Jessica Cambrook, 06 Sep '12

You followed her down the street. She could feel the lingering, lustful eyes on the back of her head but she couldn't bring herself to turn around. A shiver rippled down her spine, spidering out through her arms and legs so the hairs stood on end. You licked your lips and allowed yourself a sly smirk. She was fifteen. Her cheeks still carried the roundness of a child. Your hand, moist with a toxic mix of exhilaration and anxiety, gripped the blade you had brought especially for the occasion. You had followed her for a long enough time now to know her usual route home, but you had never been so obvious before. The quick patter of her feet trying to carry her home quicker than you could follow gave away her obvious fear. You enjoyed that. Then, when she turned into the back alleyway, just as you had planned, you attacked. The blade had come in handy several other times, as had the balaclava tucked into your hood. None of the girls had ever been able to identify you. She cried out for help once, until you pressed the blade so hard into her neck that it drew blood, but that only added to the excitement of it all. When you were done, you simply removed the knife from her neck and walked away, tucking the balaclava back into your pocket as you sauntered back into reality, leaving her sobbing and clutching at her clothes in delirious panic.

It wasn't my life you took that night and sometimes I know living with the memories is much worse.