Bump In The Night

Concealed beneath the floorboards thumping,
Left long ago and passed me away to pseudo-emotions

As a gardener I could pass the blood under my fingernails as dirt from the pansies I had planted earlier that day. I always used to wonder what it felt like to be dead, but none of my clients have ever been so bold as to visit me with the knowledge that I seek. My mind has a straight edge like a razor, and I know many would disagree.. but there is something alluring about the thrill of stalking that draws me back time after time. Once again, I find myself in a friend's house with not but a knife and my patience...

Why a friend? Because I can't just wander into somebody's house and expect to keep myself camouflaged. I must know their routines, times they are not at home, and know them well. A diversion. As a friend, I can keep them at home or out to lunch for some time while I prepare, and then I can lure them back with ease. I adore the cell phone he got me for my birthday, and I almost feel guilty for the price he is to pay for it.

I'm never burdened with the last words of dear companions. I can only imagine that it's hard to speak with a piece of metal protruding into your throat. My friends all lie peacefully on their comfortable beds which they have the pleasure of sleeping in every day, much like this.. but without something going bump in the night.