Two Graves

He watches her intently with baited breath. Stalks his prey with cruel intent. From his vantage point he waits for the opportune time to pounce. Make his move. To sink his claws into her. Take away her existence.

He licks his lips like a cat on the prowl. He can feel his blood rush in anticipation. More heated each second as his mind spirals. Thinking of how good it will feel to take everything from her. His brow creases as his eyes slit in focus. Beads of sweat meander down his face and back. The breathing is heavy.

It only takes a second. He jumps from behind the dark bushes. He clamps hard at her waist and mouth with a vice-like grip. He pulls her to the darkest corner she will ever be in. He wreaks of alcohol and sweat. She would gag if she wasn’t so frightened. His grubby little hands and body are dirty. Filthy to be precise.

She freezes as he tackles her to the ground. He brandishes something shinny and cold on her neck. She quivers under him and lets out a whimper. She can’t get herself to scream. Her lungs are crushed by his weight.

With one clean swipe across the jugular, it is done. Such surgical precision she barely feels the skin tear. Gushes of red spray everywhere. She reaches for her neck to stop the flow. Crimson red is the last thing she sees as he dulls her light.

He wipes the stained blade on his sleeve. He looks at her limp body laying lifeless. There is no remorse in his eyes. He’ll worry about the consequences and guilt in the morning. After all, they showed no remorse when they shot his wife and two kids.

“Three more to go.”