"It's going to be alright. Shh, shh. It's okay."
He rests his chin on the back of the other man's head as he holds him in his arms.
"Don't be scared."
In one blindingly fast motion he slashes the man's throat. His mouth goes slack in awe of the spurt that flies from the wound. He watches with wide-eyed admiration as the wall in front of them is sprayed. He holds the man's head with one hand, keeps the other encircled around his waist, keeping the twitching figure steady.
Later the dead man sits in front of his television, lounging lazily on the sofa. He has one hand in a nearly empty bowl of snacks. His blood on the wall tells the truth.
Later still the deliverer walks out into the hallway, leaves the door open just an inch. Draws his baseball cap down over his face as someone passes him on the way down. He opens another set of doors and disappears into the cold night.
In the afternoon the apartment is filled with men in blue. They stare at the couch potato with either disgust or detachment in their eyes. Flashes light up the apartment, footsteps wander between the wall and the dead man. Eventually he is removed.
In the evening all are gone. The door is closed off with tape. There is a thick stillness in the air. This place, too, is deathly quiet.
Two men meet in a poorly lit park. A gray-haired man and his cigarette are all that is visible to possible passersby. He sits on a bench, speaking low. Behind him, hidden among the trees, is his ally.
"Another murder. Same perp. Getting cocky, killing only two nights after the first. Victim was a young man, lived alone. Nothing seems to be missing from the apartment."
He pulls out an envelope, offers it to the darkness.
"Slit throat. Weapon not found on scene. Victim murdered in one end of the room, moved over to the coach, put into a pose."
The darkness snatches the envelope.
"Plenty of fingerprints, match the others. Again, not on file. One witness, claims he saw a man in the hallway late in the night. Nondescript clothing, baseball cap covering his face, average height, average build. Useless. The door looks to have been forced open with a crowbar, no sign of that either. Fibers on an armchair in the living room, matches fibers from the first crime scene. Probably the hoodie. Theory is he takes his clothes off so as not to get them bloody."
The envelope is thrown back onto the bench. The gray-haired man pockets it.
"And that message again."
The old man takes a last drag, throws the cigarette into a nearby trashcan.
"Yeah. That again."
They go their separate ways.
He rests his chin on his hand, traces his fingers along the newspaper with a smile on his lips. He fondly stares at a framed photo lying on the table.
He grabs his knife, cuts slowly. Breathes through his teeth. Licks his lips.
He looks out into the cold, cold night and shivers. He can hardly wait.