AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter1
Hayden
I killed him.
The senator isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. There’s a satisfaction in this, yet it’s fleeting, similar to a flame that’s quickly put out. Dead and gone.
Like my victims.
Justice is a mistress that calls my name and pulls me into her embrace to fuck me. And leave me bereft. Empty. Wanting a closure I’ll never possess.
Rain falls in a light but steady stream, landing on every surface in the cemetery.
The grass.
The gravestones.
The faces of the mourners.
Precipitation collides with tears to stream down the cheeks of those viewing the casket. Sorrow is everywhere, permeating the atmosphere like a dense fog. I let it cover me, envelop me, bring me peace. It’s rare to feel this serenity. The funerals of my victims are one of the few places I experience this, which is why I always attend.
To complete the ritual…
End a life.
Give justice.
Begin again.
I sweep my gaze over the attendees, a sea of black amongst the green backdrop, an ink stain on an emerald field. They congregate, huddling together to provide and receive comfort, some weeping quietly while others sniffle loudly. All of them broken.
Except for one.
The very person who should be shattered stands tall. But not for lack of caring. No, she loves the deceased. Deeply. Each of her breaths is a challenge as if she’s being strangled, and she winces in pain every time her hazel eyes land on the mahogany casket.
Withouta display of tears.
Not yet. But they all do eventually. Another part of the ritual I enjoy.
Although, I still can’t understand why people mourn evil. They should be relieved there’s one less murderous individual in the world. One less man who preys upon innocent women and children. I suspect it’s because they’re not aware of the vile acts their loved ones committed. If they did, they’d express fear, not sadness.
Calista Green is exquisite in her melancholy.
This woman is the perfect example of what a politician’s daughter should look like. Pristine and pressed clothes, flawless makeup, and her long, dark hair curled and piled atop her head in a way that accentuates the beautiful slope of her neck. What really sells the image is the string of pearls she wears, the ones she occasionally runs her fingers over to soothe herself.
As the only living relative, she’s my focus. Not because the woman’s young and attractive, although you’d have to be dead not to notice. Grave humor from me. How rare… and amusing.
Regardless of her beauty, Miss Green is the one I watch with bated breath, my chest rising and falling in time with hers, my body leaning forward whenever she moves. She’s the one I’m connected to at the moment.
There's poetry, a sharp irony in taking the life of the man who’s responsible for the vitality flowing through her veins. Making her heart beat. The subtle flickering of her pulse along her throat snatching my attention again and again.
Most women are delicate, in need of protection. But only in the physical sense. Emotionally, they are more intelligent, more in tune with the feelings that tend to dominate their lives.
The same ones I’ve destroyed within myself.
Specifically, the soft, tender ones: adoration and compassion. Whether that’s caring for another, or even love. Whatever the name, they lead to weakness. Which results in pain and suffering.
And the arrival of darker emotions.
