Hey, There, Mr. Bruce.

I would like to state now: I AM NOT MENTALLY UNSTABLE; I have been watching lots of horror films lately, is all.

Hey, there, Mr. Bruce.

I drive down the long road alone. My old, beat-up red pick up making far more noise than I want for it to. It doesn't matter, I think. I'll not be back here. I'll do what I came for and leave. Forever.

I reach the house at the end and park the car. I get out and walk around to the trailer. I get my long black leather coat and put it on. It hides the blade I conceal on my belt. I hope I don't have to use it; it's just in case, I tell myself.

I walk up the long, winding driveway to the house. Her house. She lives here now, in this big house now that she's married. Married. The word still stings. The day I received the invite was the day my heart went dark; the day I died on the inside.

I walk around to the kitchen and look inside. I see him. My best friend. Until a year ago I had considered him a brother. Ha! I chuckled darkly to himself. He was never a friend to me; he was never a brother. He never cared for me. He took the everything that I ever truly cared about and never showed a single shred of remorse towards me. His back is to me. I watch as he pours a glass of wine for both himself and for her.

He leaves the room, turning the light off as he goes and I'm left face to face with a murderer.

Yes, a murderer. Each time, I tell myself it's the last time, but in the past the kill has never been fully satisfying. I hope to feed the hunger tonight; achieve the satisfaction I have been aching for.

I look at myself in the window. Chin length black hair framing my face, contrasting against the pale skin of my face. My blue eyes are hard; there is no emotion to be found.

I follow the grounds of the house until I reach the living room. He walks in, handing her the glass of wine as a Gary Moore record plays. Vinyl; he's always hated CD's. Still Got The Blues plays and she puts down her glass as he pulls her into an embrace. He holds her left hand in his right, his other wrapped around her waist and they sway gently as he sings to her.

How sweet, I think as a white hot rage flares in the pit of my stomach. The hunger burns deep inside me and I feel my heart race in anticipation. I check my watch; midnight. She'll be going to bed soon. Once she finishes her glass of wine, she'll head up to bed as he organises things before following shortly after her.

The bay windows in the front room are open, allowing the curtains to billow out. As I crouch there I can smell her on them; her perfume, her natural scent. I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

I'm right. Not even ten minutes later, as she finishes her glass of wine, she heads upstairs saying, “I'm going to call it a night.”

“Okay baby,” he replies. “I'll be up in a moment.” he kisses her and she leaves the room. Ugh; their sugar sweetness is about to rot my teeth, I think. He picks up random glasses and tea mugs left around the room from previously in the day. When he exits, he neglects to close the window and I see my opportunity. I climb in and follow him back to the kitchen.

I walk up behind him as he's washing up their glasses. I don't make a single sound. He sees me as my reflection appears in the window before him. His eyes widen and he freezes where he stands.

“Hey, there, Mr. Bruce.” I growl. He turns around as I slowly, carefully, raise my leather-gloved hand to his throat.

“Danny.” he whispers as my hand makes contact with his neck. My fingers trace the patterns of the tattoos there and along his collarbone. “W-wh-what are you do-doing here?” I see the fear in his eyes and a smile spreads across his face. I feel his Adams apple bob beneath my hand.