At the same moment, the thing's neck gave out and its head dropped. 'Almost done,' the killer promised, dropping the guts. Tears streamed down its cheeks and it tried to speak. It raised its head, straining as though to escape, barely able to keep its head aloft. The thing labeled Jerome Herrington groaned with deep and abiding agony. Moonlight glinted on the shiny, gray-red loops. The killer pondered a moment, then reached down and lifted a blood-slippery mass of intestines from the thing's open cavity. Maybe the thing labeled Jerome Herrington simply did not and could not appreciate its own beauty. 'Anger' was the label given to an emotion that accomplished nothing. The killer knew what anger was, but had never experienced it. The thing labeled Jerome Herrington said nothing, which the killer found rude. I've opened your gut, and I have to say-you're beautiful in the moonlight.

The killer crouched down near the thing's head and whispered, 'We're very close now. Unblinking because they had no choice-the killer had removed the eyelids first. The thing's head twisted left and right, the eyes staring straight ahead, unblinking. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to carry the thing labeled Jerome Herrington back down. Carrying the thing labeled Jerome Herrington up five flights of stairs hadn't been easy his muscles were sore. The killer stood and stretched, arching his back. See this thing I drink from? I give it the label of 'cup,' and so what? See this thing I cover my body with? I give it the label of 'shirt,' and so what? See this thing I have opened to the darkening sky, allowing beautiful moonlight to shine within? I give it the label of 'Jerome Herrington,' and so what? Person, place, thing, idea-just like you learned in school. Names were labels for things, the killer knew. Ran his fingertips over her for a moment. Kneeling next to her, he unsheathed a short, sharp knife. There had been others, and there would be more. For a brief moment, he wondered if that was strange, but dismissed the doubt immediately. Now that she was silent and dead and still, he could no longer remember why he had killed her. The early morning-so early the sun had yet to rise-was warm and the air held the slight tang of motor oil. Later, when he was finished, he looked down on her. Her screaming was beautiful.īut, truth be told, he missed the crying.

It made Daddy spend the extra money on the prom dress. It made boyfriends apologize and husbands fold them in their arms. He was going to kill her no matter what, so her behavior was moot. Screamed to an uncaring, star-pocked sky. Not the tilt of her hips, the curve of her lips. That's what he would remember about this one, he thought.

Game by Barry Lyga