Terror at Two

Terror at Two.

Amaury Olivier Laporte

Tic toc. Tic toc. The clock struck two. It was two in the morning. Bob was tired. It was time. Time to kill. Bob wasn't a violent man. Not normally anyways. The sight of blood made him squirm. He didn't like blood. But he had to do it. It was necessary. He had to kill. The torture had gone on long enough. It was enough. He had enough, enough of it. He could not stand it any longer. He heard a car drive by in the darkness. The cold darkness. The cold, still darkness. What time was it? Oh yes. Two. Two in the morning. He could not wait any longer. He had to act now. It was necessary. He had to kill. Kill savagely, kill in cold blood. Blood. He had to. He grabbed the Weapon. It was sturdy, and yet flexible and light. Just what he needed to kill. The floor groaned. The wind moaned. Another car's lights momentarily lit up the room. He saw the Victim. No pity. It was necessary. If he did it fast enough, the Victim wouldn't feel a thing. There would be blood. But that was necessary. It was necessary. He had to kill. He breathed softly. Inhale, exhale. Don't alert the Victim. Silently, he crept. The night was still. There were no cars now. He was just behind the Victim. He couldn't make him out very well, but he knew he was there. There. Kill. Now. Bob swatted the mosquito.