The killer stares back at me with ice blue eyes. Eyes spiked with a hunger that demands to be fed. Eyes that gleam at the lush gore of severed flesh, savoring the tortured intimacy of slow death. That dull with the cold bloom of the mangled corpse as the rage slowly seeps away, flowing pure and red.
Eyes that keep their promise.
These are the eyes I meet as I prepare to leave my house, the darkness having wrapped its whorish arms around the city like an empty, pulsing womb. A womb the eyes need to see cut. Cut and bleeding and raw. A womb that no longer could birth the monster where madness held its ravenous roost.
These are the eyes that check once more for the soothing presence of the machete, tucked lovingly inside the oversized coat, before turning away from the mirror and heading for the door.
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