table, an open book. Everything is in its place, and nothing is out of place, except for the corpses. Everything seems prepared for him. As if he knew I would come.
Quickly, I step onto the kitchen counter and jump out through the window behind the sink. I walk pressed against the wall and peer out to watch him just as he reaches the porch.
His eyes, those damned uneven eyes, one like the precious aquamarine of the sea in summer, and the other like a forest in the middle of a storm. His red hair contrasts greatly with his white skin. His muscular, perfectly proportioned athlete's body, and then there are the tattoos—those blessed tattoos. I have memorized them like a child memorizing the map of a treasure they invented themselves.
He pulls the keys from his pocket and opens the door, merging with the darkness inside the gloomy house. It is my time. As soon as the door closes behind him, I run.
—Adhara, wake up—