The Inevitable Knife

I only kill when I feel I need to, never out of rage or for a measureable gain, and only on the rarest occasion. I get this craving like I just really need a good cry. It wells up in my gut like a strong emotion, and gnaws at the base of my skull like the fuzzy warnings of an oncoming migraine.

Until I kill, the sickness grows. These days, I try not to resist. When I'm sure it's the sickness coming over me, I simply ride out the rest of my work day then drive home.

When I get home I slide through my evening responsibilities in a blur of dinner and kissing my wife and watching television and cleaning the dishes and brushing my teeth and listening to my wife as she talks about her day and we lie down in bed together and turn out the lights. Then, I lie on my bed in silence, eyes wide open, listening to the house settle in the darkness.

I wait for her breathing to become slow and predictable.

I wait for the traffic outside to become slow and sparse.

When my house is asleep and my neighborhood quiet, I rise from our bed and get dressed. Usually, I get my favorite filet knife from our kitchen drawer and, making sure the sheath is closed safely, I tuck it in an inside coat pocket.

I really love my sedan.

The grey, dimly lit interior is quiet and clean; a contrast to our noisy suburban lives. In the darkness still hours away from sunrise, traffic is light. Early on I learned not to plan where I was going. I learned to let my mind wander while I drive through hill after hill of identical houses. After driving many miles through the night I find a place to park out of sight and take foot.

At this point in the hunt the sickness feels like a wave of depression. I can only just manage to think clearly enough to find a victim.

It's usually an early bird and a jogger. He or she wears a hoodie and has earbuds deep in their canals. They never hear the knife. My attack is swift and deep, a bright flash from ear to ear. They gurgle and the hot blood spills over my hands as I lower them to the sidewalk. The sickness subsides in a rush that feels exactly like the runner's high I used to get in high school. I disappear into the suburbs just as the horizon begins to gray.

Moments before dawn I lie down next to my wife. The relief and the crash from the adrenaline flood in as I turn to cuddle under our silky sheets.

For the following weeks everything is pretty normal. With the sickness gone, I go about my days with a sense of euphoria. I see the bodies on the news, followed by a smiley family photo, then weepy interviews. I don't feel bad. I only kill when I feel I need to, never out of rage or for a measureable gain, and only on the rarest occasion.

End.