CHAPTER TWELVE
Her head was always foggy after a killing.
It had been that way ever since childhood.
She’d wake up feeling odd, not herself. The part of her that she kept hidden in her nightmares would clamor to be released, would claw its way to the surface.
She’d hold on for a little while, but she would get tired, and it would be less and less worth it to hold on.
Then she’d sleep, and the other would take over.
Her memories of the other were always fragmented. Nostrils flaring, the heady scent of blood filling them, the beautiful knowledge of her own body: its strength, its speed, its viciousness. The prey succumbed, dissipating beneath her, separating until her thirst was slaked.
Then the joyful, intense peak of sensation, far better than any sexual climax, rolled through her from head to toe and back. The joy of observing the dead, knowing that it was her hands that had done that.
Then the fog.
It would linger for days, slowing her, dulling her senses, confusing her.
As a child, she couldn’t tell if she was dreaming that part or if she was dreaming her life, and the killing was the only thing that was actually real.
As an adult, she knew the fog was her mind transitioning to a dormant state, recovering in preparation for the next hunt.
Lately, the fog has been disappearing sooner.
It was only yesterday that she had taken one, punished yet another for the fraud they committed, the selfishness they felt entitled to exhibit.
Yet already, she was able to think clearly about the next one, plan out her moment, and prepare for the justified slaying of another liar.
That was the key difference. As a child, she killed innocent creatures, animals separated from their families, abandoned by their owners.
She did it for joy alone. Now, she killed the guilty.
She enjoyed it still, but she was careful never to target anyone who wasn't deserving.
She was not a murderer. She was judgmental.
This next one deserved this judgment. They all did. Knowing that made the killing sweeter.
Maybe that was why the fog was lessening.
She had no guilt to contend with anymore.
They all deserved to die, so there was no need to explain away her actions as uncontrollable or ultimately harmless.
They had committed actions that endangered others.
It was a good thing, really, that she was killing them.
And if she took pleasure in it? Well, what honest judge didn’t take pleasure in the performance of their duty?