Disclaimer: I don't own. I only rent.
She is seventeen years old, pretty, in a way that he can understand, even if he can't appreciate it as other men do. It is not about sex for him. He does not rape them. He does not kiss their rigid lips or fondle their cooling breasts. He will not violate this girl after the initial, ultimate violation of the knife sliding between her ribs, in and out in a single quick motion, slicing through muscle and internal organs. She is nothing but meat. No one makes love to a slaughtered cow.
He might hold her as she dies, stilling her death spasms. It is not for the warmth and comfort of human contact, which he has not needed since long before that night when he was six years old, the night that changed everything. If he holds her, it will only be to keep the silence, to give him the chance to sneak up on the next one, unheard and unheeded.
He does not have the needs of other men. He sleeps only when he must. He eats, but not to keep up his strength. He has the strength of a madman. His strength comes from purity of purpose.
His purpose is to kill.
And he will kill this girl. She will die, looking into his eyes, and perhaps by watching her die, he will understand something more of what it is to be alive and human. But, probably, he won't. He knows very little of it now, even after all the deaths that he has caused.
He may or may not be human himself. Others have hypothesized until they were (sometimes literally) blue in the face. He doesn't have it in him to care.
His only purpose is to kill.
And he will kill this girl.
There will be a little blood. That never bothers him. The blood is only a part of the living. And as a part of the living, it is the part of the dying. He notes the blood as he notes the death. Everything is a part of the whole. Something in him looks for the meaning as the blood spurts from the wound. But the meaning is less to him than the death itself.
His only purpose is to kill.
And he does it well.