Picture This

Chapter 3

     "...Sources say that our own beloved Chelsea Smith has made an attempt to commit suicide. Around ten o' clock yesterday evening, she jumped off a local business building. Currently, she is on life support, barely hanging on. Updates will be given when we know what truly happened to the girl who jumped...."

     Black curtains were drawn over the windows, thick and unrelenting, refusing to let the sun shine through. Like a cloudy midnight sky, the room was pitch black. No light penetrated the room.

     Slowly, a hand snaked out, shaking with tremors. Veins pulsated, bulging through the skin. Fingers closing around the remote, the reporter on the TV switched off, the screen nothing but darkness. Just like the room. Just like the room.

     It was quiet. Too quiet. The fingers drummed against the coffee table, the noise penetrating the silence. Like a heartbeat.

     He couldn't help but smile as he lifted his hand, wondering what it would be like to pierce a heart over and over again, to watch as the throbbing organ slowly stilled, coming to a complete halt, ceasing to live.

     Shivers, cold and dark, ran down his spine.

     So Smith wasn't dead. Yet.

     Again, that cold smile.

     Through the thin, paper-like walls, the yipping of a small dog appeared out of nowhere. High pitched, loud, almost like a child's scream.

     No, worse than that.

     He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the sound. Standing, he went over to the kitchen and opened the fridge, pulling out a couple of canned beers. A pop, then a hiss before he began to gulp down the liquid.

     Though far from hot, the substance seemed to burn his throat, each trickle like a prick of a needle.

     He continued to gulp, attempting to drown the sound of the dog's barking forever.

     Now empty, he slammed the aluminum can into the counter, crushing it completely. Not bothering to toss it in the trash, he grabbed the other can and went back to the living room.

     The barking grew louder. Clenching his fists, he wondered what it would be like to stab it through the heart. To watch it writhe in pain. To hear the dying whimpers, to watch in satisfaction as everything grew silent.

     Complete, calm, and still silence.

     The knife was here somewhere. Once he found it, he would kill the stupid creature. Maybe then he would kill the owners too. It was their fault. Their fault for having a pet.

     Just like it was Chelsea's fault.

     Chelsea Smith. A pang went through his heart. The beautiful girl. Probably one of the only truly attractive girls he had ever seen, especially in this lowly town. What a wretched place this was too. His mind began to wander.

     Quietly, almost catlike, he walked up to the window and opened the curtain slightly. It was growing dark already, the beams of sunlight slowly fading away. Soon dark would come. Then the hunt would begin.

     The muscles near his mouth quivered, forming a mixture of a grimace and a smile on his face. He clenched the curtain in his hand, the fabric forming a ball in his palm and squeezed.

     As the sun set, the moon began to appear, big and white. The craters were large, yet so tiny from where he stood. What it would be like to be there, to actually stand on the moon.

     The hair on his neck bristled, standing on end.

     He yanked the curtains back in place, suddenly shaken with shivers. Reaching up, he raked his hand through his hair, combing it with his fingers roughly.

     The dog began to yip again, the sound pathetic to his ears. Why weren't the owners doing anything about it?

     He stalked across the room, each foot in front of the other quieter than the last. Standing in front of him was a little wooden desk. He knelt so he was level with the desk and opened the lower drawer. His elbow bumped against the chair. He knocked it over without batting an eye.

     The drawer creaked slowly open, revealing what was inside. A knife, about medium in length, sat there untouched. With shaking hands he picked it up, turning it over a couple of times in his palms. It was beautiful. Though too dark to take note of the blade, he imagined how it would glint in the light.

     Lightly, he ran his finger along the edge of the blade, taking care to not cut himself. It was dangerously sharp. What he would give to plunge it over and over into the couch, just to see how it shredded the material. What it must be like to have it plunged into your stomach.

     Sudden, sharp pain brought him back to reality. His finger stung, blood forming from a deep cut. He jerked his finger away from the blade, shaking his hand a couple of times before springing to his feet.

     Ignoring the deep ache spreading from his finger and throughout his hand, he went to the door, the knife in his other hand. 

     Quietly he slipped out and entered the dark hallway, standing in front of his neighbor's apartment. With the knife's handle, he busted open the door. The yapping grew silent as he entered the room.

     In catlike movements, he got on all fours and crept into the dimly lit room. No one was in sight. And in a soft voice, he called out,

     "Come out, come out, wherever you are..."