It was dark, but the body was there. The blood on my hands was sticky. I rubbed it on my face, and then wanted more. I reached inside to get it, and

“Hello,” a woman said.

“Wait! Let me finish!” I said, still writing.

and touched the intestines, live, then the heart, the cause of all the trouble, and I squeezed it. Hard. It was slippery, like a frog out of water.

“Okay,” I said. “I needed to finish the thought.”

“So you’re a writer?” the woman asked.

“Not really,” I said, holding out my hand. “My name’s Keith. What’s yours?”

“I’m Anne. If you’re not a writer, what are you doing?”

“Well, I’m writing. But I’m not a writer.”

“Can I read it? I love to read.”

“It’s not finished.”

“Finish it then.”

I tried to object, but Anne wouldn’t go until she read what I was writing. So I decided to finish it.

I could feel blood oozing from it. Satisfied with that, I removed my hands and went to the split open head. Again I reached into the body, this time into the head, feeling what had once controlled an entire body, the most complex three pounds of living tissue known to man. After I felt it, I disposed of the body but didn’t wash my hands.

“You sure you wanna read this?”

“Yes!” Anne said.

Anne read the short piece without any show of emotion. I was surprised, but intrigued.

“What do you think of it?”

“It’s interesting. I can see the deep symbolism.”

“It isn’t fiction,” I said.

“Oh, really? What is it then exactly?” she asked.

“A journal entry.”

“Did this happen recently?”

“Yes. Right in this building behind me. It was fun,” I answered.

“So, you’re psychotic or something?”

“That’s what the doctors say.”

“Can we walk?” Anne asked. “I don’t like sitting in one spot. It makes me nervous.”

“I might kill you. Are you sure?”

“Walking is good, just like reading. Come on.” Anne grabbed my hand, pulling me up and glancing at the blood under my fingernails.

“I always write after I kill someone. That way I never do the same thing twice.”

“My father raped me when I was ten. Ever since I left home, I feel like he’s following me. You’ll protect me won’t you? I’m sure you will.”

“I’ve never raped my victims. I always find it hard to get aroused unless they’re dead, and I don’t know if I want to have sex with a dead body. I killed my dad.”

“My mom always ignored me when I tried to tell her. She even knew he was gonna do it. I hate my mother.”

“My mom’s ashamed of me. She threw me in the loony bin. I got out. I’ve never been able to please my mom. There’s nothing worse than a son who makes his momma cry. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I love looking at the stars and watching them get blotted out by clouds. It’s like me, slowly disappearing piece after piece. I like to read books about people who are always happy. It gives me something to strive for.”

“Have you ever watched a body rot? Day by day? I personally think that if people would watch bacteria do its work, they’d stop burying people intact. They’d burn the bodies instead. Hey, that’s something else I’ve never done. I gotta remember that.”

Anne grabbed my hand and leaned her head on my shoulder. “It’s good to be walking with someone. Every night I walk out here, and every night at least ten men think I’m a whore and make offers to me. Once I went running because the man looked like my dad, and he chased me, thinking I was an expensive, hard-to-get whore. Or so he pretended. To this day, I think that was my father. Don’t let him get me, okay?”

“You know, I just had a thought. I’ve never had sex with a woman. Well, I haven’t had sex with a man either, but I’m a heterosexual. I’m a virgin. Thirty-two year old murderer, and I’m still a virgin. You wouldn’t happen to want to have sex with me, would you? I always gotta try new things.”

“I hate change. There’s so much comfort in routine.” I took that as a no. “When you know what’s gone happen, and the element of surprise is removed, you don’t ever have to worry. Unless you’re haunted by your father, or if you run into someone like you…”

That was my recreational activities, but I found it insulting. “Hey, I don’t kill just anybody. I’m not your average, hack ‘em slash ‘em killer. And you’ve never tried it, so you have no room to speak…”

“Hey, I wasn’t insulting what you do. I was just opening up to you a little. I think you’re interesting. Do you like coffee?”

“No,” I said, gagging at the thought. “My dad used to force the blasted stuff down my throat ‘cause Mom thought it was good for me. Jesus! It was awful.”

“Sorry I asked,” Anne said.

“Wait! I didn’t mean to offend you. I guess I was just opening up to you a bit.”

“Do you know what my favorite animal is? Dragons. They’re so beautiful and powerful. And behind the beauty lies that deadly fire, rumbling in the backs of their throats, waiting for you to make a wrong move…”

“My favorite is a unicorn. They’re plain but beautiful, demanding peaceful respect by their presence. That’s the thing I really like…they are peaceful but have a means of protection should someone provoke them.

Suddenly it began to pour rain. There wasn’t a light shower to warn us, just a sudden downpour. But I liked the rain. I expected Anne to run for cover, but she just kept her head on my shoulder.

1999