Art Of The Hunt

The night wraps around me like a comforting shroud, perfect for the hunt. Darkness is my ally, concealing me as I watch her. She's beautiful, her golden hair catching the faint glow of streetlights, a stark contrast to the filthy, grimy streets she walks. She's my angel, my chosen one, oblivious to the predator lurking just out of sight.

I've been following her for weeks, learning her routines, savoring every moment of anticipation. She always takes this path home, always alone, always around this time. The predictability is soothing, a rare comfort in the chaos that usually fills my mind. My thoughts are a cacophony of voices, a symphony of madness that only quiets in moments like these, when everything narrows down to the hunt. She turns a corner, and I follow, my steps silent, my presence a ghostly shadow. The thrill of the chase sends a shiver down my spine. I can almost taste her fear, feel the heat of her life force pulsing just beneath her skin. It's intoxicating, a heady rush that drowns out the incessant voices in my head. They scream and cackle, urging me on, praising my skill, my devotion to my art.

I quicken my pace, closing the distance between us. My heart races, pounding in sync with the rhythm of her steps. She's so close now, just a few feet away. I can see the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she glances around nervously. Maybe she senses something, a primal instinct warning her of danger. But it's too late. It's always too late. With a sudden burst of speed, I lunge forward, wrapping my hand around her mouth to stifle her scream. Her eyes widen in terror, a sight that sends a thrill of pleasure through me. She struggles, her body writhing against mine, but it's futile. I'm stronger, more determined. This is my moment, my masterpiece in the making. I drag her into the alley, pressing her against the cold, damp wall. Her muffled cries are like music to my ears, a symphony of despair. The fear in her eyes is intoxicating, a sweet nectar that fuels my dark desires. I relish every second, every twitch and tremor of her body as she fights against the inevitable. "Shhh, my angel," I whisper, my voice low and soothing. "Don't fight it. This is your destiny, our destiny." I pull out a knife, its blade gleaming in the dim light. Her eyes widen even more, the terror in them reaching a fever pitch. I press the blade to her throat, feeling her pulse quicken under the cold steel.

"You see," I murmur, tracing the

blade lightly across her skin, "I've been watching you. You're special, unique. You're meant to be mine." The voices in my head cheer, a chaotic chorus that drowns out any remnants of doubt. This is right, this is just. This is art.

I drag the knife down, slicing through her clothes, exposing the pale flesh beneath. She whimpers, tears streaming down her cheeks, mixing with the grime of the alley. The sight is beautiful, a perfect canvas for my creation. I press the blade against her skin again, this time drawing a thin line of blood. The crimson streak is mesmerizing, a stark contrast to her pale skin. The first cut is always the most exhilarating, the first taste of the life force that will soon be mine.

Her blood flows, warm and thick, coating my hands as I work. Each cut, each wound is a stroke of genius, a testament to my skill. Her screams are muffled now, her strength waning. The fight is leaving her, replaced by resignation, a surrender to the inevitable. I step back, admiring my handiwork. She's beautiful, masterpiece of pain and, fear. The alley is filled with the metallic scent of blood, the air thick with the stench of death. I kneel beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face, smearing blood across her cheek. "Shh, it's almost over," I whisper, my voice gentle. "Soon, you'll be free. We both will." I press the knife to her throat again, this time with more pressure. Her eyes flutter, a final, desperate plea for mercy. But there is none. Not from me. With a swift, practiced motion, I slice through her throat, severing the last thread of her life. Her body convulses, then goes still, her eyes staring blankly into the void. The voices in my head cheer, cacophony of approval and

admiration. I feel a sense of

satisfaction, a fleeting moment of peace as the life drains from her

body. I stand, wiping the blood from my hands, leaving her lifeless form slumped against the wall. The hunt

is over, the art complete. But the voices are already stirring again, whispering, urging me to find another, to continue my work. I smile. The hunt never ends.