Western Washington, one of the most depressing places to live in the world. From what I heard growing up Seattle is the suicide capitol of the U.S.. Really that does not surprise me much, have you ever been to you that city? The roads are too small, the traffic too congested, and everyone thinks they are the damn president. That does not even touch on no parking, if you want to stop driving you have to pay eight bucks just to park! That turns your six dollar Starbucks coffee into a thirteen dollar pit stop; oh and you better be a vampire if you live there, there is simply no sun.
Sorry, I so got side tracked; hell I don’t even live there. Nope I am about sixty miles south in a little rural area right near the army base. Fall out here is the best, one of few places where the mist and fog roll in so hard and fast a man would be lucky to see the hand in front of his face. Late at night while when the silence very nearly suffocates you. The only sounds are the light crackle of my cigarette burning and the pop of built up water from the fog and mist falling from one birch leaf to another.
If you are still and quiet you can see the shapes in the fog. Only outlines of transparent people ambling through the fog, but my the outline you can tell who they once were. The dead of the past roam their old hunting grounds and battlefields. It was a lot easier to see the white men in the fog, those old uniforms from the Indian wars just do not blend in with much, then I stated noticing the Indians. Sometimes they will be locked in eternal combat; most of the time they never even notice one another.
Now I don’t know if it was that continual popping transfer of precipitation from leaf to leaf, the stillness of the air, or being among so many dead. But whatever the cause that night it just had to happen; this one was my first, but it would be far from the last.
While watching the past silently amble by a dark and full form moved through the thick moist fog. The gentle crackling of gravel rudely interrupted my musing as he walked the shoulder of the road. I am still not sure what caused me to finally act, but I am so glad it did. I crept behind the lone man walking slowly down the street, What moron walks out in the fog after midnight anyway, I thought as I neared him.
The knife was quieter than I thought it would be as I clicked the blade into place.
At times I look back and wish I would have taken more time; I turned the hilt in my hand so my thumb was covering the butt. Putting my full weight behind the thrust was easy, the dumb bastard did not even have time to scream.
The initial pop of knife entering flesh was identical to the pop of rain transfer from birch leaf to birch leaf; it was so natural. The scrape of blade on bone much akin to the sound of gravel grinding under foot. The blade hit the mark, severing the spinal chord a the base of his skull; there was no scream or defense. I watched as he fell lifeless, the crash of his skull against the black top still helps me sleep at night; the rush and release has no compare. Sex, bungee jumping, playing chicken, none of the hold a candle to the pure power and joy, and release of frustration and stress. In that moment I knew I could never stop, nor could I be caught; time to move his hulk of soon to be rotting flesh.
Hm, what to do now?