Black Gloves

Prologue

When I cast my mind back I always remember the weather. Cold, unseasonably so. And the sky, I always remember the forlorn, dark sky. Dark because it was midnight. Forlorn because of the lack of stars dotted along its blank canvas. And I remember the old lady, who watched me draw my leather jacket tighter around myself. Watched me blow a breathful of air above my head as I thought. I recall the way she called out to me uncertainly,

"Are you alright, dear?"

Alright? Depends on what you consider to be alright. In all manners of health, breathing, organs intact, yes, I'm alright. But mentally, emotionally, no. I have never been further from 'alright'.

"Dear?"

I realised she had been waiting for an answer, her kind eyes peering at me with concern. Her kind, naive eyes. I'm sure she wouldn't be so concerned if I looked like a druggie, or had a couple of tattoos and a piercing. I'm sure she wouldn't be looking at me at all if she had known what I was. What I still am. What I'll always be. I spoke to her.

"You might want to go home, Mam. You never know who may be roaming around at this hour."

I chuckled in spite of myself, causing her face to transition from concern, to puzzlement, before settling on fear. I watched her scurry away from me, slow enough to exult normality, but fast enough to cover enough distance from her and the strange stranger. I continued my journey, my military boots paving my way, my mind unusually clear. I remember being startled by a sudden bark from a distant house, prompting me to walk faster. The quicker I walked, the quicker I would get there. She didn't live far from here. Sure enough, five minutes later I arrived on the lane. A lane spotted with red-bricked houses and immaculate lawns. The white picket fences, the blooming rose bushes.. It was all so perfect. So pure.

I was never a believer of perfection and purity. They didn't exist. Humans try and manufacture it but it's not real. Nothing is without its flaws, and I'll be damned if there is such a thing that is not tainted in the slightest way.

They believe she is perfect, I remember thinking, as I drew closer to her door. And she will be remembered so, a remembrance she does not deserve. I looked around, the street was deserted. I pushed open the unlocked door. You see that's the thing about this street, everybody is too trusting. I stepped into the cool hallway, closing the door quietly behind me. Somehow, it seemed darker in here than it had outside. I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge: I was rather thirsty. There was not a wide selection, but it would suffice. Wine? Dramatic, yes. But alcohol makes you clumsy. I saw a slither of red and pushed a plate of green jelly aside to reveal a carton of cranberry juice. It seemed I was in luck. I had crudely drunk from the carton, walking around aimlessly until a portrait had caught my eye. It was her, with her mother and father, their arms draped lovingly around her shoulders. Her blue eyes gazed at me in earnest. I smiled back, before turning for the stairs, leaving the juice on the bottom step. I climbed the staircase ghostlike, it was so dark I could barely make out my fingers upon the bannister. I turned once and entered her room, where she had so peacefully slept. I sat down in her rocking chair. She didn't even stir. But then again;

I always was a silent killer.

I surveyed the sleeping beauty before me, much like how a predator would survey it's prey. Her blonde hair spread gracefully on her pillow, her chest falling lightly within her white satin nightdress, her porcelain face blissful. A wave of anger had coursed through me, I wanted her to wake up. To see me. To know.

My eyes darted to the white bed, to her. My anger boiled, it raced through my veins and chased my thoughts, burning them black with hatred. I moved closer, stood at her bedside. I raised a hand and suddenly her eyes flew open, clutching frantically at the vice-like fingers that were now squeezing the breath out of her, draining her of life. Her wild blue eyes had found me, and fearfully filled with tears, her desperate chokes filling the room. She rocked in spasms, her eyes never once leaving my own. I leaned closer and whispered,

"It didn't have to end like this"

To this day, I'm not sure if she heard me. And I stood and watched her eyes dull as life left her, until she stared at me, empty and unseeing, with a single tear running down her cheek.

I collected the juice carton on my way out, drinking hungrily to fill the emptiness in my heart, before tossing it in a nearby bin. I walked on once more, not once turning back to gaze upon the red bricked, white picket fenced house that now contained the body of my best friend.