Short Story

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Short Story.

It was a dark, rainy, horrible night, it was 10 o’clock I had finished work for the day and left the stadium as usual where I worked as a cleaner. I noticed mist lurking over the muddy brown waters of the river. Then it hit me that need, want, death was in the air, I could almost taste it, the exact same way you could smell rotting bodies in a morgue; tonight was the night.

I was hungry, I needed to kill.

People were scared of me; maybe it was my long black greasy hair, my piercing blue eyes, my tall muscular physique or that scar. Whatever it was they always ignored me, like the poor broken bench that people only ever use if they have to.

I followed the river round to the park and unlocked the door of the not quite so public toilet, where it all happens, I had the key because I was the one who locked it and made them out of order, and as I had done many times before hid in the bushes and waited, with my black knee length jacket making me hard to see in the shadows. It was unbearable waiting for the right woman to come along, waiting, waiting, waiting, it seemed an eternity.

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Then as if from nowhere, she was there passing from dark to light, light to dark in her high heeled shoes, pink jacket and cream coloured blouse with her skinny legs in the pouring rain, number 23. Each one exactly the same, young, shiny and ginger.

She had a red leather bag with her, and as she was walking along she tripped on an uneven paving slab in Hitchcroft Park which had a bad reputation. When she tripped a whole host of make up fell out of her bag onto the hard, wet floor beneath. She had so ...

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