I slip my gloves over my fingers, which then wrap tightly around the gun.  I don't use guns to kill, I just like the feeling. 

I like the way the shape feels against me, almost as if it is going to kill me.  Almost as if I'm the one at risk. 

I set the pistol down, not needing it, and grab my knife.  Content, I grab a hooded coat and slip it on, stuffing the knife in the pocket calmly. 

Walking out the door, and shutting it behind me with a small, firmiliar squeek, I set off to a few streets over.

Reaching my destination after a leisurely walk, I silently open the door. 

He always leave the door unlocked.

I hear soft music playing in the next room, followed by quiet, one-sided chatter about how he's going to pay his rent next week.

Silly, Alex.  He won't have to worry about it soon.

I silently observe the inside of the house, up close for the first and last time.  When you first walk inside, it's a modern kitchen with a handy assortment of knives in it.  Too bad I brought my own.  If you continue down the hall, the first door on the left is the bedroom.  His bedroom. 

I creep through it, looking at pictures on my way.  I slide in the room and I see his back facing me.  The music's volume increases the closer I step towards him.

I hear every beat and every note of the song.  The melody sounds firmiliar to me, as if it has been played over and over again as a sort of torture at some point. I feel sick to my stomach just listening to it. 

I slide my knife onto the power button of the radio and switch it off.

He looks behind him and nearly falls off of his bed when he sees me.

"Funny seeing you here," I smile.

"H-How... Why... Wh- What..." he stumbles over his words.

"Don't worry about it, I'm already in and armed.  Honestly, there's nothing you can do now," I shrug.

He takes a deep breath in, preparing to scream.

"Ah-" I silence him.  "I wouldnt do that if I were you," I say. 

"Why not?" He asks, offended that I would tell him no.

"I'm going to kill you either way.  And I'm not going to get caught no matter what you do," I say.

"You're awful cocky," he says.

"Oh, and I have another reason."

"What's that?" He asks, a flicker of fear flashes in his eyes.

"I have your daughter in my posession," I whisper, getting closer to his face.

"Liar," he says, spitting at me.

"Oh no, DNA.  What will I do?" I say mockingly, wiping it off with the back of my gloved hand.  "And what if I'm not lying? Are you willing to take the chance?"

He starts to say something, but silences himself, worried for the fate of his precious Clarabelle. 

"That's much better," I say.

"Don't hurt her..." he says.

I roll my eyes at him.  "She'll be fine, I probably won't kill her if you cooperate."

"Probably?" He says, the volume of his voice increasing immensely.

"Oh, hush.  Now, I want you to come with me."

I flick the knife open and lead him down to his own basement, the point poking into his side the entire way.

I drag the knife on his stomach, forming a happy, smiling face. The man's screams were caught in a shirt tied around in his mouth.  His own shirt.

"Now, deary Alex, why don't you apologize for what you said to me? I know you didn't mean it," I say, referring to something that has happened a few days ago.

"What? I don't know you," he says, his voice was unclear, as if his entire ego was shoved down his own throat.

"I know you know me," I say.  "You wouldn't have had the guts to forget me," I whisper.

He shivers, but he's not cold in the heated basement. 

"Let's play a game of hangman," I say. "It's five letters, one word." I draw out all five lines on his stomach. "Go ahead, don't be shy."

"C," he says.

"Sorry, that's wrong," I say.  "I play a little differently.  Hanging people isn't really my thing, I find it cruel and unusual.  I'll show you what I do instead." I slash one long mark down his arm, being careful not to cut anything too important. 

A minute letter, what he has is five cuts down his arm and s_rr_. 

"Sorry," he says loudly. "It's sorry."

"Now," I say, starting to carve the 'o', "Why would I choose this word?"

He stays silenced.

"That wasn't rhetorical!" I say very loudly, dropping a knee heavily on to his ribcage. 

"Because I offended you," he says, his voice shaking and cracking nervously.

"Wow, you do have a brain in there."

He shudders, his hands rub uncomfortably together.  I finish the o and begin the y, making the tail curl. 

"I hope you mean it when you say sorry," I say quietly.

His eyes, already popping our of their sockets, open wider.  "Bye-bye," I say, giving a little wave.

I drag my knife across his throat, leaving a clean cut from ear to ear.  Blood pours out of it and I hear him cry out in pain.  Eventually, all sounds and movement cease and I pack up, rinsing my bloodied blade off in his sink.

"Nice doin' business with you," I say, leaving and walking calmly home.