Time
by Jason Hester

            Raindrops from the huge blackened sky fall relentlessly, soaking James’ denim trench coat.   The weight of it slows him as he walks through the night, searching for another victim.  Kevin, his last, was not quite satisfying enough for him.  Kevin’s blood, still warm and spattered all over James’ person, brings fear to the eyes and faces of the few late night stragglers he passes.  Little do they know how lucky they are that he is, in fact, passing, prolonging his search until he finds the one person from whom he can attain satisfaction.

              One unlucky woman fails to remove her gaze at him before he notices.   James looks directly at her, almost ‘into’ her, before he lurches forward.  His bared teeth sink into the flesh of her neck.  She shrieks.  The high pitch sound does nothing but infuriate James even more.  He tightens his jaw muscles and jerks his head back at the same, lightning fast motion.   He then spits the hunk of the unfortunate woman’s neck out, pulls the lady’s head back, and sinks his teeth, yet again, into her neck.  Her weakened state causes her to fall onto her back.   James spits out another hunk of flesh and begins beating her.  His closed fists, over and over again, shiny with blood and rain, pound her face.  Within seconds she screams no more.

              “Now that she ain’t gonna scream no more, let’s have some fun,” he thinks to himself.  He kneels down beside her bloody carcass, reaches into his jacket pocket and finds the small plastic box that he had acquired during his tedious days of medical school, which contained a single scalpel.  He carefully removes the tool and unfurls the ladies ring finger.  James the places the blade on the skin and begins performing a sawing fashion on it.  To begin with, there is a lot of blood, which should be expected; it being the finger through which the digital artery passes.  Once he gets to the bone he has to lean over the body and push quite severely in order to cut through but once this is accomplished, the rest is pretty easy going.  When he finishes, he puts the separated digit into his jacket pocket, leaving the tool for the police or whomever stumbles upon it first to deal with.   The surge of adrenaline pulsing through his body feels good.   He likes it, but it’s not enough.   He wants…needs more, so he rises from the corpse of the woman and continues his search

              The rain continues to pour down on him, yet he does not quicken his pace.  He knows what he wants and he walks, unhindered, toward his goal.  Not knowing exactly where it may be, he moves his head from side to side as he searches the streets lit only by dim streetlights.

          His long, wet hair falls over his eyes.  He raises one huge hand and brushes it to the so that he can see more clearly.  As he returns his hand to his side he feels a tap on his shoulder.  “What,” he utters almost silently and quickly turns to see what stupidly brave individual dares interrupt his search.

            Though the rain and faint lights lessen his keen sight, he can still make out the silhouette of a large man, a man larger than he.  James says nothing, he only looks at the strange man.  Finally, after a long pause, the man speaks, “I saw what you did to the lady back there and I think that was pretty fucked up.  Who do you think you are messing with people like that?”

          “This mere human thinks he can question one such as I,” he thinks as he pushes the man back.  No distance is acquired between them for as James pushes he also moves forward.  The man instinctively reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a large knife, thrusting it toward James’ stomach.  James easily repels the thrust with his forearm and smiles.  “This could be fun.  Finally, an opponent,” he thinks.

          The man tries again to stab James but his actions are turned against him as James grabs the blade and rips it from the man’s grip.  It cuts deeply into James’ hand causing him to squint in pain.  He does not mind the pain though, he likes it.  He feels that it strengthens the challenge and therefore may prolong the sport.  He then tosses the knife into the air and catches it by the handle when it falls.  Its descent is not slowed, only quickened and then turned toward its previous owner. The large man jumps back seconds before the blade touches him.  “It’s on now,” the man screams hoping to summon some strange power that will strengthen him against this strange adversary.  He rears a clinched fist and unleashes the force of its thrust while at the same time James prepares his fist for the next punch.  The fist slams James directly on his mouth. His head rockets backward. The man’s second punch heads toward James’ vulnerable throat. Mere seconds before it contacts, James thrusts the knife into the huge man’s chest.

 The blade forces its way between his ribs and into a lung.  Although the wide handle of the knife forbids it to go any deeper, James continues to push.  The man’s punch at James’ throat seems to die.   It makes contact but it lacks the will and vigor it had before the knife slid to its target.  The weakened punch does not affect James.  He continues trying to push the knife beyond its limit.  The man falls, grabbing his chest and screaming in pain.  “What ‘cha gonna do now, punk,” James screams, now only inches above the man’s face.  Bits of saliva spurt from his mouth and onto the man’s face as James screams at him.  The man summons all the strength he can and, though he is on his back, throws a hellacious punch, which connects with James’ face.  It knocks him off of his feet and onto the wet cement.

             Feeling that the odds are now in his favor, the man jumps up and straddles James’ body.  He begins hitting him, over and over again, with all the power he can muster until James’ face is as bloody as the woman James had previously beaten.  James lifts his arms trying to block the myriad of punches, but it does no good.   They just keep coming, the next with more force than the last.

