[Sodium_noir] A Walk in the Park

[Jennie Teakle]

Assorted Beings
Gotham Park
late


It is dark and still and the faint hint of gasoline in
the damp night air threads through the scent of sodden
grass and earth. Gotham City air, laden with the urban
perfumes of alienation and decay. Yet still it is too
subtle a stink to mask the compelling scent of blood -
powerfully, almost overwhelmingly seductive. The
killer feels giddy with it, laughter bubbling
tremulously to the surface, making champagne of a dark
mood. The wine of freedom.

Silent as a ghost, the killer strips off latex gloves
and drops them lightly onto the blood stained knife
that sticks out of the ground, then picks a path out
of the shadowy trees, away from the sounds of keening.
Mindless expression of grief and shock.

And meaningless, the killer thinks contemptuously,
beginning to pick up the pace slightly. The first
time, maybe there had been inside some echo of that
raw and inchoate anguish but never since. And the
first time, that first severence from an old life, the
intense swell of pain had been like a wave from which
the killer had sprung up and out, wings unfolding,
into the vast black expanse of the night. Free,
soaring high above any mundane constraint, fetters of
duty, bonds of love dissolved forever. No absolution
could ever be so complete.

Far enough away now, the sounds of mourning left
behind, the killer returns to the path and the
desultory yellow glow of sodium lights that line it.
Running fleet and light, the expensive sports shoes
cushion every footfall and it feels like flying.
Banked elation floods through the killer transporting
body and soul. It is an exhiliration as pure as that
felt by any ascetic - abused, starved and delirious,
all for a single instant of epiphany. A moment of
freedom.

It's worth every risk. It never fails nor does it ever
disappoint. It washes away all the frustrations of
captivity; of being locked into code and to an
authority the killer thoroughly despises. Oh, the
irony of that! Despite every effort to evade it,
trapped into as dull a bondage as ever. Worse than
before.

The high is already dissipating. Time to head back,
before the killer is missed and tedious questions
asked. Time to return to boredom and servitude. The
killer taps the ipod clipped to waistband, notes the
spots of blood with resignation. All clothes will go
straight into the basement incinerator anyway - the
killer sighs. The goddamned ipod too.




		
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