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Why wait any longer? The moment is perfect, the moment has come a long time ago. I continue my way through the dark alley, the dark streets, but still every shadow is illuminated by the street lights, shining brightly but darkening the whole scene. I follow my target, how do I choose them? I do not know, intuition, I suppose.
I walk past them and I know their entire life. I know what they have done wrong and what right, what they regret and what makes them become aroused. I have had this gift my entire life but only recently have I realized what I can do with it. What I have to be to be myself. I know their life and I judge their life. It should make me feel higher, should make me feel atop of them. But I am not.
Have I done everything right in my life? Hell, no.
Have I regretted anything? Hell, no.
What's the good of being a sociopath when not living all these abilities and features we got to hand. I judge people without judging myself about it. When I follow him, coming closer and closer, the street lights become darker and darker until the high skyscrapers make me, my actions and the whole scene pitch black, perfect, fantastic.
My pace becomes faster, as does my breath. I nearly bump against him when he turns around and he looks at my face and after a second his eyes have this flush of recognition. Of course he knows me, who doesn't? Nobody knows me, nobody knows my secret and nobody finds out.
What is the good in being a killer when not being recognised for one's work? Not yet, I think when my gloved hands grab his head and compress the bones as if they were matchsticks. Since when do I have this power? I always wonder. Always different. Always the same.
He falls to the ground.
Like uncountable men and women did before him. But none of them had their heads so reddish-coloured, the incorrect bones, their skull hanging falsely from the neck. Most of them had their eyes wide open, I left them open, but this one doesn't. His eyelids are seen, like black curtains over his eyesight. He will never have the sight again.
His head, his tiny little head, tiny as everything around me. What is important anymore?
Me? Who cares?
John? No woman cares.
Irene? No man cares.
Mrs Hudson? No lodger cares.
Lestrade? No colleague cared.
I step over the cold body of my victim and do not look back. No prints, no DNA, no witness, no traces. Unsolvable? I think not. But nobody cares. Will I be consulted? No, nobody cares for the serial killer. Too boring, too much happening without me, without both Dr Jekyll and Mr Hide.
One's skulls compressed, one strangulated, one drowned, one thrown of a building, one cut into pieces, one's bones torn out, one's organs removed, one choked, one physically pressurized, one tortured physically, one tortured mentally, one driven to commit suicide by simple talking, one blackmailed to death, one's bones broken, one scalped, one flayed, one garbled, one left to bleed,…
So many methods, so little people, so little time. Time, time is what runs away from me, not the victims, not the 'friends'. No one scared of me, I have to enjoy this little moment of fear and respect before the glint of life leaves my victims.
And then I transform back into the Doctor, Doctor Jekyll, not more sociable, not more understandable then the 'mirror me', but never in suspicion of performing such acts of terror; the consulting detective, the one who consults, the one who helps, the one who is trusted.
I sigh.
Doesn't it feel good?
Be the cleverest? Be clever. Be two. Be two persons, feel what you have to feel, do what you always wanted, experience what you ever dreamt of experiencing.
I am what I am and right now, what I do, is elementary for me, dear Watson.
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