Young Writers Society

Penumbra spirited through the Alley like so many times before, her heart racing, the excitement building up inside of her to an almost intolerable degree. What was the name this time? It was Greg, she was sure of it. She'd seen him around before, a tall, lanky man in his late twenties with dirty shoulder-length hair and a matted brown tail. His ears were torn to shreds from some fight or accident. He had pale, sickly skin that was the home of scrapes and bruises, trophies from minor street fights with someone who didn't feel like paying. What was it he sold? Weed or something like that. Something that everyone sold. But it didn't matter, because when she found him, he'd be doing nothing but laying in the Alley rotting like so many others. Penumbra smiled at the thought of the dead body laying in a pool of hardening, sun-blackened blood, the stench driving everyone away until the animals came and picked him apart, leaving nothing left to remember him by. He would be gone, as if never even born, gone even from peoples' thoughts, the name would never again be spoken of, worried about. It was the fate of all who lived in the Alley... no one cared about them, no one wanted to care. They were the shame of the inner city, no one dared come out to where the murderers, the drug dealers lurked.

She stopped suddenly, hiding herself in the shadows of an old, decrepit building. She had heard a noise, someone had come near her without her even realizing it, despite her years of self-training to be aware at all times of her surroundings. It was only Kitty, the heroin dealer. Penumbra began to search her mind for needed information; was Greg a customer of Kitty? She decided to wait and see who the young woman was meeting. After what could have been half an hour, an unfamiliar man to Penumbra greeted Kitty with a wad of cash. Penumbra sighed, no luck. She slipped away from the two with an eerie, almost unnatural silence and stalked the Alley once again, thinking of all the places he might be. The excitement was overwhelming her now, her blood pumping through her veins so intensely that it felt as if a million little hearts were pumping in unison throughout her body.

Finally she caught someone out of her peripheral vision. It wasn't Greg, but it was good enough. It was Greg's bony little girlfriend who's name escaped Penumbra. She giggled to herself, making sure to be quiet enough so that the woman wouldn't hear. Her shoulders shook as she laughed out of pure joy, she had him. In the safety of the evening shadows which were now creeping around every corner, Penumbra followed the woman, her blood lust and love of her kills completely controlling her now; she was in an animal-like state. She only had one purpose in life at that moment: to exterminate Greg. She would be paid a great deal of money for the kill from a man named Donald, his reasons having something to do with Greg raping his sister. But Penumbra didn't care for the stories, didn't need a reason, didn't really care much for the income that the dark business brought, she loved the smell of fresh blood, to watch her victims die, to stand over them and whisper to them that she was the Grim Reaper, and at that moment that is who she was. She controlled who lived and who died, she hid amongst the shadows and watched the residents of the Alley pass her by, knowing that she could take every one of them into the black abyss of death if she chose.

Her thoughts were broken when the woman approached a small, run-down house. She was greeted at the door by a man who Penumbra instantly recognized as Greg. Penumbra's heart skipped a beat, and it took all her will power to not race up to the man and kill him then. But she waited for agonizing hours until the woman, who had obviously just finished engaging in sex and was very drunk and possibly slightly high, stepped out of the door with an awkward smile contorting her pretty, though bony, face. Her eyes were dull and the pupils were dilated, and they darted from place to place uneasily before she left. Greg, now topless and looking quite satisfied, looked after her.

When the woman was out of sight and Greg was alone, Penumbra jumped at the opportunity. She leapt from the shadows, her spotted tail lashing out as if with its own fierce life, and brought Greg to the ground. He let out a surprised scream, and Penumbra snarled at him like a wild animal. He struggled fiercely, screaming for her to get off. She smiled viciously, easily pinning him down. She leaned over, bringing her face close to his, close enough to smell the alcohol and sex on him, and whispered in a hissing voice, "I am Death."

Greg stared up at her, breathing heavily from the struggle. "Get off of me, you crazy bitch!" He shouted into her face. She smirked at him. Adrenaline was pumping through her body. His struggling exited her. She sprang to her feet and wielded the small ax that she carried strapped to her back; her murder weapon of choice. Greg stood, getting ready to head for his house, but Penumbra shoved him down with the handle of the ax and her foot came down heavily on his chest, knocking the breath out of him. He wrapped his large hands around the foot, tried to rip it off of him, but Penumbra held fast and held the ax ready to strike. With speed and precision unknown to most, she cut into the flesh of Greg's wrist as soon as it was exposed. He cried out in pain and clasped his wrist with his other hand. The deep gash flowed between his fingers, and the sight of the dark liquid glinting in the evening light and the sweet, familiar smell filled her senses. She snarled viciously, a smile spread across her face. Her ankle was bleeding from his nails digging into her flesh, but the adrenaline kept the pain away from her consciousness.

Penumbra took the handle of her ax and smashed it against Greg's head. The sound of the wood coming in contact with the skull made a loud crack, and Greg screamed out in pain, his natural instinct of survival giving him the strength to throw Penumbra off of him so she stumbled backwards. He sat up sharply, holding his head, witch had a large gash where the handle struck. The gash in his wrist bled down his face, mingling with the blood of the cut on his forehead. "I didn't do anything to you!" He screamed at Penumbra. He searched for her with his eyes, though his vision was now blurred and he couldn‘t find her.

Penumbra came up from behind him and sharply dug her foot into his stomach. He fell down onto his back once again, banging his head on the cracked cement. Penumbra heard the distinct sound of a cracking bone; most likely a rib, as she dug her foot into his side. He screamed out in pain. Penumbra laughed viciously. "You can end it all now, just tell me you want it to end." She whispered to him, her voice soft and controlled over her heavy breathing and excitement. Greg shut his eyes, and Penumbra's foot once again landed on his chest. His broken, bleeding body shuddered at this new, added pain and he gasped, his eyes opening wide. His chest forced itself up and down, struggling to intake oxygen, fighting the weight of Penumbra's foot. His hands grasped the foot, his fingers squeezing it, lightly pushing at it, though he had run out of strength. "I can end it," Penumbra whispered. "You're dying, look at your wrist, and you've hit your head more than once. You're dying, I can end it." She smiled despite herself at how well she played the part of the sincere caring young woman, made herself seem like she would only kill for the money didn‘t like watching the suffering, even over the love she felt for this drawn-out death. Greg began to shake his head.

"No..." He groaned. She smiled. Such a strong will to live.

"Okay then, I won't kill you." She told him, taking her foot off of his chest. He took in a deep breath, and grimaced in pain. The broken rib, she thought to herself. She knelt beside him and smiled at him, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. She took the hand without the gash and slit this one's wrist as well, so they both flowed with the sweet, dark liquid. She licked her blade clean, the excitement from the feel of death drifting from this man overpowering her.

She turned and left him, replacing the ax in its holder. He would die, she knew. If he'd just asked for death, he'd be dead now, but he refused, and now he would have to wait, possibly even for hours, the pain consuming him, eating at him until he was turned from a person into a squirming, mindless thing, screaming out for death, wishing he'd taken the opportunity when it was offered to him. They all refused death, and they all would learn that life was not in fact the most important thing, that the wellbeing of their bodies was. That death was a welcome end to the experience of dying. None of them would think of living, wouldn't even wish for living after experiencing the hours of this excruciating pain that meant only one thing: death. And in the end, though they refused it at first, the blackness would swallow them, and all of Penumbra’s victims would experience the same thing, the sigh of relief, their dying breath.