          James, on his back with no use of his arms, lifts his leg and knees the man in the spine, causing him to wince in pain and fall to his side.  James then reaches for the knife, which he tried to pull from the man’s chest but fell from his grasp as he was knocked down.  His bloody fingers find the sharp metal.  He clutches it tightly and swings at his opponent.  The blade again enters its owner’s body, causing him to cry out in pain.  James quickly seizes his chance and jumps atop of the man. He then, with his free hand, grips his victim’s throat, raises the knife far and high behind him and plunges it into his skull directly between the eyes.  James can feel the vibration in the knife’s handle as it crushes through the bone.  The man’s arms, which were reaching for James’ throat, now fall lifelessly to the ground.

 James strains to pull the knife from the man’s head.  It makes an eerie noise as it exits.  The loose skin ripples as air rushes in to fill the void.  Next, he puts the sharp edge of the blade against the side of the man’s nose and begins to push it and pull it, back and forth, while applying the smallest amount of pressure.  The side does not take very long and is easy to cut through but the cartilage in the center of the man’s nose is hard and James has to grunt a little to cut through this.  He is still pushing terribly hard as the cartilage ends and the softer skin begins.  The blade quickly slices through the uncut portion and the resulting speed and force sends the nose rolling and flipping onto the sidewalk.

             James returns his attention to the corpse.  He is happy for one moment as he looks down upon yet another unfortunate soul who, at his hands, is no longer part of the world of the living.  James thinks about this and what he did and laughs.  Not a sudden burst of emotion that quickly dies but a long, drawn out, evil laugh.  Finding humor in the man’s demise and knowing that he will not feel what is about to happen to him, James, still holding the knife, slams it down into one of the man’s eyes.  He doesn’t have to aim very much in order to hit the center of the eye because the man’s gaze when he died.  Frozen wide with terror it is an easy target.  A quick shot of blood along with a bit of vitreous and aqueous humor splashes/squirts onto James face.  Bloodied and reeking of bodily fluids, he reaches over and picks up the nose and shoves it into one of his pants pockets.  He then pulls the spherical gland from the blade and puts it into the other.

 James, now filled with immense gratification, rises from his second kill and third trophy of the night and smiles.  The rain mixes with blood and other fluid on his face.  Small pinkish droplets of the solution run down into his mouth.  The sweet dark taste makes him smile even more but his moment of pleasure is quickly terminated by the growing sounds of sirens.

 Though he would love to stay and relish his victory, he knows he must leave for the police would most definitely have something to say.  So he quickly turns and runs into the shadows, where the darkness can better conceal him from their eyes.

 2.

           Entering his apartment building, James walks hurriedly but quietly to his room to avoid being seen and questioned by his neighbors.  He finds his key as quietly as possible and unlocks his door.  He walks in and closes the door behind him; being careful not to let it close by itself because that would make too much noise.  He removes his drenched coat, drops it on the floor and walks to the bathroom.

            On his way he passes a small wooden bookcase.  On a very shinny plate made of copper, the words, in quotations, “The Minute Of Decay”, are inscribed.  The bookcase holds several composition pads and small glass jars.  The bottom shelf, stuffed quite full, is filled with pads that have little rectangular stickers with numbers scribbled on them.  Some of the pages of the pads are wrinkled and sticking out of their covers.  The second, or middle, shelf holds glass jars filled with a thick yellowish substance, probably aged formaldehyde, and small pieces of his victims. The jars are also labeled with the number corresponding with the number on the notebooks.

             In a jar on the left-most side of the shelf, a pair of eyes, somewhat yellowish themselves with age, float damned to hold their hideous stare for eternity.  In the next jar, the contents not quite as old as the one before it, contains the last section of a finger, severed at the joint with some sharp object.   In the third, a tongue hangs in an endlessly paused state of decay; a tongue that bled far too long after being pulled from the mouth of some innocent. 

           There are well over twenty jars on the shelf.  Each one with its own stomach turning item.  Not only do they hold small pieces of his former victims but also a story.  A story of rage and need and fulfillment for James and a story of pain, disgust, and fear to their previous owners.  Below each jar is a notebook filled with the story of its contents.  And above it, on the top shelf are some empty jars and just as many empty composition pads.

           James does not change the speed at which he walks as he passes the bookcase.  He does not even look at it.  He knows it so well that he grabs an empty jar and an empty notebook as he passes.   He enters the bathroom and flicks on the light.  As he passes by the mirror on his left, the flash of his reflection prompts him to look in that direction.   He turns his head and sees the damp blood splattered on his face.  He does not wash it off though.  The thought of his victim’s blood on him gives him a rush.  He feels that he has conquered something.  Kind of like when he was a child and he got away with doing something bad or running a red light and not being caught.

          He turns his eyes to the toilet, puts down the lid, and takes a seat.  He takes the severed nose out of his pocket and drops it into the empty jar.   It hits the bottom and rolls over.  The glass, where it hits, is no longer clear but dirtied with drying blood.

         James becomes excited thinking about the pain he gave to the ‘nosy’ stranger.  He shakes his head, trying to clear these thoughts before getting an erection.  He places the jar on the counter beside him and pulls an ink pen from his back pocket.  He opens the notebook and closes his eyes, trying to remember everything that happened in the most descriptive detail so he can write it to later be added to the others.

        On the top of the first page and on the sticker on the jar, he quickly scribbles the number thirty-one.   The number indicates the number of the lives he has taken.  Ultimately, after sixty of the jars and notebooks have been filled, he will have what he calls his “Minute Of Decay”.  One second, one life, one notebook, and one jar – all on the bookcase.