I used to live across my best friend Betty, when I was 20 .
It was a terrifying time for us, as the sleepy town in which we lived was suddenly rocked with mass murders.
The killer was loose and it looked like no one could catch him. People used to lock themselves up in their houses after dusk; scared that the boogyman from children’s stories would come alive and kill them.
I myself was utterly terrified as I was staying alone in my rented apartment.
I was new in town and Betty was the only person I knew .
I couldn’t possibly move in with her because she had recently gotten married.
It was 12 o clock.
Betty woke up to a startling sound.
Someone was there in the kitchen.
“Jon?…Jon is that you ?”
She thought her Husband was back from work.
Getting no reply she got up from her bed and slowly made her way to the kitchen.
Her scream woke up the entire neighbourhood.
There lay Jon, dead in their kitchen.
Police swarmed the entire neighbourhood.
Betty was inconsolable.
I tried to reach out to her, but to no avail. Soon, when the frenzy died down she moved to the country side, and I moved to a new neighbourhood to escape that horrible nightmare.
It was a moonless night; a terrified scream in the flat adjacent to my new one woke everyone up from their slumber. It happened a few months after the incident with my friend’s husband.
I got up with a jerk, I was shivering violently. My whole body was sweating, my heart playing a war drum.
I glimpsed at the antique mirror on my wall.
My face was covered with blood.
So were my clothes.
There lay a knife on my table.
Dripping fresh blood.
Smelling the scent of fresh blood, rose an instinct in me.
An instinct that made me want to lick it all clean.
And I was certainly not sated.