He
crouched in the alley behind the dumpster.
His
breathing was fast. His heart racing.
He
was crying.
Quietly.
So they wouldn’t hear.
The
man and the woman had come into the alley and passed where he had been hiding, planning.
In the shadows.
He
listened. The man was saying all sorts of foul things to the woman. About the woman.
She
was silent.
Why, he wondered. Why didn't she fight back?
He
hated the man.
To
treat a woman like that.
Only
evil men did that.
Men
like him.
He
bit his fist.
Like
me.
He
suddenly wanted to rush over to the. To hit the man. To tell the woman to hit the man.
Why didn't she fight back? What was wrong with her?
Then it struck him.
Maybe she knew she deserved it.
Then the anger.
That evil man and that vile woman both deserved it.
He had never taken two at the same times. And no man since the war.
Why not now?
Two
for one.
Yes.
No.
And
suddenly the man slapped the woman.
He
snarled something, and then hurried out of the alley,
looking carefully, as if he did not want to be seen.
I
saw you, he said.
The
woman remained in the shadows, crying, trying to stop crying, stifling sobs. She sniffed. She took a handkerchief out of her purse and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
She
then took out a cigarette, lit it, took a long drag, and blew out smoke that rose into the glow from the streetlight.
You did deserve it, whore.
Filthy whore.
The
words burned white and hot in his mind.
She
took another drag, exhaled, then cast the cigarette away.
She
started back out of the alley.
He
stepped out as she passed him.
She
turned at the sound.
“Who
…?”
Before
she could say anything more, he clamped his hand over her mouth and got behind
her.
She
bit. Startled, he almost released her.
But
the rage took over. He kneed her in the lower back. As she started falling
backwards, she reached backwards with her hands, flailing wildly.
One
of the hands caught his cheek and she savagely scratched him.
He
plunged the knife into her side.
She
jerked, twisted, but he held tight, and stabbed again. And a again. And …
He
lost count. He kept stabbing until she no longer moved.
His
arm was wet with blood.
He
released her, felt his cheek.
It
burned.
He
dragged her body further back into the alley, set her on her back and got out the cleaver.
One
chop.
Then
arranged her hands.
There
might be traces of him under the nails.
Two
chops.
He
placed the hands in a bag.
Then
he held up the head into the light from the street.
There
was a scar on the left cheek, running from below the eye to the chin.
He
swore.
Not
for his collection.
Worthy
only of the refuse pile.
With
the other imperfect trophies.
Pax et bonum
