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The waves crashed upon the cliffs, releasing a salty mist into the air. A figure stood atop the crag, observing the waves with grim detachment. Certainly, they were not at the forefront of his thoughts. The brutal act he had committed prior to coming here was, and would be for days to come, the focus of all his mental energy. He would languish over it in every detail, like a novelist writing his masterpiece. Except this masterpiece had been written in blood, and sealed in time, so that no author save God himself could remove any imperfection.

If murder had a rubric, a measure of excellence, this particular murder could be considered a work as great as the Mona Lisa, or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Every moment, from slipping silently into his victimís dwelling to her final sound, the blood curdling scream falling into a deathly whimper, all had been the purest examples of perfection. He had even disposed of her body in a way so ingenious; all the great forensic minds in the world put together could not have devised it, nor could they discover it. Truly, it was a murder to be proud of, if anyone could be proud of murder. And just a fortnight ago, the killer would have been overjoyed to have committed the apex of his craft. But on this particular occasion, his joy had been extinguished by a feeling he had never felt his entire life: guilt. It was guilt that had paled his skin, guilt that had put the darkness around his eyes, guilt that had brought him here, where land met sea. And it was guilt that inched him ever closer to the edge.

He cast his eyes downward, into the sea, into the abyss to which he had sent so many souls. It beckoned him like an old friend, like a long unseen lover.

He closed his eyes, took a step, disappeared.

Nuevo Ishmeal Gallus (CG)

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The following comments are for "The Killer"
by Gallus

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