In his hair, the wind played. The gusts came from the southeast, carrying with them the smell of the plum orchards too far in the distance to be seen. Dante held his hands out to his sides, letting the air move through his fingers. He closed his eyes against the breeze and breathed in deeply, letting everything wash over his senses.
At his feet the pool grew larger, redder, stickier. The high angle of the sun, obscured by clouds though it was, let the light reflect off the crimson liquid; it shone like viscous rubies scattered on the concrete. The toes of his boots bore cherry red droplets; the aftermath of a hot summer day on the last popsicle savoured before playtime was over.
Dante opened his eyes against the softening zephyr and stooped down to the draining pile of flesh. He wrapped his hand around the shiny black handle of the knife and relished in the pulse of life seeping away before tugging the blade free from the corpse with a vicious yank. The soft cloth of the shirt the boy had worn tore and lay in tattered strips across his torso. Cold glassy eyes stared into the distance.
Dante straightened, now ignoring the lifeless body and gave all of his attention to the sharp instrument in his hands. He could not tear his eyes from the serrated edge; it was magnetic, had a gravity of its own, and he wanted to be one with it. He let his fingers dance over the warm blade, still sticky from the flesh and fluid of the boy who lay in a heap at his toes. He ran the teeth across the pad of his thumb, and his nerve endings danced at the contact. The knife wanted more. It needed more... it was thirsty.
He closed his palm around the gleaming stained metal, and by reflex his fingers tightened. The knife bit into his hand and the corpse's blood mingled with his own, flowing into his veins and pumping through his heart, getting sent to his limbs and his brain... He was becoming the corpse and it invigorated him, sent a jolt of electricity across his skin.
He and his first kill would be one.
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