If he had a love, or anything even approaching that, it was the smooth wooden handle clutched tight in his hand, the cold metal blade shining like a beacon in the scant light. If behind closed curtains on this street there was warm, damp flesh thrusting and grinding against more of the same, it didn't arouse anything in him, other than the desire to rip, tear and rend. Over twenty years ago he'd done that, and nothing had changed at all in that respect, other than the hand that wielded the blade was larger now, swifter and more sure. And to the same effect, no matter what, it was always her he was thinking of. Over and over.
Always so perfectly placed as well, only feeding the illusion further. Even if only for a moment, it was always her, never changing. Always looking exactly as she had that night before the vanity, right before...
...well. It was always her, though, and in a sense it was like going home. He always came home.
The footsteps bounced almost playfully over the cold, dry asphalt, the trees forming a dense hedge guarding against anything other than the faintest sliver of moonlight to slice through the darkness. This late at night, any traffic was nothing more than a faint roar in the distance, out towards the interstate miles away. A distant humming sound, serving more as a backdrop for the occasional cry of a night bird, or the papery rustle of leaves in the lazy breeze. Most had fallen already, but a stubborn few clung to honor a season already well underway. The footsteps continued to echo down the dark street, and it was enough to draw his attention.
The sensations had not aged in the slightest, not like the body he wore had. Just as strong as ever when he touched her, he could feel the blood pushing deeper into his heart, and again it was like that night, even though upon inspection the girl looked nothing like Judith, not one bit, but the feeling was the same and only growing stronger until it was enough to obscure details like her red hair and the coat like none Judith had ever owned. It was enough.
Both sets of eyes widened then, as she grabbed for the blade protruding from her stomach, a look of horror washing over her rapidly paling face. Pawing for the handle and only succeeding in gashing her palm open, a low moan escaped. And as always, it sounded just like hers. And that was enough.
Over and over it came down then, arcing and slicing, thrusting, penetrating only the withdraw and swing down again. And in his mind he was home again, if only for a brief moment. Back in her bedroom decades ago, going through the motions that were so familiar.
And just as quickly she'd stopped thrashing and fighting and had gone silent. It was over, and here he was in the darkness clutching that bloody blade, breathing heavily, trying to understand exactly why it wasn't Judith at his feet now and only some other girl who was quite dead, and not her.
It would bother him perhaps if he ever really thought on it, but in some ways going home again was always worth it, and something he'd always seek out. He knew nothing else, and there was nothing to do but seek her out and kill her again, over and over and over.