Warm, crimson liquid spurts onto my face and runs down my neck, a river of rubies, a trail of scarlet sweat. Each droplet on my coat glares and shimmers up at me. Blood enters my mouth, bitterly lush, and the aroma of rusting copper invades my nostrils with a vengeance as I spit blood mixed saliva onto the pavement. She violently convulses beneath me, gurgling, babbling, moaning, gagging on her own life source. I feel like I’m on a bucking horse as she spasms beneath me.
Ripping the petty material of her blouse, I trail my knife teasingly down her torso, eventually resting on her stomach. Where the evil lies. I draw my knife back, take aim, then plunge. Wrenching my knife out, I plunge again. And again. And again. Her eyes roll deep into her skull, as if looking for God. Ha. As if he would help her. More blood spews. The spasms gradually slow, but the crimson rain still pours heavily out of her mouth. Scarlet sweat drips into my eyes, thick like treacle, and her abdomen is covered with a thick, crimson covering. As her eyes eventually start to glass over, the street lamp flickers once, then goes out. The weeping wind turns back into a fine breeze. My duty is done. I can hear the applause from my audience. It’s time to take my bow.
I stand up and step carefully over the burdensome body sprawled across the floor. I walk back down the alley. The weight disintegrates off of my chest and I walk straight, my strides confident. I triumphantly look up at the lady in the sky, but she just stares back. Nevertheless, my face snags up into a gleeful grin.
And in the faint whisper of the nearly non-existent wind, I swear I hear the words “La lune ne garde aucune rancune” murmuring through the numbing November streets.