• Kyran slipped into the dark room, soundlessly, his black cloak covering his face. His fingers tightened around the knife in his gloved hand. Laughing softly, he stood over the teenage girl’s bed and watched her breathe heavily, in and out, her chest rising and falling under the thin sheets. Kyran raised the knife over her body. She never woke to see Kyran’s cloak-covered face, never truly felt the pain of his knife sinking into her chest. He smiled. The window over her bed slid open easily, and he jumped out onto the roof into the night as crimson blood began to pool over the girl’s chest, staining her satin sheets.
    That was the fourth girl. The fourth conceited, rich teenage girl he had murdered with the very kitchen knife he held, clutched in his fist. ‘And definitely,’ he thought with a snigger. ‘Not the last.’ Kyran had seen what those girls did. They had never been kind to him. Never showed any concern or compassion. They thought of him lower, simply because he did not have as much money as they did. They deserved death. Without them, the world was a much better place. Much better.
    Kyran strode through the neighborhood. They weren’t better than him now. An insane smile spread wide across his face and he began to laugh. Kyran stopped. His face became a mask of anger. An enormous, white mansion loomed over him, cloaked in darkness. It was easy to climb into the house, and didn’t take him long to find the biggest room in the house. Obviously a teenagers room. A light shown under the door. Kyran slipped it open and what he saw stopped his heart entirely.
    She was dancing. Slowly, ballroom dancing to music in her head, but it was beautiful. Kyran couldn’t stop staring at the way her golden hair swished around her innocent, heart-shaped face. Her big, hazel eyes glittered magically. Kyran’s heart seemed to melt as he watched her dance. It almost seemed as if she looked directly into his eyes when she glanced towards the door. Kyran found himself thinking how she was so breath-taking. He knew he could watch her forever. Kyran slowly took off his black hood, then untied his cloak, letting it drop to the floor at the doorstep in a daze. But then, a loud, angry shout jarred him from his thoughts and Kyran jumped from the floor. Several hired servants had caught sight of him, and were shouting for the police. Kyran, wielding his crimson blood-soaked knife threateningly at each one of them, began to run for his life.
    His feet slapped the pavement and the harsh wind pushed his hair back, making his eyes water as he raced away from the house, still being chased, into the woods surrounding the beautiful neighborhood. Kyran stumbled over uprooted rocks and sticks, hardly feeling the thorns and brush ripping at his skin, revealing the ruby flesh underneath. He didn’t feel the sting of the cut as blood began to ooze from his arm. He threw back his head, once he was far enough away, still running, and laughed. The excitement of simply seeing her buzzed in his veins.
    Aemilia crouched at her doorstep and lifted the dark cloak to her face. Solemnly, she stood and stepped back into her room, closing the door. She raised the cloak again to her face and rubbed it against her face slowly.

    * * *
    Not twelve hours later, Kyran knew he just had to see her again. So, that night, Kyran returned to the rich neighborhood to visit the house. He was still holding his knife. It just seemed he felt more comfortable with it wrapped his hand, even though he knew he had given up all intentions of killing her. Of killing anyone.
    It was all too easy to sneak back into her darkened room, though the security had been tightened immensely. Clutching his knife, Kyran watched Aemilia sleep. Her soft, steady breathing became the pattern that Kyran’s breathing followed. He fingered her golden, wavy hair lovingly. A sudden impulse drove him closer to her face. He leaned in, his hand on her cheek. And he kissed her. His fingers tangled in her hair, and finally, he let her go. He set her head down gently on the pillow from the inches he had lifted her. He stepped back-and screamed.
    His black-handled knife had dug into her chest, and a dark pool of crimson blood began to surface, staining her white silk nightgown. Kyran shook with horror, not noticing he was still screaming, alerting the heavy security. He dropped to the floor in agony and disbelief, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Kyran stood, and threw himself over her body when heard the heavy footsteps thudding towards Aemilia’s room. Kyran, leaving the knife sticking out of her chest as the blood began to pool, flung himself out of the window. He landed on his feet and began running.
    He raced, as fast as he could, tears clouding his vision. Kyran ran for as long as he could until he collapsed to the ground, out of breath. When he finally climbed to his feet, the glittering reflection of a full moon over a black lake caught his eye. Kyran stood on the edge of a old, rotting dock about five feet out in the water. And Kyran jumped to his death in the black water, driven completely by grief and horror of what he had done. And Kyran never killed again.