2 The Morning After

As much as I had come to hate that book, I had to admit that I was getting some very high quality sleep. Was it the book's doing, or just the result of compounding physical and mental fatigue? I wasn't really sure, but I didn't think it was the latter. If anything, I felt more energetic these days, more aggressive, more alive, for lack of a better term. I rose quickly, swinging my legs off the side of my small and plain twin bed.

Like everything else in my small, three room apartment, it was very lifeless and unimpressive. The walls were eggshell white, with no posters, pictures, or flags to adorn them. I had a small living room, with a plan Ikea couch and a little television, but I rarely had guests over, and spent most my leisure time in my room. It was the the uninspiring and small residence of a young bachelor that lacked the money or effort to do any better.

I sat down at my desk, and pulled the book from my jacket. I could never part from the thing; everywhere I went, it also had to go. If I went more than a few feet from it, I would feel the overwhelming urge to return to it. A short walk to the bathroom or the kitchen was alright, but when I left my living space, it came with me. It wasn't too big, maybe a bit bigger than the palm of my hand, and it could very easily fit into a backpack or even a large pocket.

In the two months since I came about it, I had managed to hide it from my friends and co-workers. Well, from my co-workers at least. I really only had one friend, and now that he was engaged, I effectively had zero. And even if someone were to gaze upon it, nothing about it aroused suspicion. From the outside, it looked like an old, leather-bound bible. The kind of thing your grandmother or aunt would get you as a gift when you were a kid.

I set the book down and gazed at the first page. Last night, I was convinced that I had already dispatched twenty or thirty people, but only seven names were crossed off so far. That made sense; it had been about seven or eight weeks since it had come into my possession, and I usually only had time to carry out my missions on Friday or Saturday nights.

In the cold sobriety of the early dawn, an unsettling thought popped into my head. "You've killed someone every weekend for two months, and you're just casually mulling it over on a Saturday morning." I frowned internally. I had made a New Year's resolution to get out more, and spend less of my free nights jailed up in this little apartment. I was technically successful, but only because I was carrying out literal homicide for unnamed supernatural entities.

Every time I removed a name from existence, the following name became visible to me. Prior to that, it would just be an incomprehensible blur. For whatever reason, there was a particular order to be followed, and the Book would make sure I did just that. "Monica Fields". I rubbed my chin in contemplation. It hadn't occurred to me until now, but all of my targets so far had been greasy old men; petty, trumped up criminals from the seedy part of the city.

I wasn't in love with the idea of killing a woman, but if she was evil, it was probably fair game. I didn't need too much nerve to do the job anyway, the Book would take care of that part for me. Now, the The Book was sedated, perfectly content to relax and mirror my heartbeat. But everyday I went without killing, it would become more and more agitated, and I would start to feel unholy urges. I never made it wait more than a week; I don't want to know what I would turn into if I did.

Suddenly, an unholy buzzing penetrated the still air of the morning. It blared like the coming of the apocalypse itself, driving fear into every corner of my body, leaving me distraught, and teetering on the edge of insanity. But only for a moment; I soon realized that the sound was just my phone receiving a text message. I was kind of on edge, and to be honest, not used to getting messages from people.

"Hey Bryce, this is Riley from work. Me and some of our other co-workers were planning on going downtown tonight, and I wanted to see if you were interested. Peter and Jess said it probably wasn't your thing, but I think it'd be cool if you came." At first, I was a little annoyed that my co-workers automatically assumed I was planning on doing nothing today, but at the same time, I was flattered to actually receive an invite to something.

"Hey Riley! Thanks for reaching out to me. I'm glad that Peter and Jess think so highly of my virtue, but I think they might have made a small miscalculation. I would in fact love to come, and I really appreciate the invite. When and where were you all thinking?" I smiled. I was looking forward to a nice night out. I could finally make some friends, put myself out there, and spend some of my free time on things that weren't murder, video games, or plotting the murders I wasn't actively committing.

I spent the rest of the day doing boring things not really worth elaborating on. Peasant things like showering, cooking, cleaning, getting groceries; things that needed doing but weren't all that exciting. I put together an outfit that I thought looked fairly decent, but to others would probably be barely tolerable, and I set off to the rendezvous downtown.

Avoiding the half concerned, half annoyed gaze of Mr. Fourier, who I had grabbed onto last night in my fake drunken stumble, I passed through the revolving door and into the energizing air of the evening.