Blood

The woman's blood stains his hands, while the man's flows to his feet without stopping, forming a scarlet stain that shines under the reflection of the moon.

Killing the man was easier, but less fun.

A man who finds himself in the situation of the one lying at his feet acts very stupidly, without calculating, without using reason, but not even following his own instincts. An ordinary man acts by performing stupid actions to defend himself, but only gets a quicker death.

And so it was. First the man and then the woman.

Now they both lie at his feet, lifeless. A life he had taken without any hesitation.

He turns the murder weapon over in his hands: a long, sharp knife. That is his favorite weapon. He doesn't like firearms, they offer too quick of a death; sidearms, on the other hand.....

He approaches the bodies and he places them lying next to each other with their hands clasped on the chest and their eyes wide open looking up, in a last desperate cry for help.

Still with the knife in hand, he bows his head, brings his right hand on the heart and begins to recite some prayers.

Four prayers for the man and four for the woman. Because four is his favorite number, as well as the number of perfection: four are the sides and angles of the square, four are the limbs of the body, four are the elements and four are the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Once he has finished, he makes the sign of the cross and leaves, as silently as he had entered, leaving through the front door.

He then walks through the deserted streets, the only light is that of the moon.

When he arrives at his apartment, he enters the bedroom and without even putting the knife down, he takes off first his jacket, then his shirt.

His arms are marked by many small signs, which at first glance appear to be tattoos. But they are not tattoos, they are not drawings and above all they are not made with ink: they are engraved in his skin.

Slowly he walks towards a corner of the room, near the window. The light entering from this, reveals a large crucifix resting on a small piece of furniture, something similar to an altar. Onche he is under the crucifix, he drops to his knees and begins to speak to it.

He has sinned, he had killed. Yet he doesn't feel guilty, he doesn't feel regret and he would do it again without thinking twice.

Killing is bad and murderers have one of the worst circles in Hell. God punishes those who commit these heinous sins, but he does not feel punished at all. In all these years God has never punished him and so, he had he had to remedy for it himself.

Gripping the bloody knife even tighter, he brings it closer to his arm and begins to cut into his skin. Yes, he must do it with the weapon still stained with the blood of his prey, ensuring that their blood mixes with his and vice versa.

He Continues to engrave and soon a new sign will be added to those he already has...... soon a new Angelic Symbol will join the others.

He killed. To kill is bad, he knows that, yet he cannot stop.

The rush of adrenaline that flows through his blood as he takes someone's life is something priceless and in order to experience it, he is willing to continue his trail of blood.

Having completed the symbol, he gets up, goes to a desk, opens a drawer and takes out a diary with a black cover.

He opens it and the pages inside are stained with blood. He doesn't know if it is his or his victims'. It's probably of both of them.

He searches for a blank page and when he finds one, he takes a black pen and in small, crooked characters, writes down the name of his victims. Because this is the purpose of the diary, to contain the names of those he kills. For him, in fact, the best moment of a killing is not the killing itself, but its memory, reliving it as many times as he wants, whenever he wants.

But there is one that he prefers above all. One, which he considers as the work of art that consecrates an artist among the greats. The one that fills him with adrenaline most of all. The one on in the image of which all the others occur.

The killing of his wife.

Every now and then he dreams of her at night and, getting up with a start, starts laughing. A laugh that comes from the perverse joy of that memory.

Now, however, he doesn't have time, the night is still young.

He cleans the knife and opens the cupboard. He takes out a clean shirt and a suitcase. Having put on his shirt, he takes the knife, opens the suitcase, and places it inside.

All the used weapons, but also the new ones, are kept in this suitcase of horros. He then chooses one of the newest knife he has.

He takes it, puts the suitcase back, and walks out slowly. He doesn't yet know who will be the lucky one, but he doesn't care, he doesn't some strict rule to chose a victim, or a kind of person he prefers.

One person is just like any other to him.

And so he goes, walking through the streets, lighted only by the moon.