Page 65 of Fallen: Darkness Ascending, Vol.1

EDDIE MATICE

T he shrill wail of the police sirens cuts through the air, relentless and deafening.

As they circle closer, the options for evasion slip through my grasp—a tightening noose threatening capture.

Darkness looms nearer as the last few moments of sunset begin their descent past the horizon.

A molten blend of crimson bleeds across the sky, a delectable mirror mimicking the chaos I’ve brought this evening.

Every beat of my raging pulse echoes the narrowing of my passage to freedom. I’m not fooling anyone anymore. They know who I am. The unredeemable things I have done. A brutalizing killer that stalks the night is no longer a shadow—I am the face they hunt now.

Tonight, uncontrollable urges broke through the cracks of my control, the rest spiraling quickly.

My first mistake? Letting my favorite blade beckon forth the abyss inside me from the depths of my jeans pocket.

I have never been to this part of town before, but I couldn’t deny the dominating urge to follow the busty blonde home from the dive bar.

She was the type of woman who mistook attention for affection.

Fake platinum hair curling in cheap waves around a too-proud face, red lips always parted in seductive invitation.

Her blouse clung too tightly to her chest, leaving little to the imagination.

A shrill, practiced laugh cut through the bar like a hook searching for bait.

Every sway of her hips screamed desperation masked as confidence, her perfume wafting a trail of dollar-store lust. She leaned too close when she talked, touching unnecessarily, as if the world owed her a prize for merely existing.

Hidden under all of the pretend allure, I saw it: the pathetic tremble of someone who had never truly known fear.

Not yet.

Her biggest mistake was drawing my attention from across the cracked, peeling counter.

She hadn’t known it then, but her life was going to end this evening at my hand.

Every exaggerated swig from her glass, the way she licked the rim with those painted lips, made each sip a performance that boiled my blood.

Who’d this bitch think she was? Where did she get the audacity to be out alone, without a protector, a handler?

Women are subservient to men and should know their place.

Powerless fawns meant only to answer to a man's needs and desires. Bend to their every will. Instead, some deem themselves above their deserved level, seeking a higher pedestal which didn’t belong to them.

I relish the idea of reminding them that the gum beneath my boot deserves more respect than their good-for-nothing flesh suits.

By societal standards, I’d be considered plain, forgettable at best, repulsive at worst. I’ve got the height women prefer, but that's where their interest seems to fizzle—a match dropped in water. Despite my broad shoulders, there’s no charm in me, no easy grin or softness in my features.

My eyes don’t sparkle, nor does my smile brighten up a room.

My appearance is one people instinctively avoid in parking lots and empty hallways.

I allow my dark beard to grow wild and coarse.

Same with my hair—long, thick, always damp-looking no matter how I attempt to braid it back.

Clean-shaven men pretend to be harmless.

Their smiles are masks, their polished manners an alluring trick.

They groom themselves into disarming packages and wonder why they’re empty inside.

I never bother with pretending. I’ve no interest in being palatable.

I have never cared for being desired, only obeyed.

I’m not here to be invited in; I’m here to invade.

I keep to the shadows not because I’m hiding, but because they’re honest. The dark doesn’t flatter or lie.

It simply is. And in that void, I am more myself than I’ve ever been in the open.

I belong in places where the light refuses to linger—moldy alleys and piss-slick basements.

Where the air is stale and full of secrets, the truth breathes.

In shadow, I am not misunderstood, I am home.

In the hollow underworld of this city, I am most alive and able to feed.

Warm blood continues to drip from the blade in my hand, splattering abstract art of Blondie’s essence around my feet.

My little masterpiece. Unfettered rage blurs the final moments of her eviscerated flesh surrendering under my hands and steel.

I don’t remember exactly when she finally stopped gasping for those last, fragile scraps of breath.

Maybe it was the rupture of her femoral artery.

Perhaps it was the unmistakable sound of a severed spinal column.

It doesn’t matter. Not now. Not when my euphoric little games are forced to end.

My lungs scream a fiery inferno as I duck between two derelict houses.

As far as my eyes can see, piled trash, old furniture, and who knows what else fill the narrow pathway.

It reeks of piss, decay, and something older.

Sirens echo down the blocks in a sinister game of hide and seek, but they don’t know where I’ve gone. Not yet.

For a brief moment, I press my back against the half-collapsed brick wall, unbothered by the damp filth soaking into my clothing.

I draw in a breath through the nose, exhaling slowly between clenched teeth.

I don’t have the luxury of time to wait; I should keep running and not look back. One glance forward stops me cold.

And there she is.

Bathed in soft yellow light, glowing against the stark contrast of the encroaching darkness. A woman far removed from the depravity I’ve crawled from. She appears to be real, yet reminiscent of a dream my mind would conjure.

She glides with an innocence I crave to defile.

Satiny smooth red hair sits loosely atop her head, an effortless knot unraveled by a few stray coils clinging to her cheek as she leans over the stove.

Steam billows up from the large pot, tinting her face a soft rouge.

Not a hint of make-up hides her beautiful features.

Her black knit sweater carelessly hangs off one shoulder, baring unmarred porcelain skin.

She doesn’t know what her obliviousness does to me.

She doesn’t know darkness has a face, and it’s already smiling.

I don’t move. Not yet.

There’s ritual in restraint—the watching, the waiting.

It’s foreplay for me. The anticipation tastes sweeter than the act, for now anyway.

There is a rareness about her. It reignites the spark that should’ve been satiated hours ago when I silenced the blonde bitch’s screams. A heady pulse thrums under my skin, scorching and intoxicating.

Nearly fully engulfed in her flame, flashing red and blue shakes me from my reverie.

Forgotten police lights flare against the large trees across the street, a cruel reminder.

I snap back to the present and dive into the overgrown bushes below her bay window.

Sharp twigs tear into the flesh of my arms, blending my fresh blood into the mangled sinew still clinging to my soiled clothes.

Damp earth seeps into my knees, but I don’t care.

Because from here, I see her more clearly now.

Divinity among mortals.

Her radiance glows in the dim light of the kitchen, a rare beauty in a world full of rot and shit. Why did it take me so long to find someone like her? Someone unblemished and pliable to my demands. Magnificently obedient.

I won’t risk this one slipping away, not like so many others before her.

The blood on my knife has begun to dry, deep red flakes forming along the handle. Still, I tighten my grip and creep my way out of the hedge, remaining crouched beneath the window. The sliding screen door is only a few feet away.

With this proximity, I catch her scent.

A rich aroma permeates through the door, sending my senses into a frenzy. Garlic, butter, and hearty spices, the perfume of a home I was never allowed to have. It clings to the back of my throat, similar to temptation itself.

I can hear her moving about inside, bare feet lightly tapping on the tile floor, a gentle hum softly escaping her mouth. I track every step, every flick of her wrist as she stirs the masterpiece forming on the stove.

Anticipation starts salivating on my tongue, an involuntary response to the ecstasy waiting for me beyond this door. This one is different. This one might be my undoing.