In the End

Staffordshire's Bite

It is not his fault, that he killed her. It isn't as if he'd lost his temper. There are some individuals who simply deserve to go, and he had taken the liberty to decide that she was one of those. It was precise, and clean, and he got away with it. That is all that matters, really. It doesn't matter where he'd done it, or what his weapon of choice was, or even his motive. Especially not his motive. After all, his crimes are merely his hobby.

There is no real reason behind his mindless choice of entertainments.

She had just finished a disgustingly rude one-liner about Karen Barclay and her son when she'd come right into his clutches. He couldn't stop himself then. She'd looked so smug from the laughter she'd provoked from the other nurses. He'd wanted to kill them all there, on the very spot, but that would have been too risky, and although his form made it easy for him to not be caught, he was still cautious.

He knows Andy will hear of it soon; the hospital will most likely call his house to let him know of the circumstances. He wonders if Andy will pick up the phone, or let it ring until they are forced to leave the sad news on his voicemail. He tries to imagine what Andy's face will look like, when he hears. Would Andy cry? Would Andy become angry? Would Andy come after him then?

Surely, Andy would know it was him. There is no one else who would do what he'd done, and Andy would know this, considering their recent encounter.

Perhaps they would fight then, and then it would be the right time to have their final showdown.

It would be nice, to snub that in Tiffany's face. More than murder, he did love being right very much. It holds the same rush to him, and he feels it now, imagining himself staring her in the face with Andy's corpse between them, declaring:

"I'm nobody's bitch, bitch."

And Andy's body would be bleeding on the floor, the dark red pooling around him until it reached their feet. He suddenly, so suddenly, compares the scars on dead Andy Barclay to the ones he already bears now, angry and red, on his arms. And suddenly, so suddenly, he feels the illness from when he was trapped with the stone and the bird.

He has not eaten, and while it is usually not a need, it grows within him now. An inconvenience, and surely the cause for the way his stomach turns.

It is no matter, as he wants to stay for a while to watch as the other workers soon discover their fallen co-worker, eyes blown wide from her final moments. The first sees her and kneels at her side immediately, checking her pulse and affirming her dead. He waves the others over, and at once there is a cry for 911, the group a swarm of hysteria and panic. It is clear that she is murdered, as there are multiple stab wounds across her belly.

It is the most satisfying kill he has done in a while. He ranks it at the top, near when he, quite literally, frightened the old bastard Cochran to death. Even now, he cannot help but to grin thinking of it.

His stomach is growling. He cannot wait any longer. As much as he would like to stay and enjoy his victory, he must now attend to less pleasurable things. Such as finding something to eat.

He sighs bitterly and leaves the chaos behind him, unnoticed in the midst of the uproars.

The sunlight is too bright, and the noises of the street too loud. Just across the heavy traffic, he can see several options for where he could sustain himself. He is not completely hidden, just at the corner of the building he had just exited, but everyone around him is too focused on their own needs to look down and notice that he is there. For once, he is grateful for his diminutive stature.

He is grateful for it again as he slips in and out as he pleases, stealing doughnuts from their glass cases, or sneaking various snacking items from countertops or shelves. Rinse and repeat, until he is momentarily satisfied.