Boston's Man-Eater

I

I don't wish to dramatize anything, to say what is beyond my means—but my life is on the line. I am afraid.

I'd like to think of a time when my life wasn't either mediocre or unsavory—had fate already known that I was undeserving of anything more?

How ungrateful it must have thought I was.

It was then that I envisioned a glimpse of bliss—a time when I thought that I was untouchable, blessed, special.

Regardless of the undeniable fear that clutches at my heart, I smile as my eyes peer through the forest ceiling.

I see the sky, paling with fright as it realizes that it's the only witness to the gruesome scenery.

Of all of the times that I'd seen pools of welling blood from a vast throng of bodies, I had not thought that I would also be a part of the fallen—the thirteenth.

I cursed at my insatiable thirst for knowledge, for it is the reason behind the price I'm going to pay.

They have already sunken a hole into the ground, one to serve as my grave.

How indignifying, I thought.

But could it really be worse than the gasoline fumes? They leave a bitter taste in my throat, radiating like fatal wavelets around my quivering body.

I was undeniably cold, but it was the thought of death that left me shaking.

Her stare was so intrusive—eyes mysterious, yet beautiful.

Her voice was a sound that I had never heard before, and I remember noticing how delicate her hands were.

I wonder why she'd want to drench those very same fingers with my blood.

She was as promiscuous as they said.

I'm going to die.

And I remember the beginning of it.

***

The city was sick from the high fever of anticipation, and it was inadvisable to shield our ears from the murders that flew in.

My cellphone rang, and I immediately knew who had been pursuing me at such ungodly hours.

I was jaded from the never-ending circuit of late nights, having to scramble about with red eyes for all the information that was put out at each new crime scene.

Not bothering to open my fringed lids to check the caller ID, I lazily pressed the answer button, waiting for him to speak first.

"Kyle, are you there?" He questioned, a hard edge in his voice.

"Yes, hello Sir."

"I hope you finished the article. I want to review it first thing in the morning."

My eyes snapped open, the cold clarity threatening a shudder to run through me.

"I did," I lied.

"Good, you know how your father would feel if he found out that you're slacking on the job—again."

Right, it was often that I'd ask myself why I chose to be a journalist out of all the professions the world had to offer. The answer always led up to one man. Dad.

"It'll be fun!" He'd say—Why not. I thought.

But then, there was not enough paper and ink in the world to write the reasons why I'd rather not, and that included the Editor-in-Chief of Boston Independent who found it imperative to constantly breathe down my neck.