Meanwhile, outside, a man stood. He slid his hands over the door as though caressing the tender skin of a lover. He could see so clearly. Everything was crisp, almost transparent to him. It was obvious now; so unlike his earlier confusion, his anger. It had driven him for so long, fermenting beneath the surface of his skin, propelling him onwards, but all the time blinding him to reality. He had felt so inadequate, all those times when his relationships had failed, when he had lost his jobs, when he had wound up in court. But he could see now, it wasn't his fault, not his fault at all.
Its them.
Their faults.
They make me look bad, they made me do all those things. If it wasn't for them, with their morals and stuck-up ideas of being superior there wouldn't be a problem.
Its them.
But he wasn't angry. Not anymore. Because things had become clear. He wasn't inadequate. He was normal, and all that was standing in his way of leading the perfect life was one thing.
The other driver.
They had never met before, but he was to blame. He was the only one who could ruin his new-found clarity. He was the only flaw on the horizon, the one who could destroy his plans.
He'll tell.
It had been his fault after all. The damage to the front bumper of his car, being delayed on the road. His anger had erupted in a tidal wave of rage and he couldn't help himself. The other driver had made him do it. He had asked for it.
He had left him at the side of the road, the knife clenched in an unbreakable grasp, knuckles white. He had surprised himself, the force of his punches, the feeling of his unmerciful blows as they had pummel the smaller man. He had felt a power like never before.
I could rule the world.
And then the knife. It seemed to have come from nowhere, and driving it into the soft, yielding flesh… For the first time he felt like he had done something remarkable, something sensational that would demand respect.
With power like that they should worship me.
Driving away from the scene of his masterpiece had been a struggle. Leaving the man sprawled in the dirt, the growing stain of redness seeping like an inkblot in water, was truly a sight to behold.
My creation.
But others wouldn't have understood it. He knew that. And so he had had to leave, content in the knowledge that others would find the body, that there would be wonder in the sight he had created. He had driven nearly the length of the road when the flashing lights caught his eye.
No!
The police? Already? Surely they didn't know. They couldn't. They wouldn't dare spoil his magnum opus! In his fright he had swerved the car off the road, smashing into the road-side crash barrier.
Scrambling from the car he had been overcome in panic, steam billowed from the bonnet being swept up into the stormy atmosphere, and he knew that any moment a throng of cops would descend on him. He found he couldn't move, numb with fear. With baited breath he waited, watching the lights continue to flash alarmingly. But nothing happened. After a few minutes his muscles began to relax and he inched forwards. A large barrier had blocked the road, orange flashing lights twirling a warning into the dark air. There were no police there.
An unequivocal sense of relief flooded his veins. And in that split second he knew that he had to go back. To make sure. To be certain that he was dead.
Because if he's not then he'll tell. He'll tell them and they'll come for me.
But that won't happen because he'll be dead. I'll make sure of it.
And so he had returned. Walking along the dark road, no lights, no sounds but the waves crashing against the shore and the violent roar of the wind. It soothed his nerves. Comforted him. Nature was a kindred spirit – violent, unpredictable, volatile. It made him feel whole.
He had lost track of time, the coldness clawed at his skin and he found it almost unbelievable that the day had been a hot one. Eventually he came to the bend in the road that alerted him to the scene. A smile crept onto his lips as he rounded the corner, expectant. Waiting.
The empty road felt like a knife to his heart.
He had gone.
And so he had searched, deep tracks had been cut into the sodden earth where the sports car had once stood. He had followed them until they reached the road, where the dirt trail had been washed away by the constant deluge of rain. But he knew which direction to walk, and he had come across the driveway. He heard it first. A horn blearing through the night. His worry was quashed instantly when he saw the red car. A smile broke his features causing a sting of pain to flare across his cheek and he savoured the discomfort. As he approached he could make out a form slumped across the steering wheel, the pressure causing the horn to continue resounding through the drive. Fingering the knife which was stowed in his pocket he knew that this time he would not leave anything to chance. The knife would do its job and he would be certain that there would be no one left to threaten his plans. Closer and closer he advanced on the car, his chest burning with repressed excitement, every fibre tingling with anticipation.
A sudden noise ahead of him shook him from his enrapture. Squinting through the torrential rain he noticed a house at the end of the driveway, the door had just been flung open and a man was running towards the car. Frozen to the spot he was torn as to what to do. The yearning to continue onwards with his mission was overwhelming, he was so close!
Just a few more steps and I could do it. I could finish him…
But there was no way the other man wouldn't see him, he would, in fact, be seen at any moment unless he didn't retreat into the darkened confines of the heavily planted driveway, as the man's presence became more imminent.
With a grunt of fury he stepped backwards, moving away from the car, away from what he so desperately wanted. Scrambling into the bushes he felt the sharp twigs scratching abrasively at the bare skin of his arms. Blood pounded through his veins, burning at the back of his eyes and distorting his vision. The rage he had felt earlier in the day returned with a vengeance and he felt an ache-like hunger for the man, the cause of all his problems - his prey.
But now he was forced to stand and watch as the man dared to interfere, to spoil what he had created.
Maybe… But I would have to kill him too…
He battled with himself. Should he? Two people. It was more than he wanted…
Two people. No one would know…
"STEVE!"
Eyes open wide with fear he fell back into the bushes, the thorned plant tearing at his legs through his jeans as the man called in the direction of the door, his voice being carried through the air away from the house.
No. No. NO!!
There are more people here.
Damn it!
The man faltered for a moment and then ran back in the direction of the house.
Now was his chance. While the man was gone he could do it. He could kill him now and they would never know that he had failed the first time.
Yes.
Struggling to stand created a problem however, and the battle to extricate himself from the clutches of the triffid-like plant resulted in a heavy fall into the swamp-like dirt taking precious seconds of his time. Scrambling to his feet he ran to the car, heaving for breath. But he was too late. The man had reappeared in the distance, followed by a younger man and a woman.
Too many people.
Fear now mingled with the rage which pounded through his body.
They can't catch me. I won't let them…
He turned and ran, down the drive, away from all those people who were this very moment destroying what he had created so perfectly.
And when he had finally built up the courage to return they had gone. The car stood empty, the ghastly orange glow illuminating a pool of blood staining the interior.
But he had waited. Patiently he had waited and then she had come out of the house. The woman, on her own, and the temptation to pounce there and then had been overwhelming.
Patience.
He had to control himself, it would do no good to be caught now.
Once she had gone he had made his way up to the house, and it was there that he stood, pressing his face onto the door, listening intently for signs of life within.
Waiting for his time to come.