The Best of Humanity
Theresa Pometto
He had walked her home this way once before, and he knew she’d be walking this way soon. He crouched from his vantage point surveying the small road, his breathing slowed to an almost non-existent hiss. The wind blew his hair gently away from his face, informing him he sat downwind, not that it would matter as his prey couldn’t smell his stench. This had become so natural to him he did not think, but rather felt the direction of the wind, heard the rustle of leaves, and then quickly positioned himself.
He counted the women and men he had gone through before, as he usually did as he sat and waited. He thought of the ones he had known before, but he could not remember their names now, only what he had gained upon their deaths. He remembered his unfailing courage had worn a blue scarf, his fierce intelligence wore high black heels, and countless others. He thought of the look on each of their faces as he plunged his knife into their hearts. Most were shocked and scared, but some, some were understanding or sympathetic but the worst was forgiving. He hated that expression the most; it made something inside him squirm. He thought back to his father’s face, and how he looked only with love. And pride. His father had seen his creation, had seen his only son, and pride filled his face in his last moments. He reminded himself that he killed to honor his father’s memory, and yet his stomach still squeezed together and a small pain grasped at the cavity of his heart.
He reminded himself of all the good things that he received from his murders. His quick wit, his agility, his courage: all these treasures from his victims. He knew the necessity and even the good of his murders. Murder, to him, had never been the waste of a life, but rather an important part of his survival. He remembered his dad explaining it to him as a child: You see when someone like you or me kills someone else, we receive their best trait. A transfer is made at the end of that knife, so long as it touches the victim’s heart. That is why your mother is gone son; she was too tantalizing to pass up. Now, silently now, show me you can kill this deer without hesitation.
He knew that it was still a gamble, because the victim’s best trait wasn’t always what he thought it would be. He recalled how he had killed a man in hopes for his leadership ability but instead gained his excellent cooking skill. No life is ever wasted son, his father had reminded him. That is the beauty of our way of killing. Everything they lose helps us. That deer’s meat can feed us, and its skin can warm us. Here, let me show you how to skin it. He remembered how his life had changed after that kill. Each kill after that first one became easier. He recalled the hilt of the knife being plunged deeper and deeper into his father’s heart, and how his father had taken his hand in his last moments. I’m giving you this gift. Keep this knife, always use this knife, this knife is your life. Yes take it, you have earned it.
He looked down at the knife in his hand, how simple it was. The only embellishment was the pearl hilt and the engraving on the blade in a language no one now could understand. He pictured this blade poisoning his father’s veins. Don’t cry, don’t cry. You must be strong! You must survive! He remembered his father’s last breath and a bright light that lifted from his face. When he was young, he wanted to run away from it, but now he welcomed it knowing this is how he received his compensation. He wondered if someone killed him what trait they would receive. He has been killing so long he barely remembered who he was before or even if he was anything but this creature he had become.
Click, Click, Click.
He crouched as he heard her shoes on the sidewalk. She was coming. He wondered what trait he would receive; any of her traits would be worth it. Her courage, her patience, her intellect, her grace: anything she was would make it worthwhile. He began to move silently towards her, stalking her as he stalked that first deer. He glanced at her body, and thought briefly on changing his goal, but he pressed on.
She walked towards the light of a building, and he knew he had to catch her before she reached it. He crouched in the underbrush and then suddenly sprang, knocking her onto the ground. She opened her mouth, attempting to scream, but he quickly covered her mouth as he pushed his body on top of hers, holding her down. She clawed at his forearms, and struggled to remove the hand on her mouth. He felt her hot, short breaths on his hand and smiled. He reached for his knife: the same knife, the very same knife he always used in every single murder. It had to be this knife, nothing else would seem right. He quickly and precisely plunged it into her chest until there was nothing but the hilt above her. She clutched his hand as if looking for some form of comfort in her last moments. She held it firmly, tears filling her crystal blue eyes and silently rolling down her cheek as if overflowing from a pool. He felt her breathing begin to slow. He then removed the knife, and gazed at her face as he moved his hand away.
He looked at this face, like so many others, scared and shocked. And yet there was something unfamiliar in her face, and he couldn’t quite place the emotion. She still had a firm hold of his hand, which was now resting on her shoulder. He looked at her red hair, stained with mud, her blue eyes blurry and unseeing, and her graceful lips quivering. He recalled the day he had first seen her, how a smile radiated her face, drawing him in. He was smitten from that moment, and he knew, just knew, he had to have her. And now he did. She would now be a permanent part of him. He would forever carry her, and no one else would have her. He watched her gasp for air a few times, her hand still clenching his, and her arms fluttered slightly as if trying to find some salvation, and then stillness.
Then suddenly her face began to radiate; brightness blinded him and made him squint. He stared at this light; was it brighter than the others? Or was he just imagining it? He saw it slowly pour from her and then shoot towards his mouth filling his lungs, his heart, his head. The light took its residence inside him and he gasped for oxygen to return. He backed away from her corpse and leaned against a tree, inhaling heavily, his heart racing. He wondered what trait would emerge. He didn’t always know immediately but he still wondered. And then suddenly, as his breathing slowed it was replaced by a sharp, cruel pain.
He doubled over, hurting in a way he had never known before. He coughed and wheezed, he felt his ribs, wondering if one had been broken somehow. Nothing. There was nothing he could find to explain this pain that was growing from the center of his chest. He fell to the ground and held his head in his gruesome, bloodied hands, and began to weep. Pathetically, hopelessly, like the day his mother was brought home limp and motionless in his father’s arms. He punched the earth, angry at this weakness. Wipe away those tear. His father had chastised him that day. She wouldn’t want to see you cry. Wipe away those tears. You must be strong! He lay hunched over, spasms contracting his chest with each breath. His eyes struggled to focus on her blood staining his hands.
“What have I done?” He cried! A guilt that he had never known before filled him. His tears flooded his face, painting streaks of red blood across his cheek. He looked over at her cold, motionless body. Her eyes, her beautiful blue eyes still open, searching for something they would never find. He crawled toward her, and leaned over her, his bitter tears splashing onto her collar bone. He lifted her gently into his arms and cradled her as he shut her eyes forever. He then brought her deeply into his chest; bringing his bloody hand to her head, which blended in with her red soft hair. He held her firmly, her warm blood seeping into his clothes and skin where it then cooled.
He sat there with her for moments, but it felt like an eternity. He knew he could not stay here. He gently lifted her into his arms, carrying her the way his father had carried his mother that cursed day. He began walking through the woods and to a cabin he built for himself. He walked steadily and heavily, slowly with her lifeless body weighing more with each step. When he reached his home he carried her through the threshold and placed her on his bed, which was covered with the hides of animals. He laid down beside her, turning his head to gaze at her face. Her face which once held a smile that could make even the coldest of hearts sing. Her delicate lips, now frozen in an eternal frown. Her deep red hair which used to flow gently in the wind like rose petals dancing on a breeze, now crusted with dirt and blood. Her crystal blue eyes which used to dance with her laughter, now closed forever. He brought his body around her, vainly attempting to protect her from the elements that would consume her. He wept.
He then realized what her best trait was, and regret swelled the black hole of his heart: regret for every murder, every kill, but most of all this kill. Guilt crushed what was left of his shriveled heart. Her best trait was this: that she would never kill anyone for anything. She was capable of a love that he would never understand, but that now made a home inside him. She was innocent and pure in a world envious and corrupt. He would never be able to drown her out. He would never lose those blue eyes piercing his heart; finding their home where they would stay forever.
