The killer's pacing is the metronome for my terror; it keeps a rhythm to the unbridled chaos that surges through my mind. The monotony of the sound is almost inaudible beneath the cacophony of the galloping steeds that seemed to crash into my heart. My mouth is a desert, my head a painful tumor growing from my neck. My limbs are almost useless, even without the manacles that fasten me to the wooden chair. Dripping from my brow is sweat, which obscures my vision almost as much as the fear does.

But he is apathetic. Continuing his repetitive path, he seems to be thinking, but what of? I would be more curious if I did not dread what his next action would be. He paces, the rhythm beginning to overcome the pandemonium inside my brain. My fluids slow in my body as the terror subsides, and the anticipation builds.

The killer stops, and gives me a queer look. He gnaws on his lip and tilts his head ever-so-slightly sideways. He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, and then shakes his head. He returns to his tedious ritual.

The terror has subsided now and the curiosity has swollen like a balloon inside my head. It pushes my brain, and forces me to act.

'W'�,'� I say through the sand in my mouth, 'What do you want from me? Why did you bring me here?'�

He stops and gazes at me once more, this time with a face like a rock wall. He draws a large knife from the sheath on his belt. Its length is that of God's very arm. Its sheen is that of a slow moving river, that holds unspeakable terrors beneath its serene appearance. It would have been beautiful, mesmerizing even, if I knew not its intent. The killer spins it on his gloved finger, which is stuck through the ring. The black, plastic hilt contrasts the glinting blade as night contrasts day. But the hilt means nothing to me--it cannot harm me--the blade can and will.

'I have a question,'� the killer says, advancing towards me. 'It's very important and you won't lie to me if you value your life.'�


The killer steps into the light, his face is obscured by a balaclava and he is dressed in long, rippling clothing. He licks his lips in anticipation, so sadistic. A sly smile spreads itself over the killer's lips. His teeth are not shown, as if he was saving them for some greater feast than that of my murder.

'Y'�Yes?'� is the word that manages to flee from my throat.

The killer is closer now, only feet away. He stops and stares me directly in my eyes. Toying with me. That's what he's doing. Playing. This is sport for him, a game. I become indignant. My anger is now plainly visible on my face, even to me. The killer seems note my impatience, and steps forward. I am ready. He can mutilate me to whatever degree he wishes, I will not give the loathsome, despicable mockery of a human being the satisfaction of a scream.

He moves in. He's a foot in front of my face. I can smell his vile breath.

'What's your preference,'� He pauses and smiles deeper. 'Chicken or Beef?'�

I'm flabbergasted.

'Well?'�

'B-beef!'�

He leans back and raises the knife. Its gargantuan blade snaps downward. But it cuts rope and not flesh. Another swipe and the other rope is rendered. I stare at him; astonishment and disbelief are plainly visible on my features.

'You're free to go,'� the killer reported, off-handedly, 'Thanks for helping me choose dinner tonight.'�

He picks a remote from his pocket as I rub the atrophy from my wrists. One button is pressed, and the garage door opens. I stand hesitantly, still staring at him. He makes a sweeping gesture towards the gaping maw of the garage. The sly smile is still prominent on his face.

I sprint, as fast as I have ever moved in my life. On the way out I trip on the curb and spin around, expecting the killer to be pursuing me. However, he isn't. Standing in the garage, he laughs at my pitiful antics. His laugh oozes from his body like congealed blood from a preserved corpse. Waving, he presses the button on the remote, once more. The shutter closes, seemly entrapping the killer with the sly grin, who still looks at me with a sparkle in his eye.

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