Atonement

Before dawn when the night is at its darkest

He dons his black leather coat and returns to claim what is his

Returns to the mélange of drunkards with their moonshine breathe;

Whores fully clad in their garments of seduction

And broken hearted matrons searching for the remaining pieces of their previous life

While they all occupy the gutters and roam the abandoned streets.

The echoes of the hour speak his name - calls to him,

Demanding his attention, insisting on his presence.

There is a bond you see, a bond between him and this darkness…

Between him and his darkness, somewhat, an unspoken coalescence.

His boots clacked staidly through the walls of the alleyway

Seemingly taking in the twilight, listening to the harp of music or the colloquial talk

But in fact selecting his prey

There is something esoteric about wake of a new century;

The atmosphere is enchanting the enthralling surrounding inside him ignites a fire

Patiently waiting, stalking if I may say,

Contemplating on the thoughts of his most secretive desire

He has done this before – Been here before

Reciting this day over and over in his twisted mind

Remembering – the touch, the smell and the caress from their velvet skin

The sweat from their brow savored as fine wine

Tonight however, he hungers for a different flavor, outside his customary appetite

The moment he sees her, it’s decided.

Away from the clamor she’s sat alone sulking as if waiting to be sacrificed. 

This feeling – He’s missed it

The blood rushing through his veins the thump of his heart against his chest

With every new second the thirst rises; with every new second the thirst intensifies.

He watches her, studies her and when she concludes her night; He follows her

Follows her as she staggers through the court yard

Then abruptly detours between an unlit misty pathway opposite the square.

Her steps are off balanced as she feebly staggers throughout her journey

Until finally falling plumb to her face after stumbling over emptied crates

He uses this as his opening and springs into attack, gripping her firmly by her throat.

As satisfying this moment is, this is a busy street and he has no time to waste.

He feels the chill running through her body as she panics;

She kicks and claws at his arms as she gags,

The fear on her face arouses him

He feels her veins pulsating between his fingers

Then grins at the lack of exigency from her muffled scream

But tonight’s script seems to have been re-written,

Reworked in some aspect

For the blood streaming between the crevices of the stoned street is his own

His prey no longer fights as she slowly removes a blade from his abdomen

Shoving his body to the ground then slowly leans over

Whispering the last words he would ever hear “For Every Sin; We Must All Atone”

Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter.

Ernest Hemingway, "On the Blue Water," Esquire, April 1936
US author & journalist (1899 - 1961)