The story continues

Myles ran his fingers through his hair. It was getting long again, almost time for a cut and a shave. It had been weeks since Myles had been back to his barber. Everytime he thought about getting a hot shave, his mind flashed to those people, the ones without their throats, and the idea instantly turned into a nightmare. His supply of Ambien was growing smaller by the day and if he wasn't careful, he would be out too soon to call in for a refill. Instead, he would be forced to talk to that pretentious prick of a shrink, the one who always wanted Myles to open up, to share, to talk. Myles always thought it was kind of funny; he's paying a hundred dollars an hour to someone who wants him to do all the talking...what a crock of shit. But the department said he had to.

He leaned up onto his elbows and began to massage the crick out of his neck. He had to stop falling asleep at the table. Myles rubbed his eyes hard, chasing non existant shapes behind his eyelids, and then opened them to see the newest crime scene photos spread out in a veritable buffet of morbid, cadaverous suspicion. What the hell was he missing.....what the hell was he after?

He could feel it, something was there, something he wasnt understanding. Something he was missing. Maybe Jones had a clue. Myles got up, scratching his scruffy face, and grabbed his keys. He would head down to the station and see if Jones had anything new. He already knew the answer, but Myles hoped against hope that Jones just hadnt called him yet.

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He felt alive......so alive. He picked his teeth with his long fingernails. He wasnt cleaning them, so much as pulling pieces of flesh out from under the nails. He licked those fingers clean and then moved swiftly but silently to his pile of clothes, leaning against the wall of this dark alley. He wasnt cold....he was never cold, but he needed to blend in rather than draw attention to himself. The autumn air felt cold to everyone else but him, it seemed. His white dress shirt hung perfectly off of his chisled form, hanging down a little over his black slacks. His long black coat billowed out behind him as the October wind blew through the streets. He used to wear a tie, but realized quickly enough that people mistook him for a waiter, or sometimes even a Jehova's Witness; that was more annoying than anything.

The subway was mostly deserted at this time of the night. Those who were there payed him no attention as they tried valiantly to block out the lights and sleep, happy to have some warmth from the outside. He hated the smell, B.O. and piss, but this was the easiest way for him to travel quickly, and without being disturbed. Also, he didnt have to pass so many gaddamn churches. It was as if there was one on every corner, mocking him. He didnt hate the church, he wasnt repelled by the cross; he just hated God. He knew God was there, but he loathed everything about him.

Why was he created? Why did he have no purpose? He had awoken one night, just awoken, and that was it. He wasnt sure how old he was, but he had been at this now for close to fifteen years, never knowing his past, his roots, his purpose. The hunger was all that existed, though he never quarrled about that; killing was fun, a sport for him. He was the audience, as well as the player. If he could only find out why he existed. Not having a purpose was his plight, and he hated his creator more than life itself, as it was the thing that created him which led to this confusion.......this emptiness.

A stranger walked by, bumping into him. For a normal person, it would have seemed like nothing, but he wasnt normal. In a quick motion, he swung his arm up, gripping the man's arm. The hobo, stinking of wine, shrieked and dropped something. He stared into the man's eyes, tilting his head, much like a dog, searching for answers. After a minute or so of the strange staring, the man began to threaten him, hoping to free his arm and escape with a handout. He clenched his fist quickly and completely, crushing the man's forearm to dust. A loud shriek filled the rail car as the man stumbeled dazily into the next car. He leaned down casually and picked up the small sketchbook. The pages fluttered in the low light of the car, and the perfectly sketched images of beautiful death were shown quickly to the world. He slowly replaced the pad to his interior coat pocket but not before pausing for a brief moment on the last entry; a beautiful blond, breasts slightly exposed and smeared with blood. His lips retreated slightly over his jagged teeth, a small satisfaction for the ride home, he thought.