BANG!

Walter jolted awake again, lurching forward and upsetting the small doll that rested on his chest. It flung forward and landed next to his feet on the cold ground of the South Ashfield Station. He breathed rapidly, drawing his knees to his torso. His hands were behind him, supporting his top half as dull green eyes darted around the Station wildly. Passersby glanced down at him for seconds, slowing down as if walking past a car wreck. Walter paid them no mind in turn.

Reaching for the little doll he disturbed, he started to think about what he dreamt about before waking as his breathing slowed to a faint pant. He remembered what he was thinking about… The murder he committed in Wish House Orphanage, the shooting of the Valtiel Sect leader Jimmy Stone. The back of the head, Walter envisioned it… The falling of the limp body, the blood spouting from the wound on the man's head, the thud of his body hitting the ground, the smoking of the gun barrel and Walter's approach to the corpse… He remembered feeling warm, gushing blood as he delved in to retrieve the heart of his victim, victim 01121. His first victim. He held the doll to his chest as if afraid of something he couldn't see.

You had to do it. You had to, for Mother.

"Y-yeah…" He nodded in a small, unsure bursts, trying to reassure himself. He rocked back and forth slightly, clutching the doll as tightly as he would allow. He still remembered the first time he received the doll from the five-year-old Eileen Galvin. She bothered to take her time to give it to him, to comfort him in the cold Station. He remembered seeing her holding hands with her mother and the tears that came to Walter's eyes. That happened about four years ago. He realized with a jolt that his own mother was why he killed.

"Wh…Why…? Can't… Breathe… Can't…" Thud

"But… I just… I don't… Understand… Can't…" Thud

Walter inhaled sharply, as if someone punched him in the gut. He tensed up again, holding the doll close to him. He was exactly where he was the first time, only he didn't awake to these noises, the noises that no one else seemed alert of. Two more… He killed two men, pulled the hearts from the complex web of veins that attached them, and dumped their bodies on some college grounds in Pleasant Valley. He remembered carving the numbers 02121 and 03121 into their arms before leaving. Walter glanced at the ground, slowing down his breathing once again. His grip on the doll relaxed slightly and he exhaled in a seemingly calm manner.

Those had to be killed, too. You need ten hearts, and they were just willing donors. See? You already have three of ten. And you've accomplished that in just three days. If you kill one a day, then you'll be done in no time.

That's what he thought the day he killed them. Something in his subconscious told him to do it because that's what was right. Walter adjusted against the wall, hoping for air to come and calm him down, cool him off, give him breath. He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing down to a calm shudder. It's what had to be done. He had to do it, but it seemed so minor back then…

Suddenly, he could hear the sound of a submachine gun going off in his head, ringing in both his ears. He jumped up, startling a couple of passing people and flinging his sleeping bag off his legs. He pinned himself against the wall, his chest expanding and flattening like a balloon on a foot pump. It was almost as if he thought he were the one getting shot at.

What's wrong? What's wrong, who are you? What's your name, again, and what's wrong with you? Are you having second thoughts? No, no…

Walter suddenly heard the dying yelps and cries of animals, hearing their high-pitched shrieks before being brutally shot down, ripped apart, strangled, tipped out of their cages, kicked, stepped on… They rang through his head like a broken record, rewinding and replaying, rewinding and playing while mingling with the sound of the submachine gun. Walter held his head in his hands and started to run up the escalator two or three steps at a time, shouldering past those who wouldn't scramble out of his way. His eyes shut tight, he let out a loud yell that resonated through the concrete walls of the Station. He reached the surface and, his doll held tightly against his temple, he started to spin on the spot, drifting from here to there. His movements were quick and erratic as he started to glance at everything from people to cars to the ground to the sky to buildings. As he did, he heard sickening crunches as it seemed someone was being beaten.

Ah, yes, victims five and six…Beaten to death.

He ran down a wind-chilled street, no longer yelling but blindly stumbling forward as if an invisible enemy was continuously pushing him ahead. Two swings of an ax were heard, two gushing noises were made, but only one body hit the ground. Grotesque sounds could be heard coming from the other body, sounds that sounded as if tender meat were being ripped apart from its bone.

Seven and eight, a single blow from an ax. Seven fell, eight was brutally dismembered, remember? You tore that little girl's body apart. Seven, eight, So close, so close…

A man screaming, a plunge of something metallic into something soft, then hard. A crunch was heard as Walter paused in his drunken behaviour. He stopped somewhat abruptly, long since scaring everyone nearby away. He seemed alone thought it also didn't seem so. Something in his head… No, the person with the screwdriver.

Nine…

Walter was sitting in a soft armchair, holding a pistol loosely over one of the arms. He stared forward, greasy blond hair in front of his murky green eyes. The lights were completely off. The front door was closed, but unlocked, a nearby window busted in. His breathing was deep and calm, though audible in the quiet night. Suddenly, the door opened quickly, and the hall light came on. Cursing. Walter stood slowly, turned, and fired a shot into the figure standing in the doorway, unsure of what happened to his window. BANG! A thud, a felling of a human being whose face was unrecognizable due to the large bullet wound received in the face. Satisfied, Walter approached the bleeding corpse, bent over it, and used a rusty knife to slice open the chest. Squirting of blood, slimy sounds of dissection, warmth flowing over Walter's hands… He clutched the heart of the last victim he needed. He stood over the draining body, glancing out the open doorway into the quiet night.

…Ten.

Walter gasped and opened his eyes, as if jerking out of a brief and unsettling sleep. Apparently, while he was reminiscing, he had sunk to his knees subconsciously and stayed there for a good couple of minutes. People were walking past him in their usual manner once again, ignoring his presence and taking him for a mad, homeless teenager. They looked down with disgust. Walter looked down and found himself smiling at the ground in the middle of the sidewalk. His hair shielded his face, but he felt tears streaming down his cheeks in an insane fury.

Eileen's doll was on the ground right next to his open palm.