Dusk. The time of day when shadows began to knit themselves together, when darkness intertwines with the last fading spindles of light; the time of day when eyes play tricks and forms shift into unfamiliarity. Far better than the pitch blackness and complete uncertainty of night, dusk still seems somewhat trustworthy, as if nothing dangerous could happen--not yet; the last few rays of translucent light surely provide a barrier from the evil of night. At least, that is what most people tended to think. One of the things that Steven Gibbon liked best about his extracurricular activities was the look of shock she always expressed at realizing he was near, and the time had come. He really couldn’t describe just how incredible it felt, how the adrenaline danced in his veins in those first few seconds, before the scream broke free, before the blood began to flow. Of course, he enjoyed those parts, too, particularly the ripping sound of flesh and bone. But nothing could ever quite compare with that first flicker of recognition--and terror. He always enjoyed the terror most of all.
This evening, he was crouched low beneath the protective branches of a tall pine tree. The black hoodie he wore, along with black pants and running shoes concealed him so that the shadows could creep around him and obscure him for just a few seconds more, keeping him out of sight from the unexpected woman as she rounded the corner. He could hear her labored breathing as she approached. They were always panting like bitches in heat. The irritating noise twisted in his mind, reminding him of her, the way she her stale, smoky breath used to blanket his ear. Ending that God-awful sound was yet another draw to completing the task.
The runner was rounding the corner now; he could see flashes of her red tennis shoes hitting the concrete between the needles of the trees in front of him. Her head was bouncing up and down, which was always an indication that she had earbuds in. The music had taken over, and she was oblivious to the world around her--oblivious to his intent for the next few seconds, anyway. The music drowned out the warning signs—the watching, the danger, the fear. And then, when she was least expecting it, the moment would come, that perfect moment of revelation.
He took one more cursory look around, though he was positive they were alone. He’d already made sure of that. Once she passed by, he lurched from his hiding place, grabbing her from behind, one hand around her neck, the other over her mouth. He wanted to hear her scream, but not yet, not when they were still out in the open and others may hear, may be drawn to the sound. He needed to see her face as the horror unleashed from within her. As soon as he had his hands in position, he began to drag her into the woods, back toward the cover of the trees where he could extinguish her in private where the eyes who would never understand the justice he was carrying out could not see.
She was stronger today than she had been last time, or the time before that, and even though he had been lifting at the gym for endless hours each day in continued preparation for this moment, her new-found strength threw him off a bit. Her long fingernails bit into his flesh, clawed at his arm and drew blood, as he struggled to pull her away from the jogging path. Fear rose up from deep inside of him as he realized there was a chance she might find a way to get away from him this time. Gibbon clamped down even harder on the struggling form and pulled with all his might
Despite her best efforts, his grip on her neck began to win out, and by the time he got her deeper into the woods and beneath the foliage, she was somewhat subdued. He tossed her to the ground and fell down on top of her, preventing her from escape. Then, it happened, she turned and locked eyes on him. That perfect moment of terror was here again at last, and her face crinkled in a shriek of unadulterated horror. With a smirk of pure pleasure, he yanked out his knife, and holding onto the crown of dark hair on the top of her head with one hand, he pulled up, asking, “Did you really think you were going to get away with it, bitch?” as he brought the blade down against the fleshy sinews of her throat.
She let out a scream, like she always did, and then the sputtering started as she began to choke on her own blood. Occasionally, she would choke out a few words--a question, “Why?” or perhaps a prayer. This time, she said nothing, just looked at him with those tear-filled eyes.
He usually liked to watch the entire process, see the life drain right out of her eyes with each spurt of warm, crimson, sticky blood. But he wouldn’t be awarded that luxury tonight as a noise off in the distance caught his attention. It sounded as if someone else was coming. He couldn’t risk being caught; if anyone knew he had been the one to kill her, he might be in trouble. No one would understand why he needed to punish her; no one would believe his story. As Stephen Gibbon pulled himself up to his feet, he couldn’t help but look back down at her face one more time. Her eyes were wide open, the whites standing out in contrast against the shadows of dusk. Her mouth was still open in a silent scream, and while he was sure her heart was still beating, he knew that would come to a reverberating end momentarily. He smiled again, admiring his work, and absently rubbing his arm, Steven Gibbon disappeared into the night.
