I stood, my back against the wall, my eyes lazily rolled up towards the haze of the skyline. My eyes were lightly closed, and I stood in the cool summer air, contemplating the moment. I was not happy, nor was I sad. For a strange moment, the mechanisms of the world had come to a screeching halt. For a moment, I simply was. The Book beat like a heart inside of my jacket, calm and steady, at least for the time being. When it went at this lazy pace, I could relax a little bit. My lungs expanded and emptied with ease, exchanging air with the great expanse of the sky. It was not a joyful moment, or even a peaceful one, but it was one that I needed badly.

I began to feel the heart beat against my ribs grow more rapid and anxious. With a sign of defeat, I pushed myself off the wall and stood at attention. The time was coming. How many times had I done this now? Twenty, maybe thirty? I would have to look back on the records, on the crossed out names, to know for sure. Despite the amount of times I'd completed this task, it never became easy. This job was meant for somebody, but I was certainly not that person.

But it mattered not. I was bound, and if I wanted to ever live again, or even die in peace, I had to fulfill my oath. Besides, I figured, I was arguably doing something good. In spite of this though, I could not make myself feel anything in the way of pride. If what I did made the world a better place, my stomach surely did not believe it, as it turned and churned to no avail. The heart beat of the book began to intensify, and my entire nervous system tightened and raveled up.

Was this my normal, natural reaction, or the effect of The Book on my mind? I had no way of knowing. I knew that any second, The Book would take over, and I would no longer be capable of stopping myself. The books beat harder and harder against me, practically shaking my jacket. I put my hands in my pocket to steady my gait, as I saw my victim from across the street. A balding man in his forties, obese and grimy looking. He departed from a run down tenement and began to walk towards my side of the street, hands in his pocket and face down.

Now the book took over entirely. I felt a rage and a hatred shoot through my body, searing at my chest and forcing its way into my throat and eyes. My aloofness disappeared. This man was a scumbag, a menace, a monster. Looking at him, I could only image the heinous and unspeakable crimes he had committed. I no longer felt ambivalence, he had to die, and I would be the man that killed him.

The sensation was horrendous and incredible. I felt alive, so alive, as if every cell in my body was screaming with rage and passion. I was high off the feeling, my fists clenched, my mind on fire. The cloudiness of existence vanished, replaced by an unshakable and incredible clarity. "Kill the bastard!" Without a single thought from myself, my body roared into action.

The man finally crossed over onto my side of the street, and before he could turn and go left or right, I exploded from the shadows of the alley. He turned in surprise as I emerged from behind him, and I slammed my fist against the side of his face, screeching with unholy anger. The strength of The Book was so that his jaw was immediately shattered, and he fell to the ground in a heap.

As he lie there prostrate, I felt the insanity force its way into the front of my mind. I didn't want to take the life of someone lying defenseless on the ground, regardless of their personal sins. I stood there, shaking, fighting the screeching anger that was beginning to overwhelm my thoughts. My hands shook, and I began to scream, a civil war waging in the corners of my mind.

Then all at once, it was over. Before I could even process what I had done, my hands were red, red again, covered in blood. A sick mix of ecstasy, shame and fear flooded the space behind my eyes. A new urge overtook me, as the book slammed into my body, over and over; I had to flee.

I washed my hands off in a puddle and took of down an alleyway, sprinting with near inhuman speed. I turned a corner, skidding hard enough to drive a cascade of dirt and soot into the calm air of the night. I reached the end of the alleyways, and peered around the corner at the dimly lit street.

The street was empty, as if a spell had warded off any semblance of human life. It seemed as if my missions were always blessed with good luck; there were never any witnesses, hardly any noise. I wasn't sure if that was the work of the Book or just a consequence of where and when I operated.

I quickly removed the bloodied gloves from my hands, taking the first glove off with a pinch and a pull, and the second by hooking my finger under the elastic and pulling it down and off my hand. I put them in a plastic grocery shopping bag, and tucked the bag into my jacket pocket. My body was on autopilot, my brain shot from the flood of emotions and urges I had just been subjected to.

As sickened as I was by the entire ordeal, a weird feeling of relaxation and pleasure had begun to settle in. It was kind of like a sick homicide afterglow, and as upset with myself as I was, I was glad to have a little relief. I wondered if this was just the natural come down from the adrenaline rush, or if the Book was at it again, trying to reward me for having done its bidding once again.

I don't know how long my walk home was, but sometime in the middle of the night, I reached the door of my apartment building. I checked my watch; it was about 2AM. Luckily, it was a Saturday morning, and a tenant returning deep into the night was unlikely to arouse suspicion. I sighed. If I wanted to be convincing, I had to play the part.

I stiffened my arms and essentially half stumbled, half fell through the apartment door. The lobby was well lit, and it's austere, light colors hit my eyes like a diesel engine; I didn't have to fake being stunned. I landed hard on my left foot, faked a stumble, and then jerked back to my feet, shaking my head out. Mr. Fourier, the kindly old security guard, approached me and tucked his shoulder under my arm.

"Are you alright son? You're listing pretty heavy right now." I jerked my face to meet his, and I instantly felt a tinge of regret; his eyes were full of genuine concern. I straightened my body, and reduced my swaying. "I'm really sorry Mr. Fourier, I uh, was at a party down town, and I saw this really pretty girl and we hung out and uh I left and yeah I'm here." He gave me a disappointed gaze, utterly confused by the word salad I had provided him.

"That's alright Mr. Perdeno, I had my fair share of long nights when I was your age. Please have a glass of water and go to bed, you're in really bad shape right now." I gave him an exaggerated nod. "Of course, I'm really sorry. Enjoy doing your thing tonight." I broke off from him, and gave him an awkward little wave. I stumbled towards the elevator and basically threw myself into it.

As soon as the doors shut, I sighed and straightened myself out. I found that I was doing a lot of things I hated lately, and it was starting to get to me. The elevator took me to the eighth floor, and I strode out slowly and quietly, to not awaken any of my neighbors. After some exhausted fumbling, my key found its way into my lock, and I entered a place that felt partway between sanctuary and tomb.