Love is ...

I hate people. Dumb, vacuous morons, using my oxygen, wasting my time. Getting in my way. Continuing to exist, despite my wishes.

Fuckers.

I try to avoid them. I spend 9 hours a day working with a bunch of bland, characterless meat puppets, feeding greedy, entitled fuckers and their screaming, snot nosed brats. No connection there, apart from bitching about the fryer that keeps overheating and burning the fries. I'd feel more comfortable trying to have a meaningful relationship with the ice cream machine. At least that works without much complaint. They are just faulty cogs in a machine that doesn't work well anyway. Constantly needing shouting at to do the simplest fucking thing. Organic, brainless robots.

Fuckers.

Shift end. Friday. 8 PM. They are all going out for a few drinks. All excited that it is the weekend. Turn away. Ignore them. My body language wishing they would all just fuck off and die. Who cares what they do. That they want to sociallise, despite being the lowest of the low is depressing. Proof that they are scum. Worthless. Have to shout about cleaning up, my typical Friday shouting.

Fuckers.

I go home alone. Shower for 25 minutes, scrubbing myself hard with soap and a loofah to get every bit of the day off my body. Clean up my never used kitchen, put my work clothes in the wash, and go to bed. Sleep comes. Eventually. As always.

I never dream.

Wake, just before the alarm. The coffee is ready, I set the machine last night. Drink it as I get dressed. Recite my mantra. It is total shit, but I paid for the course. Just another fucker taking advantage of people. Back when I cared. When I believed. About anything at all. The crucifix on the wall mocks me with my hollowness. Yeah right. I asked for help. It did not come. Should really get rid of that thing. Just another reminder of the dead past.

Saturday. I clean the whole apartment. It doesn't take long. There is nothing to gather dust. No pictures, no ornaments, no mementos. I threw them all out a long time ago. It is a bleak, sterile place. It suits me. The headshrinkers say if you want to know the man, look at his home. No one will know me by how I live.

No one.

Only my scrap book shows any of me. The real me. The secret me. Thinking about that reminds me. It is time to go to the library. I check all the papers there, to see if there is anything in them for me. If there is, I buy them on my way home, cut out the articles I want, and paste them in my scrap book. Sometimes there are other things to paste in too. Depending on what is in the papers.

Only one today, from the local paper. I don't travel much, so these things have to be pretty local. Within a couple of hours drive of where I live, maximum. The old, familiar feelings stir. The dull throbbing in my head.

Rage.

Force it down. Neatly fold the papers and return them to the rack. Being tidy. Being polite. Smile at the girl at the desk. She nods her thanks and smiles back. No idea who she is, they are all the same to me. Blank faced drones. Yet appearances must be maintained.

Buy the paper from the news kiosk. Cup of coffee and a danish in the coffee shop I always use. The one with free wifi. Idle over it. Just a single man, doing single man things. Browsing the net on his laptop while having a light lunch. Maintain appearances. Be just another one of the horde. Don't stand out. Don't be noticed.

Be normal.

One thing I am good with is computers. Databases. Information. I have a talent, and have trained it up to serious skill. Not that I admit to it. When the computer crashes at work, I call tech support like a good little boy. You never show your hole cards. Not to the useless fucks, not to anyone.

What I need to know doesn't take long to find. People are so fucking stupid now, especially kids. Put their entire lives out there for the world to see. Trying to validate their pathetic, ineffectual lives. Show an uncaring world that they exist. Stupid of them. But useful.

Home.

There should be another word for where you live. Home is too warm. Too friendly. Too family. Carefully cut out the article. Paste it squarely and neatly in my scrap book. Write the date above it, an address below it. I have good handwriting. Copperplate. Old fashioned, but so am I in some respects. There are still some things worth preserving in this world, even now. Outside, the afternoon is waning. Check my equipment. The knife. The gloves. The nails. The tape. The camera. Clean. Ready for action. Time to get dressed and go out to dinner, to my usual restaurant. A man with habits is invisible. Tonight, I rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.

Sunday.

I don't take my own car. Why should I bother? That would be stupid in the age of survailence cameras. Every scumbag has a car. I can borrow them when I like. It takes me 30 seconds to steal one. It is the sort of car I like. A few years old. A popular model and color. Inconspicuous. By 5 am I am at my target's house. One car in the drive. Toys in the yard, their bright colors dulled by the weather. I slip silently into the garage, disconnect the lightswitch, and settle to watch. Don't even have to pick the lock. Dumb. Rage pulsing in my head like a migrane, narrowing my vision, tinging everything red.

Wait.

Patience is the key. It is Sunday. It is the suburbs. My target will be out soon. The zombies follow routine. Follow the herd. Are stupid. I can smell them stirring.

A rattle from the door connecting the garage to the house. Merge into the shadows. Wait. Be sure. Hear a muttered curse as the lightswitch clicks ineffectually.

Male. Adult.

He makes his way through the gloom towards the main doors. Behind him the door to the house swings shut and latches. I glide forward. Vision narrowed to a pinpoint, red flashing in time to my pulse. He starts to turn, even the drones sense when there is danger around them. Too late. I slit his throat with one swift movement of my wrist, the shock of blade slicing flesh riding up my arm like a mini orgasm. He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a quietly bubbling breath. My knife blocks his vocal chords. He collapses to the floor and I follow him down, keeping the knife in his throat. He flails for a minute. He is strong, but not as strong as me. He merely fears. I am rage. His eyes both plead and question.

"Steven Hendricks. You have been convicted of drunk driving. Justice is served." I say my traditional words, as the light fades from his eyes.

Dead.

Slice off a lock of his hair, as he has no tattoos to skin off. Peel off my coveralls, pull out the camera and take several pictures. The best one will be printed and go into the scrapbook.

The scrap book with "In Memoriam" on the cover.

And a picture of the family I used to have.