What Must Be Done

Part 1 - Prey

Rick cleaned the blood from his machete with Sharon's summer dress. The blood blended into the crimson fabric, and her tears had left heavy track marks of mascara down her face. She made for an attractive corpse but not the prettiest of that night. Her mouth was open, showing her crooked, yellowed teeth. She was otherwise an artistic beauty, her face was unmarked, and her eyes glistened as they stared at the stars.

"Little black widow," Rick cooed as he pressed his foot down on a lonesome spider crawling out of the gap in the decking.

Rick clipped Dogma, his machete, back onto his hip, the blood of three women soaking into the steel. This hunt had been different; he'd revelled in the kills more than he'd ever done before. His hands itched to plunge the knife in again, and he longed for the rush of seeing the fear in their eyes. He looked down at Sharon, licking his lips. Just one more. One more, and he'd be happy; he could almost feel it, on the brink of true wholeness and salvation.

From the patio, he could see into the next door's house, its back garden connected to Sharon's by a small worn gate, but the spiralling triquetra embossed into it was well preserved. There was only one light on in the house opposite. His chest fluttered, and his mouth became dry as he giggled to himself. One last hunt.

He kicked Sharon's body down the wooden stairs. Her head gave a satisfying crack as it smacked against every step. She landed, exposed as the dress slipped away, and the full extent of his games was on display, the track marks of his blade etched into thigh and stomach. It was messy business, but it must be done. After all, it was his duty, yet the reason didn't quite fit, as if he only loaned the concept of hero, fancy dress to gussy up his macabre masquerade.

His mind teetered between guilt and satisfaction until his gaze fell upon the pentagram around Sharon's neck. The sermons he'd taught them were not just an offer of deliverance for his prey but were also made to remind him of the dangers, the propaganda of empathy. These women all had a choice, and they all chose wrong. Even as he stepped over her body, his heart and stomach conspired to undo his devotion to the cause.

He made his way to the little worn gate; the garden on the other side didn't look like much. There was a vegetable patch to his right. Carrots, tomatoes and giant round cabbages were growing in perfect lines, outlined by an immaculate herb garden. Strange purple flowers grew in replace of weeds in the gaps. There was a single apple tree in the left corner, the ground beneath littered with now rotting apples. He tested the gate giving it a slow push. It didn't make a sound. Perfect.

Rick snagged a handful of tomatoes, smirking and stalked down the side of the garden, tiptoeing over the broken branches and piles of crisp autumn leaves. He stooped under overhanging thorns, prowling in the shadows. He dropped underneath the kitchen window, pressing his back against the brick and listened for movement inside. With a clatter of china and the spark of the hob, someone was in the kitchen.

Rick stole a look. A red-haired woman was making a cup of tea, and judging by the name emblazoned on the side of the mug, the woman's name was Leanne. Boring.

Leanne walked with arrogance, her chin raised, her round hips swaying. Like Sharon, the woman was still dressed in her finery of the day, a clinging work dress and perfect makeup. Rick knew the type. The corporate hussy, flashing her tits, bending over and getting men riled up. Then she'd drop a sexual harassment complaint and find herself a promotion. She was the kind of woman who had her own money, didn't need a man, and made sure they knew it.

Rick furrowed his brow, surprised by his own vitriol that bogged down his mind; he'd never felt so riled up during a hunt before. Even still, his hands curled around Dogma's leather handle as he watched her potter about the kitchen, cutting vegetables and wrapping a chunk of meat in foil to rest. She just oozed self-importance. The way she straightened everything into perfect order, the way she flicked her maroon hair over her shoulder, the way she checked herself out in every reflective surface. He wanted her blood on him, wanted her to admit she was weak and vulnerable before he sent her to hell.