The blood is still fresh on my knife. I don't like cleaning it immediately after an assignment. I like the ancient, acrid smell of blood. It gives me peace. I am never truly home until I see it's dark red splendor coating the cold sharpness of my weapon. The sweat is still fresh on the back of my neck. I realize I'm panting now. I've been running for what seems like hours. I'm burning up despite the snow on the ground. My ears still resonate with the barking of vicious dogs. They were the first to go. I led them to a secluded mountain path, gutting them without mercy.
The purity of fresh-fallen snow, considered sacrosanct by some, is only made more beautiful by the brilliant drops of scarlet blood. Dog blood is dirty, though. It stinks; I need the strength, the passion, the tranquility that only human blood can bestow. So, I do what I must. And I enjoy my job, which, I hear, is a rare thing these days.
Most days I stay to take pride in my work, relishing every moment. But today I ran. I ran so fast I couldn't tell whether JeanLuc had stayed behind. Today I saw him again, though I was sure our paths would never cross again. JeanLuc had no idea who he was. I'm sure JeanLuc will be fine; he doesn't know him, after all. But he sure as hell remembered me. The latent fire behind his gaze told me everything. So I ran, leaving JeanLuc behind.
The sweat has gone cold on my back. Shakes overtake me. I am no longer running. Tonight, at Little Evening Out, I'll ask JeanLuc what my father said after seeing me for the first time in eight years. That is, if JeanLuc is still alive.
I stop at a nearby alley to clean my knife. The hoboes don't approach me. I know they can see it in my eyes: they know as well as I that I'd sooner kill them than talk to them. In the distance I can just make out JeanLuc's car, screeching to a halt behind his father's restaurant: Little Evening Out. He walks out, walks in, walks out again, as if nothing had happened. He's gotten another assignment.
My cell phone vibrates. It's JeanLuc's dad, Emille, wondering where I've been. One of the other waiters is sick, can I take his shift? What do you say to a man who pretty much holds your life in his hands? I will make it there as soon as I can. I can hear him him smiling. He has another assignment too, JeanLuc should explain when he gets back.
The smells of cheesecakes and flans being prepared, the braised rabbit almost cooked to perfection, and my favorite rustic desert: a cherry clafoutis are overpowered by an aroma that my nostrils know is soon to come. The enticing, metallic aroma of blood.
The purity of fresh-fallen snow, considered sacrosanct by some, is only made more beautiful by the brilliant drops of scarlet blood. Dog blood is dirty, though. It stinks; I need the strength, the passion, the tranquility that only human blood can bestow. So, I do what I must. And I enjoy my job, which, I hear, is a rare thing these days.
Most days I stay to take pride in my work, relishing every moment. But today I ran. I ran so fast I couldn't tell whether JeanLuc had stayed behind. Today I saw him again, though I was sure our paths would never cross again. JeanLuc had no idea who he was. I'm sure JeanLuc will be fine; he doesn't know him, after all. But he sure as hell remembered me. The latent fire behind his gaze told me everything. So I ran, leaving JeanLuc behind.
The sweat has gone cold on my back. Shakes overtake me. I am no longer running. Tonight, at Little Evening Out, I'll ask JeanLuc what my father said after seeing me for the first time in eight years. That is, if JeanLuc is still alive.
I stop at a nearby alley to clean my knife. The hoboes don't approach me. I know they can see it in my eyes: they know as well as I that I'd sooner kill them than talk to them. In the distance I can just make out JeanLuc's car, screeching to a halt behind his father's restaurant: Little Evening Out. He walks out, walks in, walks out again, as if nothing had happened. He's gotten another assignment.
My cell phone vibrates. It's JeanLuc's dad, Emille, wondering where I've been. One of the other waiters is sick, can I take his shift? What do you say to a man who pretty much holds your life in his hands? I will make it there as soon as I can. I can hear him him smiling. He has another assignment too, JeanLuc should explain when he gets back.
The smells of cheesecakes and flans being prepared, the braised rabbit almost cooked to perfection, and my favorite rustic desert: a cherry clafoutis are overpowered by an aroma that my nostrils know is soon to come. The enticing, metallic aroma of blood.
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