A little river’s formed. Slides downwards, slowly. One must wonder, is it time itself? There was no rush, clearly. What if I stopped it? If I wiped the river dry and hindered any more to come. Would the Earth stop spinning? Would time go backwards until it flowed once again? I let it stream, today is not the day for experiments. You are awfully pale. Did my tears bleach your strong chest? I look at your chest. Once I could hear its movements. The purple shirt of sex would stretch and I could hear the buttons scream. I can see time come. Feeling your stomach with my check I open my mouth. I shall eat the flow of time. Put an end to all that is and hinder what is yet to come. It is no longer worth it. The future is empty. Time brings no good. It had a taste of metal, drilling into my tongue. Leaving marks. Burning.
Time was not unusual to me. Many times I had tried to reverse it, drink it back into my body. It would never help. But I thought. Maybe. Maybe just this time? The miracle I was praying for. I am petrified. Scared to death, but not my death. It has yet to come. Yours, on the contrary, came to early. I’m not ready for it…
*This is something I’ve written in inspiration from the tension between Sherlock and Irene from the BBC tv-show, Sherlock. I want to write much more, though the timing isn’t the best.*
I can hear his steps between my breaths. They are far away; it will take more than a man in black shoes to hunt me down. Many shoes have tried, miles have been laid behind, yet I remain out of their reach. The game I have so joyfully enjoyed had developed to become one of those things that has to be done to keep life going. Just like the ordinaries’ need for food.
How incredibly boring it is to see them dance. I can read their moves like a child’s book. Their simple mind’s desperate attempt to understand why it’s not going in the direction they had predicted. By their calculations it should have! The poor souls get so ecstatic when something actually fits. Celebrations upon festivals upon awards and nominations are thrown around. All they desire is to be noticed. Little children striving to grow into powerful people, well-known and internationally appreciated. They are born in the corner of the world. Crawling and fighting they will look for a place in the center, where they will, after a time, die. It is their destiny and their doom. Their only certainty and yet they fear it most in the world. Dreams of achievements haunt them, never let go, and force them to reach for the stars, when the only thing in reach is the lamp on the nightstand. The greatest they can achieve is the destruction of their home. For generations they’ve worked, and even seem to know where they’re headed. Maybe in a hundred years they will have managed to meet their goal. But for now all they can do is enjoy the little things.
In some way you can say that I’m destroying them. Though that wouldn’t be quite fair. I’m only helping them to do something in their lives. Rumors have gone around that the chief inspector has put it as his life mission to catch me. Some tasks are needed in life! A couple of challenges, nothing more. Nevertheless, I can’t let him catch me. Then the game would be over. There would be nothing more to chase, no reason to keep a knife under the pillow, no cause to look around corners and search for alternative routes. It would all be over. My disappointment in their conquest has long ago turned to the acknowledgement that I will never face my equal. The only thing making me continue is the thrill. The adrenalin rush that strikes when I can feel their hands grasping in the air where I once stood fulfills me.
It didn’t take long until something else made me stretch for their attention. Another creep was wandering and terrorizing in a greater scale than myself. It was a testosterone filled creature attempting to overcome me. My performance so far was not even close to my best shot and they were going to know. They were all going to know that no one exceeds the magnitude I chose to play at. The police divided its people and fewer desired to follow my trail. The media thought they had caught the big fish when their pages were filled with the boy’s work. No one saw it coming. The competition.