This work was inspired by the film Red Eye that I saw two years ago, and especially by Cillian Murphy's performance.  I can't remember the specifics of why I wrote it, other than it being a sort of on-the-spot piece--but it ended up being one of the best things that I had ever written (in my opinion, at least).  Originally it was going to be a one-shot short story, but the idea intrigued me so much that I decided to continue it, eventually creating a seven-episode series that, overall, is entitled "The Killing Stroke."  The work, to me, is difficult to summarize; perhaps I am pretentious in saying that, but I have never been very good at summarizing my writing anyway. =P

Please, enjoy!

    He was a murderer. 

    I knew that from the first time I saw him licking fresh blood off his knife, his eyes glowing a transparent blue.  Even the curve of his tongue was that of a fiend’s, suckling the life which had once been. 

    Yet I watched his every move in awe.  From the tips of his fingers skimming over his pistol to his right foot tapping the cement before he jumped, I saw it all.  I drank in his slender, smooth, deadly grace, unable to fully comprehend his beauty.

    His face, though, was the most beautiful thing about him— long, pale, with freckles dotting his gaunt cheeks.  He didn’t have too many expressions; it wasn’t as though he needed any.  He was, after all, a killer first and foremost, and he came off as a professional with each completed mission.

    But he didn’t change once a job was over.  He’d have that same look on his face, like he was ready to take another guy out, while he was eating, or even sleeping.  He seemed as though he was eternally unsatisfied, and waiting, always waiting for that next target.  He longed for the taste of blood again, for the thrills and the danger.  He would never admit it, but I knew what he wanted.  I knew since I met him in his apartment, captivated by his unnatural appeal.

 
    “4991?  You’re lagging behind.”

    He never had any patience back then either, always crisp and direct towards his subordinates.  On that day, he was pretty prickly.  I suspect now that he didn’t get enough blood the night before, the sick bastard.

    Of course, I didn’t say anything— I wasn’t suicidal, to say the least.  Instead, I caught up, just like he told me to, mostly because by then, he had gotten my attention just from his strangely seductive manner.  His voice, in particular, was so different from what I’d expected: light, almost feather-like, in its calm and menace.  Certainly, I thought, not what it should have been. 

    But it drew me in.  

    He was showing me around his place, an expensive penthouse in the city; we would supposedly spend a lot of time there discussing missions and the like.  Truthfully, we haven’t even been there since he first showed me around— it’s probably because of his weird timing.

    Being at his place, though, gave me a perfect bird’s-eye view of things— I could watch him from a few feet behind, even when I knew he was annoyed by it.  I could admire that tall, almost gangly frame of his, amazed at how a raggedy guy like him could be so lethal; I could almost touch the edge of the sleeve of his black, formal jacket, swaying gently as his hand occasionally made a small gesture.

    “4991?  I won’t say it again.”

    I fell in love that day.

          
    Looking back, it all seemed rather stupid— up until that moment, I was as tough as nails, a real bitch to deal with.  I could do anything asked of me, work with anyone, and not get involved personally.  The possibility, no, the mere idea of me falling for anyone, much less my superior, was completely void.

    But he...he was beyond all that exterior bullshit I had put up ’till then.  And I felt that when my eyes met his at his door, those translucent, stunning rings of blue breaking down my defenses.  I didn’t care if he was my boss or just some crazy psychopath that drank the blood of his victims— all I saw was him, that cold, soulless, beautiful embodiment of death.

    After the first meeting, he treated me like any other lower rank; he barely spoke to me unless it was to criticize my training or my actions, and even then he seemed at pains to do so.  He always masked his irritation when he had to call me for a job, and I could always tell that I was bothering him somehow, just by existing.

    I didn’t mind, though.  As long as I could watch him from the shadows and dark alleys, as long as I could be with him, I didn’t mind.  When he got a little pissed at me for something, he could never really express it— that made me smile, since I found it kind of endearing.  I loved all the little things about him that no one else could see, that no one else could ever know but me.  I felt as though, sometimes, we were the only two people in the world; mostly I felt that when I saw his tongue slide across the tip of his blade, the steel glinting under the moonlight.

    Maybe he knew that I watched him.  Maybe he knows that even now.  But I didn’t care.  I still don’t.  I was never that careful in hiding it from him— I always wanted a closer look at that gorgeous, drawn face, and I would get it no matter what he thought of me.  I could nearly taste the blood just as he did when he cleaned his knife, could almost hear the wind that swept across his face as he stood atop that old, brick apartment building downtown. 

    Yet he never looked my way, not even once.  He would stare ahead at the city lights from his perch, unmoving, standing tall as his left hand gripped his holster.  He was edgy like that— always alert, even when a job was done.  Alone in the icy air, with eyes that outshone the moon; that’s how I’ll always remember him, though I knew his other sides.  I knew them all: every emotion, every look, every mask he wore.       

    But I loved the murderer.