Diary of a psychopath

The night was cold, the city wrapped in a heavy, almost suffocating silence. The kind of silence that only comes in the moments before a storm, where you can hear every breath, every creak of the floorboards.

I stood in the dim-lit alleyway, watching him. His back was to me, as he fumbled with the lock on the back door of his apartment. He didn't know I was there, but I could feel him, the tension in his muscles, the subtle shift of his posture that betrayed the fact he was nervous. He should have been. After all, the darkness had been watching him for a while now.

I took a slow, deliberate step forward. The blade in my hand felt familiar, comforting. I had held it countless times before, each moment etched in my memory like a mark of distinction. The cool steel gleamed in the low light as I gripped it tighter, my fingers steady.

The first cut was always the hardest. Not physically, but mentally. It was the moment I could never quite reconcile with myself. But as his body jerked, the blood sprayed—bright and red—I felt that familiar sense of release. Like I could breathe again. Like I had control of everything that had been slipping through my fingers for so long.

He struggled, of course. They always do. But he didn't last. A few more careful strikes, and it was done. His blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the concrete, staining it forever. I stared at him for a moment longer, the weight of what I had done hanging in the air like smoke. The satisfaction didn't come immediately; it never did. It always took a few moments for it to sink in, for me to realize that once again, I had done something no one else could ever understand.

I wiped the knife clean, then stashed it back where it belonged. The clean-up was quick. There was no need for anything to be left behind. A few deliberate moves, and the alley was as quiet and empty as it had been before.

The adrenaline still surged through me as I walked away. The feeling lingered for hours, that beautiful rush. I couldn't wait to get back to my apartment, where the silence of my small space would wash over me like a cold wave, pushing everything else out.

I hadn't been back long when I heard a knock at my door.

At first, I ignored it. No one ever came by. Not unless they wanted something. But the knocking persisted, soft but insistent. I didn't know why I even bothered answering—curiosity, I guess.

When I opened the door, I was met with the unexpected.

Lena.

She was standing there in the hallway, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She was holding a plate, covered in foil, the faint smell of something cooking wafting in from the hallway.

"Hey," she said, her voice warm and friendly, like I hadn't just been through something I could never explain to anyone. "I made too much dinner. Thought you might like some."

I blinked, surprised by her sudden appearance. There was something strange about it, something that tugged at the back of my mind. No one had ever been this kind to me before. But it was too late to back out now. She was already standing there, waiting for me to say something.

I took the plate, my fingers brushing against hers. She didn't seem to notice the coldness that crept up my spine at the touch.

"Thanks," I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "I—uh—I appreciate it."

She smiled, a soft, genuine smile, one that made my chest tighten. She wasn't expecting anything from me, no strings attached. But I knew better. There was always a price to pay.

"I'm Lena," she added, her eyes briefly meeting mine before looking down at the plate. "I live next door. Just wanted to… you know, be neighborly."

I nodded, trying to muster some normalcy. "I'm—uh—Michael." My voice sounded distant to me, as if I wasn't fully present.

She lingered there for a moment, as if considering something, but then smiled again. "Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to knock, okay? I'll leave you to it."

With that, she turned to leave, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. I watched her go, unable to look away as she disappeared around the corner.

For a moment, I just stood there, holding the plate. The weight of it felt different, heavy. I should have been thinking about the mess I had just left behind, about the blood still fresh on my hands, but instead, my mind was on Lena.

Her smile. The way her eyes had locked onto mine, full of that naive kindness. It was unsettling.

I glanced down at the plate in my hands. The smell hit me again. It was familiar. Not in a pleasant way, but in a way that made my skin crawl.

It couldn't be.

I shook my head. It was nothing. But still, I couldn't help but wonder—what did she know? Was she more aware than she let on?

To be continued...