Or a memory? He already knows the truth, but is afraid to hear it spoken, even inside his own head. Haunting the narrowest lanes and alleys, he blends into the night streets. No one suspects his intention. How can they when he can deceive even himself? Watching. Brooding. Waiting just beyond the circle of the lamplight. He is a nightmare unseen but not unknown. Life is his gift for the taking. Lovingly, his fingers caress the blade. Splinters of ice are scattered carelessly over the ground. His warm breath sends clouds billowing into the glassy air. The only sounds are the hushed whispers of clandestine lust. When her latest customer gives a final grunt, she lowers her skirts and her heels ring out on cobbled stones. In spite of him, she is still plying her nighttime trade, seeking a coin for bread—or absinthe. Daring him to come for her. He thought he had dealt with her, but it seems she will never learn. He will have to show her all over again. The thought excites and repulses him.
