This is my first published fanfiction. It was an English assignment. I am sorry if it is a little morbid.

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I sneered and pulled the knife out of the now bloody corpse. I wiped it on the body's grimy clothes and grimaced, trying my best not to touch the clothing even with my gloves. I encased my knife once more in its sheath and straightened up, pulling all the wrinkles from my suit jacket and checking my clothes for any signs of the struggle. I turned, satisfied, and walked into the hazy yellow light of the street lamp. I walked homeward with a cheerful smile, almost in the mood to whistle like the little schoolboy I had once been.

I would be able to sleep easily tonight. Ever since ... since the incident, I had had that itch, that urge. The urge to kill. I had tried repressing it. How I had tried! It only made it worse the next time I killed. I tried to just kill the rats of the street, the poor ones to which death was a blessing to. They were never missed.

I remembered our return. How, awkwardly, I had fallen into my mother's arms. How all the other boys had sobbed. How I had gotten revenge for all of the insults I suffered. How I had set up my own law firm. How I had gotten myself a respectable wife and respectable life.

I never contacted any of them again; I never even spoke to Ralph. What would I say? I'm sorry for hunting you down trying to kill you? In truth, I still hate Ralph. He was a reminder of ... of it.

I walked through the gate to see my wife come running out of the brightly lit house.

"I was so worried, Harry told me that you had left the club hours ago. Where were you?"

I could never let my wife or children know. "Why, my dear Marie, I was looking for something for our anniversary. I do believe that it is next week." I pulled her into my arms and looked lovingly into her eyes.

I jolted out of my dream and sat bolt upright in bed. Fighting the dizziness, I looked over at the clock and quietly groaned. Marie moaned slightly as she half-opened her eyes to look up at me.

"You all right?" she said into the gentle darkness. "Was it that island again?"

I gave a non-committal grunt, "Go back to sleep, my dear. I'm fine."

I swung my feet out of the warm blankets and winced as they hit the cold floor. I grabbed a robe and headed to the study.

I walked over to the hidden liquor cabinet. Another thing my devoutly Methodist wife knew nothing about. I poured myself a drink, not caring what it was, as long as it burned on the way down.

It had been so many years. Why could I not forget? I tried to use drink to slip back into sweet oblivion once more, but the image of the pig's skull, my rock, my choir, and the crash all haunted the insides of my eyelids. The beast still haunted me. Had we killed it when the forest burned? I had hoped so. We must have. It could not have lived through that fire. Yet, some part of the back of my mind tells me that the beast is not dead, not even after all of those years.