The small man sat in the car.
He was waiting.
It was interesting, waiting. So many people underestimated the simple act of staying still, breathing, thinking.
He didn't want to hurt anybody.
He never did.
It was just a ritual. To show mercy. People deserved mercy, forgiveness. Himself most of all.
The young man across the street got out of his car. Suddenly he slowed, and a faint frown appeared on his features. He pivoted around, eyes scanning the surrounding street.
The small man moved his gaze away from the young man. Interesting. Did the young man have training? The small man's targets were always picked at random. From the street. In a shop. No rhyme or reason.
They were always tall, though.
Some were big as well as tall. Muscle-y. Some were stern, long-haired, laughing, angry, old, smart, blond, slow, blue-eyed, smart, married…
This one was thin. The small man could tell it wasn't the bad kind of thinness, though, just one of those things. He was brunet, with short hair. From what the small man had seen, he was smart as well. In the bookshop where he had spotted him, the young man had been reading at a terrific pace. He'd almost walked over and started to talk to him, see how his mind worked, how he could process that much.
He hadn't, though. They young man was still tall.
Tall people scared the small man. He wasn't a dwarf, but he barely cleared 5' 5". He wasn't very muscle-y, either.
Maybe that's why he was a coward.
There really was no denying it.
The small man sighed. He glanced back at the young man. He didn't know his name. He didn't know any of their names. It was…better…that way. If he didn't know their names, he couldn't hurt himself. Names made them…real.
The young man turned back around, apparently satisfied, and went into the apartment.
Raising binoculars, the small man followed his every move. He saw the young man check for mail. Apt. 2C.
The small man bit his lip, and carefully picked up the knife from the passenger seat. The polished metal reflected the sun's glare into the small man's eyes. Blinking to rid himself of the flare, he stared at it.
It was of average size. Not so big as to be unwieldy, not so small as to be relatively ineffective. The blade, however, was more than capable for its intended use.
The small man had decided against getting a switchblade. He felt he needed the simple reassurance that the steel was there, at all times. He liked it to be out in the open, where he knew he could control it.
Control.
He knew, somewhere inside, that the whole thing was really about that.
He just needed to be in control.
The small man checked the clock.
He would wait.
CMCMCMCMCM
Hours had gone by since the young man returned home. The sun had set, and it was nearly eleven. The small man decided.
He opened the car door. The knife was a solid weight in his hand.
He started walking toward the apartment building. As he walked, he twirled the blade around in his hand. Fingers flashing, metal whirling, faster and faster.
Perfect control.
The small man reached the door. He stopped, and knelt down in front of the handle.
Taking out a few wires, he patiently began fiddling inside the lock. There was an almost inaudible click. He took out the wires and let himself in.
Thirty seconds later, he was at Apt. 2C.
He took a deep breath.
You can go away.
The tiny voice piped up, as always. His conscience, he supposed. Though in his darker moments he thought it might have been the warnings of insanity.
Why?
You know why. You don't have to do this.
You said that before.
And you listened.
What happened after I did?
The voice was silent. The small man shook his head. He had hated himself for what he did, and all those people. But when he had stopped…
He still had the scars.
He knelt at the door.
This lock was weaker than the one on the front door. It was barely fifteen seconds before the door clicked open.
The small man started twirling the knife again. He entered.
The apartment was well-lived, but tidy. Books lined the walls and were stacked around the floor. He had been right in assuming the young man was smart. There were framed certificates as well. The small man blinked. According to the wall, the young man must be a genius. He had at least three PhDs, and several other doctorates of some sort. Amazing. The young man didn't look more than twenty-five, maximum.
The small man held his breath and listened. There was no sound from the bedroom door.
He stepped over to it, and held his ear against the wood. There was a faint, steady sound of breathing. He knew from experience the deep rhythm meant the young man was asleep.
He stopped twirling the knife. Slowly, he eased open the door.
It was a modest room. There were still more books. In a single-size bed the young man was sleeping. His face was turned away from the entry, appearing to look out the window next to the bed.
The small man, as if in a dream, stepped forward, leaving the door open behind him.
The young man, like all the others, looked peaceful in sleep. Scratch twenty-five, he looked like he was twelve.
Carefully, the small man reached into his pocket and pulled out a hypodermic syringe.
It had been prepped beforehand. He stared at it, then at the young man. Sometimes they slept through it. Those times were best, the luckier ones.
He positioned the needle next to the young man's neck. Then, swiftly, he stabbed it in and depressed the plunger.
The young man was not lucky.
He jerked awake, eyes opening wide in shock. He made a panicked noise and threw himself upward, his hand reaching out toward the nightstand.
Where there was a gun.
The small man had not noticed the gun.
Sheer terror welled up inside the small man. He gave a strangled cry and shoved his hand against the young man's arm, diverting its path toward the gun.
The off-balanced young man fell back onto the bed. Quickly, the small man placed his hand over the young man's mouth and held him down, almost sprawling on top of him.
He struggled, but it was useless. The small man had leverage, and the young man wasn't nearly as strong as some of the others. In a few seconds, the drug began to take effect. The young man's eyes began to cloud, and the small man felt him relaxing, unclenching his muscles, being dragged down into blackness.
The small man could see his eyes. Right before they closed, he saw something there, in them.
Fear.
Not the fear of the others. The others had been terrified, paralyzed, shocked, but never this kind of fear. Those people had held fear of the unknown, of the hazy, half-formed mental images of what they thought the small man might do to them.
This man looked like he knew.
The small man stepped back, feeling the adrenaline course through him. With the unlucky ones, the ones who woke up, it was always worse. He hated the feeling of not being in control, of not knowing what the people would do.
He needed control.
The rush faded slowly. The small man didn't know how long he stood, replaying the young man's eyes just before they closed. He suddenly realized he was whirling the knife again.
The small man blinked in remembrance, and turned his gaze to the gun. It hadn't been moved in the brief struggle. The muzzle was facing towards the door, within easy reach. Next to it was a book, a wallet, and a lamp.
He stared at the gun. Nobody had ever had a gun before. One woman had had a baseball bat under her bed. One grizzled man had had a knife under his pillow, but he had been one of the lucky ones. Nobody else ever had defense. He could understand that. Sleep was supposed to be a sanctuary, a retreat where no one could hurt you.
He could hurt them.
He could kill them.
The small man closed his eyes. A shudder ran through him, and the barest trace of a smile appeared.
He sat down on the floor. The knife kept twirling.
He could.
He could.
Nobody could stop him.
He was in control.
Perfect control.
That was why.
That was why he never hurt them.
He could. But it was his choice.
And he never chose to.
Mercy.
Everyone deserved mercy.
Especially him.
But…
If he had mercy, had forgiveness…
He passed the test.
Given the choice, he passed the test.
He had control.
The next morning, there would be no trace of him. The doors would be locked, the books intact, and the young man untouched. The drug would give him a slight headache, but it had erased those few, brief moments of fear.
He never knew.
They never did.